“How thorough of you,” I said. “Have you asked Clive about his reasons for being at the museum? As a Museum Trustee, I happen to know it was closed and no meetings were scheduled.”
“It was personal.” Clive spewed bits of food as he spoke.
“More personal than the details of your prostate surgery? I remember you being eager to talk about that with everyone that came into the post office.”
“Clive’s not the only one to mention the DaSilvas. I’d like to check them out,” Hugh said. “I thought since you’re local you’d be helpful in making contact.”
“I won’t be finished at the post office until five-thirty,” I said.
“I’ve got to do some more work at the fire site anyway. How about if I pick you up there when you close?”
“Does this mean I’m not a suspect anymore?” I asked.
“No, it does not,” Hugh strode toward the door. “See you this evening.”
Three
Trina burst into the post office ten minutes late. I’d hired her to help with the extra holiday mail. I need an extra set of hands to deal with Christmas cards alone. Too bad she spends most of her time checking her manicure and calling her kids to make sure they haven’t killed each other.
She yanked her hat off a tangled blond mess I suspected hadn’t seen a hairbrush that morning. She exhaled forcefully as if practicing Lamaze breathing and dropped a canvas tote bag in the corner of the back room.
“Why is that children can sense when you are in a hurry, and they slow down to half speed?”
“Sounds like Owen and Josh when they were kids. If we were running behind for an appointment, one of them usually managed to give the other a head wound that would bleed all over both of them. You don’t want to be the woman who habitually turns up at church or the dentist with bloody children.”
“I came close to giving Kyle and Krystal head wounds this morning myself. Krystal had a tantrum because her favorite leggings were in the wash. Then Kyle drew a mustache above her upper lip in purple permanent marker while I was making their lunches. I scrubbed her face until I wore off a dime-sized patch of skin. Tonight they’re having their photos taken for our Christmas cards.”
“The best thing to do with kids is to maintain a sense of humor.”
“The closest thing to a sense of humor I’ve had lately is a Good Humor Bar. My thighs are spreading like the contents of an overflowed toilet.”
“You look about the same to me.”
“Thanks a lot. Next you’ll be telling me I’ve always had these wrinkles.” Trina leaned toward me and opened her eyes wider than they looked like they ought to go. Her perfectly groomed eyebrows arched up to an unnatural level. She pointed at the corner of the left one with her finger. She had lost a nail tip recently. Trina is the only woman I know who uses nail tips. Most other women in the village don’t even wear polish on their natural nails. Trina was a transplant from somewhere out west and hadn’t adjusted to the fact that most women here cultivated a life based more on function than form.
“Wrinkles break a face in. With jeans you pay more for them looking a bit worn. Why complain if you get it done to your face for free?” I asked. Trina burst into tears.
“Do you have anyone who will fill in for a couple of days so that I can schedule a Botox appointment?” Trina tugged a tissue out of the box I handed her and dabbed at the mascara running down her cheeks.
“You’re the person who fills in so that other people can schedule appointments. Besides, I can’t help you to immobilize parts of your face. I have to look at it too often for that. How old are you?”
“Thirty-four this coming July.”
“Good Lord. Put the money away in a college fund for the kids.”
“I know I seem shallow, but I can’t help feeling like Chris just isn’t interested in me anymore. He comes home late, flops on the couch with dinner on a tray, and falls asleep in front of the television.”
“Sounds like a lot of other men. Is he busier than usual at work?” I knew that Chris was a contractor and had a lot going on with the housing boom hitting the area. He was up to his ears in renovations and waterfront spec houses.
“I think he’s worried about money.”
“Then dropping a bundle on a cosmetic procedure isn’t going to help.” I shifted my attention to the door as Ethel Smalley glided into the post office like a ship carefully docking. She sailed at me ramrod straight with her formidable bosom at full mast. It served as a sort of bumper against the edge of the counter as she cruised to a stop and stretched back her magenta lips into her best recruitment smile.
“So glad I managed to catch you in, Gwen” she said, as if I was usually negligent in my manning of the post office.
“Are you here for your mail, Ethel?” I asked with all the hope of a death row prisoner strapped down and staring at the red phone.
“I’ll grab it in a minute. What I really wanted was to talk to you about the museum.” As soon as Ethel had taken over as museum curator, she had noticed leaks in the roof that the other trustees and I had the good sense to ignore. Immediately she had spearheaded a fundraising effort to pay for the repairs. Anyone in Ethel’s path had been drafted into service, and I’d been trapped behind the window at the post office when she had come in hunting for recruits. The Historical Society had settled on hosting a pancake breakfast the morning of the annual Groundhog Day ice fishing derby. The one good thing that could have come of the fire was to have put a stop to the fundraising efforts permanently.
“And?” I folded my arms across my chest.
“And I’ve scheduled a joint meeting of the Museum Fundraising Committee and the Museum Trustees for tonight.”
‘Why? There isn’t much of a roof left to fix. It was Beulah’s museum, and now she isn’t even around to enjoy it,” I said.
“I’m surprised at you. Keeping the museum running is the best way to honor Beulah.”
“I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to do for the fire investigation.”
“Leave it for the man from the state. You don’t know what you’re doing anyway.”
“This isn’t because you are worried about being out of a job, is it?”
“My finances have never been better. Working at the museum was a kind of public service. With what it pays, it’s practically volunteerism. Which brings me back to tonight’s meeting.”
“I’m even busier than usual now that I’m filling in for Harold.”
“I’ve already told Gene and the others you would feel it your duty to participate. It’s the least you can do to make amends for not stopping that foreign family from terrorizing the rest of us. They ought to slither back to whichever Third World hole they crawled out of and stay there. I’ve half a mind to call Immigration.” Ethel drummed her fat fingers on the counter. Sweat was beginning to run down my back. That always happened to me when I was being barked at by strange dogs, being dive-bombed by bats, and speaking with Ethel Smalley. In my experience it’s easier to reason with the dogs and bats. I gave it one more try.
“It’s my busiest season at work. My son’s coming for the holidays, and I need to get ready for his visit. I don’t have time for anything else right now.”
“Poor Beulah’s life’s work is moldering,” Ethel said. “I’ll expect you at my house at seven.” She slammed the door behind her as she stomped out into the cold.
Luisa DaSilva stood in the doorway of her sagging trailer, her high-heeled sandals at odds with the snow neatly cleared away from the steps.
“I have papers,” she said.
“We aren’t from Immigration,” I said. "This is Hugh Larsen of the Fire Marshal’s office. He needs to ask your sons where they were when the fires around town were started.”
“My sons are good boys. They don’t make trouble. We have papers.” She stood shivering in the doorway, her silky red tank top rippling in the breeze.
“We must speak with them," Hugh said. “May we come in?” She left the door open, and we entered the
trailer. The spongy floor bounced under the weight of the three of us. Hugh quietly fought the door into place in its twisted frame. A child about two years old played with building blocks in the middle of the floor. He ogled us silently, then turned back to his toys.
“Please, sit.” She pointed to a clinically depressed sofa. “I get my sons.” She glided off down a narrow hallway toward the noise of children. I sat carefully on one end of the sofa, and Hugh lowered himself onto the other.
“Think it will hold us both?” he asked.
“I hope so," I said. "I doubt redecorating is in the budget.” Children’s paintings were thumbtacked to the paneled walls. The blue curtains hanging in the windows were cleaner than the ones at my house. Nothing was new, but nothing was dirty either. Luisa returned with three miniature versions of herself, shiny black hair, large dark eyes and white, even teeth.
“These are my sons, Diego, Tulio and Ronaldo.”
“Hi, guys," Hugh said. "I’m a fire investigator, and I want to ask you kids some questions about the fires around town. Have you heard about the one last night at the museum?” They all looked at their mother.
"Why you ask us?" Luisa asked. "We know nothing."
"When did you move to Winslow Falls?" Hugh asked.
"We live here four months.” Luisa tapped her pretty little foot, sending more spasms through the floor.
“Why did you come to Winslow Falls? For a job?” Hugh settled himself against the sofa back and stretched out his long legs as if he had all day to conduct this interview. A garlicky smell drifted toward us from the kitchen, and it reminded me it was suppertime. Hopefully, his posture was an interrogation technique designed to speed things up.
"I have papers.” Luisa tapped some more. "I have papers for work." She crossed her arms over her chest.
"I understand," Hugh said. "Do you have a job?"
"I clean houses," Luisa said. "I work for Beulah. I clean the store of Gene Ramsey. At night I clean for Dinah and the library. Sometimes for other peoples, too."
“So sometimes you work at night?" Hugh leaned forward. "At the store and library?"
"Yes." Luisa stared at Hugh warily.
"Who takes care of your sons when you are at work?" Hugh asked.
"I say to you, my sons are good boys." She bent to pick up the toddler who’d been burying its face against her legs and taking peeks at me through spread fingers.
"Where were they last night?" Hugh asked.
"We were here," said the tallest boy. "We watched television." He looked at his brothers, and they nodded.
"See," said Luisa, “good boys."
"Did you ever work at the museum?" Hugh asked.
"Yes. I say to you I work for Beulah." Luisa kept her eyes glued to the floor.
"Did you like her?" asked Hugh.
"She was good lady." Luisa bit her lip. "She was helping me with English, and she liked my baby."
“Did she like all of your sons?” Hugh asked. “Some people in town are saying the older ones are troublemakers.”
"I no say more. My sons are good boys.” Diego stepped toward his mother and placed a hand on her back.
"We will say no more," Diego said.
“I need to know where you all were when each fire occurred,” Hugh said.
“We will say nothing,” Diego said. “We know nothing.”
“You go now.” Luisa hustled to the door and yanked it open with a slim hand. Hugh stood and reached into his wallet. He pulled out a business card and extended it to Diego.
‘Since you’re the spokesman, give me a call if you think of anything you want to say to us.” We retreated down the wobbling wooden steps as Luisa slammed the door.
Hugh crossed the tiny yard in three long strides and held open the door of his truck for me, waiting until I was settled in before closing it. No one had held the car door for me since my husband’s funeral. As he draped his arm over my seat to turn and back down the driveway I caught a whiff of his cologne. Seven years of celibacy is a long time.
“How well do you know that family?” he asked.
“Probably a little better than most people in town. Like Luisa said, they moved here about four months ago. I met her when she rented a post office box. I think she’s lonely. She chats with me at the post office when she comes in.”
“What about a husband?” Hugh fiddled with the heater.
“I’ve never heard of one.”
“Do you think one of them started the fire at the museum?”
“No, I don’t. For one thing, their mother is out of a job. It looks like money is tight enough without cutting out steady income.”
“They’re definitely not telling all they know though,”Hugh said.
“I’ll ask if anyone saw them at the scene of any of the other fires.” I’d ask, but I wouldn’t necessarily pass along what I heard. Eyewitnesses can be unreliable, especially when it comes to seeing favorite scapegoats at a crime scene.
Four
Ethel’s house was less than a quarter of a mile away, but we were already late, so I decided to take the car. Besides, it was cold and dark, and an arsonist could be roaming the streets.
Pulling up to Ethel’s I caught sight of Gene Ramsey’s station wagon and Clara Turcotte’s sedan, each pressed against the snow banks. Pauline’s Ford Escort stuck into the street, reducing the road to one lane.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Augusta rolled her eyes at me and reached for her door handle. “Committee meetings in Winslow Falls are one of the lower rings of hell.”
“Then I must be kippered by all the fire and brimstone. Sometimes I think all I do is attend committee meetings.” I opened my door and stepped out of the car before I could change my mind.
“That’s what that smell is. I thought it was just your woodstove seeping into all your clothing.” Augusta slammed her door and started for the walkway. Ethel yanked her front door open and scanned the street for latecomers.
“Nice of you to join us.” She beckoned us into the house with a plump hand, cocktail rings flashing like fireflies. Entering the living room, I saw the other museum trustees and historical society members perched on a new living room set. The smell of fresh foam filled the air. Pauline and Clara sat bolt upright on the gingham checked sofa. Augusta sauntered over and draped herself between them. She fluttered her fingers at Gene, who sat in a recliner upholstered in a pastel kitten pattern.
Coy ceramic kittens frolicked on every horizontal surface in the room. The top of a console television, the molding over the windows and doors, even a metal tray table was crowded with feline bric-a-brac. Ethel has an I Brake for Yard Sales bumper sticker on her car. Now I knew what she shopped for.
The scent of a real litter box filled the room. White hairs clung to the legs of Gene’s dark trousers. I wasn’t sure if they were domestic or imported, but I wasn’t eager to acquire my own set. I hate cats. Who wants to look like they need to shave their pant legs? I have a hard enough time remembering to remove my own leg fuzz, and I’m allergic to the little beasts. Whenever I’m around one my eyes feel like I’ve fallen face first in a salt pile. My cheeks started to burn like a redhead at the beach.
I saw a wooden chair in the corner and dragged it over to the end of the sofa. Using a crumpled napkin from my pocket I wiped off the seat as discreetly as possible. I sat down and let my eyes wander the room. In the corner sat a wingback chair with more pet hairs covering the seat.
Ethel plopped herself down on the cat hairs and swung her little feet back and forth as they dangled above the floor by a good four inches. Pulling a mitten I was knitting from my bag, I settled in for what promised to be a long evening.
“Now that Gwen’s finally gotten here we can begin the meeting,” Ethel looked at me and shook her head. I flicked my eyes up at the clock on the wall. Its little black paws pointed to two minutes past seven. “The purpose tonight is to discuss fundraising to repair the museum.”
“Who says the museum sh
ould be repaired?” Pauline slid forward on the sofa.
“I assumed it would go without saying that the museum will reopen.” Ethel leaned toward the group and glared.
“Has anyone checked into the museum’s insurance?” I asked, hoping to get a baseline for discussion and to delay hostilities. Ethel could start an argument with a dead man.
“Of course I have.” Ethel reached toward a heaped-up table and grabbed a file folder. “The museum has coverage, but there is a hefty deductible.”
“Pauline is prudent in asking about closing the museum,” Gene said. “Without Beulah, I’m not sure there is sufficient interest to enable it to continue.”
“Beulah could hardly have been considered the driving force behind the museum lately.” Clara polished her glasses with a tissue and slid them back onto her nose. “We knew the day was coming soon when Beulah would not be with us. We were always going to have to decide about the museum’s future.”
“How much is it going to cost for repairs?” I asked. “Can we raise enough money to do it, or will the museum be closing whether we want it to or not?”
“We need to raise a considerable amount of money to remain open.” Gene said. “As Ethel said, the deductible is high, and there is a great deal of damage to the building and the exhibits. We would need to come up with an extraordinarily lucrative fundraiser.”
“Like what?” I shifted in my seat to get more comfortable. Fundraiser talk was never speedy.
“What about calendars with ladies who pose nude?” Augusta winked at Gene.
“That’s hardly appropriate for a museum fundraiser,” Clara said. Augusta smiled at her and crossed her legs.
“Bake sales are popular,” Pauline offered.
“I’ve sampled your baked goods. You couldn’t raise enough money to build a doll house, let alone repair a life-sized building. I’d have divorced you after the first meal. Not that divorce is off the table, with the way your husband’s been flirting with that foreign woman,” Ethel said.
“If I wasn’t concerned about the Museum I wouldn’t be caught dead in the same room with you.” Pauline glared at our hostess. The two haven’t gotten along well ever since Ethel moved to town eight years ago. Relations haven’t gotten easier since they both applied for the job of museum curator.
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