Live Free or Die

by Jessie Crockett

  “Not bad for a guy who’s supposed to be an expert at putting out fires.” I filled the teakettle in the soapstone sink.

  “Two sides of the same coin. Do you want to stay here while I check around, or are you coming with me?” I set the kettle on the stove and started to wipe my hands on my trousers until I remembered they belonged to Augusta. I grabbed a dish towel from the refrigerator door handle instead.

  “Let’s call it a house tour. That way you can roust any intruders, and I can keep my sense of independence.” We made our way from the kitchen to the dining room. Hugh glanced around quickly and moved on. There was nothing but china and crystal hidden there.

  We moved toward the living room. I watched him poke the drapes and peek behind the door. We entered the library, and I looked around the room. The books were still wedged onto shelves haphazardly. The wood box next to the fireplace was undisturbed. All the picture frames hung straight.

  “You must be a devoted reader.” Hugh crossed the room in two long strides and stopped in front of a bookcase heaving with gardening books. Running his long index finger over the spines he pulled one entitled Sensual Gardens from the shelf. “Is this any good?” Hugh locked his eyes on mine.

  “I think the answer depends what you are hoping for in terms of subject matter. You’re welcome to borrow it.” I’m forever pressing my favorite books on anyone who expresses the slightest interest. If they don’t return them, it makes more room on my shelves for new purchases. Hugh tucked the book under his bent arm and nodded approvingly as he scanned the room.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone is in here either,” Hugh said. I glanced around, ready to agree, when I noticed something.

  “The hand is gone.” I stared at the spot next to the wingback chair where I’d placed the sculpture for safekeeping. There on the floor, looking as if it had slid off the arm of the chair, was an afghan.

  “Are you sure?”

  “That isn’t mine. It was wrapped around the hand.” I pointed to the afghan and noticed my hand trembling. I felt robbed. Someone, probably someone I knew, someone I smiled good morning to at Dinah’s, had used my sense of community against me. The same easy flow of information that put me in a position to help Hugh with the investigation had allowed someone else to know that I had the hand here and never lock my doors.

  “You don’t think Augusta could have moved it?” Hugh asked.

  “She’s never lifted anything heavier than her own purse.”

  “Let’s check the rest of the house just to be sure.” Hugh left the library and took the front stairs two at a time. He popped his head into the sewing room, which had been Owen’s bedroom until he had graduated from college and I realized for certain that he had grown up. No giant hand. Hugh stopped at the guest room.

  “It would be easy to lose the hand in here,” he said, viewing Augusta’s entire travel wardrobe spread over every available surface. The search was slower as Hugh tried to find places to land his enormous feet other than on top of discarded panties and stockings, but the result was the same. The bathroom held nothing unusual except for Augusta’s army of grooming products crowding the sink, toilet tank and window sill.

  “How long is your sister staying?” Hugh asked, unplugging a curling iron Augusta had left, hot and dangerous in the sink.

  “She hasn’t said.” I backed out of the bathroom and threw open the door to Josh’s room. I’d vacuumed and dusted in anticipation of his trip home over Christmas break so this room, at least, was easy to check. Still no hand. Lastly we entered my own bedroom. Everything was neat as always. The quilt on the bed was smoothed across tidily, the pillows were fluffed. My sushi pajamas lay neatly folded on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed. Pinkerton reclined on top of them. Seeing Hugh, he jumped down and waddled toward him, his belly dragging along the floor as he twined Hugh’s legs.

  “I think your cat could use a diet.”

  “It isn’t mine. It was Beulah’s. I’m hoping it eats itself to death.”

  “Not a cat fan, I take it?”

  “I’m allergic.”

  “Want me to take him home with me? You could tell your sister that whoever stole the hand took the cat too.”

  “Thanks, but you can’t even imagine the drama involved if Augusta is given the ghost of a chance. She’d have Ray wasting taxpayer money day and night until Pinkerton was found and the guilty party was hanging from the village Christmas tree.”

  “It would give Ray something to do besides trying to help in the fire investigation.” Hugh bent down and scratched Pinkerton between the ears.

  “It still wouldn’t be worth it, but thank you.” I grabbed my pajamas and took them to the laundry room. The door of the linen closet hung open. On the floor in front of it lay a pile of abandoned pillow cases and sheets.

  “Even Augusta wouldn’t do this. What was the intruder looking for?” I asked.

  “Anything missing?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” I started folding the linen. All the pillow cases had their matching sheets except one set. “A top sheet.”

  “A plain sheet would make a less conspicuous wrapper for the hand than that gaudy blanket,” Hugh said.

  “I was feeling a little frightened. Now I’m just angry. Who has the gall to sneak in here and steal my sheets?”

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t a ghost. Who had the opportunity to break in here?” Hugh had his notebook out again.

  “I was gone all morning. I went to the Laundromat and the home improvement center. I was home long enough to do some painting before leaving for Ethel’s. I haven’t been home since.”

  “You didn’t notice the hand was gone when you came home this afternoon?”

  “I didn’t go into the library or upstairs.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you staying alone. Do you know where Augusta is?”

  “She went to the Hodge Podge to look for some furniture for the office. She and Gene have been seeing a lot of each other lately, so I expect they went to dinner or something after he closed the shop.”

  “Can you call her? Will she come home?” Hugh stuck his notebook back in his pocket and steered me down the stairs.

  “I wouldn’t want to mess up her plans. I’ll be fine.” Meeting up with Ethel’s killer would be safer than interrupting one of Augusta’s dates.

  “I’ll call, then. What’s the number?” Hugh strode into the kitchen and picked up the phone. A draft blew in from the mudroom, and I heard the door slam shut. Augusta appeared looking as radiant and put together as ever.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Augusta winked at Hugh and flashed me an eager smile.

  “Someone broke in here sometime during the day and stole the hand sculpture,” I said. Augusta’s smile turned into a perfect O of surprise.

  “I told you to lock your doors. Someone could make off with Granny Bink’s china. How would we explain that to Mum?”

  “It’s more complicated than lost valuables. Gwen found Ethel dead in her home this evening,” Hugh said.

  “You don’t know our mother,” Augusta said then turned to me again. “So, did you kill her?” My jaw tightened, and I could feel my stomach acid being churned like butter. A second murder, a break-in and now an accusation of murder by my own sister. It was too much.

  “Thanks, Hugh, for checking out the house for me. I’m going to bed.” All night long I startled myself awake with nightmares of Ethel being crushed to death by a giant wooden hand. More than ever, I wished my bed weren’t so lonely.

  Eighteen

  “Damned shame about Ethel.” Winston stood at the counter Monday morning looking like it was anything but. He had a rosy glow that he only dragged out for Dinah’s two-for-one dessert specials.

  “It was a surprise.” I slid him his mail over the counter. Technically I’m not supposed to do that, but a lot of my older customers fumble with the combinations on their boxes. Sometimes adhering to the letter of the law constitutes unnecessary cruelty. />
  “I can’t see how it was a surprise.” Winston scratched his chin stubble with an envelope. “Those people are on a rampage.”

  “Which people?”

  “You know darn well which people.” The door creaked open, and Ray stomped in dropping snow all over the tile floor.

  “What do you think, Ray? Do we need to look further for who’s responsible for the fires? Or Ethel’s death?”

  “Case closed, in my opinion.” Ray stepped up to the window.

  “Real policemen are tightlipped about ongoing investigations,” I said.

  “We’re in the middle of a crime spree perpetrated by illegal aliens,” Ray said.

  “There’s one of them now,” Winston said. Diego stood next to the bulletin board, holding a box and looking at the posters of deadbeat dads.

  “Diego, do you need to mail a package?” I asked.

  “Hey, kid, do you know a skinny guy who ran Gwen off the road and then murdered Ethel Smalley? Heard he had an accent,” Ray asked.

  “Cut it out, Ray. You can’t assume two people know each other because they both have an accent. I don’t assume you and Hugh are both able to solve crimes because you each have a badge.”

  “What about it, kid?” Ray stepped closer to Diego and rested his hand on his gun holster. “Guy looks a lot like you. Sneaky, illegal, inclined to steal?”

  Diego stiffened, and I motioned for him to come up to the window.

  “Well, I can’t stand around here jawing all morning. Some of us have work to do.” Ray strutted toward the door. “I’m watching your family. Tell that to the skinny guy when you see him.”

  Pauline Lambert stuck her head in the doorway as Ray was leaving. “Winston, I’ve got a week’s worth of trash stinking up the back of my station wagon. Are you gonna open the dump, or should I leave it on your front porch?” Winston broke into a trot getting out the door.

  “So where’s this package going? Brazil?” I don’t get to send many international packages, and I always enjoy them.

  “I am not sending. It is for you.” Diego handed me the box. I’m ashamed to say that for a second I caught myself wondering if it contained a bomb. Or anthrax. Suspicious packages in the post office get a lot of press these days. Maybe I’m no better than Ray or Winston.

  “For me? Should I open it?” Diego nodded, and I lifted the flap. No respiratory distress.

  “My mother make these for you. She says thank you for mittens and hats.” I peeked inside and saw some little brown balls rolled in sprinkles.

  “She didn’t need to do that. It was my pleasure. What are these?” I leaned closer and smelled chocolate.

  “Brigadeiros. They are Christmas sweets. Taste, please.” He pointed at the box.

  “Only if you have one too. I hate to eat alone.” Diego plucked one out of the box. His fingernails were chewed down so far it made my own fingers ache just looking at them. I bit into one of the sweets.

  “You like?” Diego asked, his full mouth making his accent all the more challenging.

  “Delicious. Will you tell your mother I said so?” Diego nodded and turned to go.

  “You’d better take a couple more for the road.” I pointed to the box and was pleased to see him flash a chocolate-toothed smile as he took two more.

  “Diego, if you do know the man Ray was talking about, I want you to give him a message, too.” Diego stared at the floor instead of at me. “Tell him if he wants to talk about what happened, he should come to me or the man who came with me to your house asking questions. Tell him to stay away from Ray.” Diego nodded and bolted out the door, nearly colliding with Augusta.

  “I have some good news and some bad news.” Augusta handed me a package addressed to our mother. “Mum’s gift is all set.”

  “Is that the bad news, that her Christmas gift will be late?” I asked.

  “That’s not the bad news.”

  “I’ve got no more room for bad news,” I said. “Ethel’s death filled the last space.”

  “Josh called.” Augusta got right to the point. “He’s snowed in.”

  “Snowed in?” I asked. “As in not coming home for Christmas?”

  “Yeah. It happens a lot when you are trying to get from Buffalo to Boston in the winter.” Brilliant. Owen had just started a new job out of state and didn’t have any vacation time. Now Josh wouldn’t be here. Even Mum had decided to stay in Florida. No one would be home for Christmas except Augusta. And a cat.

  “It could be worse. You could be spending Christmas waiting for your husband to be operated on. To cheer you up, I’ll drive you down to visit Harold and Bernadette after you get out of work.” Without waiting for an answer, Augusta swished out the door.

  Augusta dropped me at the front door of the hospital and went to look for a parking spot. I took the elevator to the cardiac floor and peeked through the open door of Harold’s room. His faced the window and spoke quietly into the phone. His free hand bunched the bed sheet, and his jiggling foot rattled the bed. His voice rose, and I could make out his end of the conversation.

  “Are you sure there won’t be any more? I’m supposed to be avoiding stress,” Harold paused. “It better be the last time.” Harold banged down the phone, and I heard his heart monitor beep faster. I was deciding whether or not to call a nurse when a round little duck of a woman pattered toward his room. I backed away from the door and heard her scolding Harold from several doors down. Around the corner Bernadette sagged in a plastic chair darting a crochet hook in and out of an acrylic afghan.

  “Gwen, I hardly recognize you. What are you wearing?”

  “A couple of days ago Augusta gave me a makeover. How’re you holding up?” I asked.

  “I’ve had better Christmases.” Her beefy shoulders drooped, and she was wearing the same trousers and sweat shirt she’d had on when Hugh and I visited her three days earlier.

  “I guess you’ve heard about Ethel.” Bernadette might look rumpled, but she’d have to be in the morgue instead of the waiting room to have been pruned from the village grapevine. Unless I missed my guess, Clara told her first thing in the morning, if not earlier.

  “It was like hearing that flu season has left your area of the country,” Bernadette said. “You couldn’t find anyone who wasn’t happy to see her go.”

  “You really think no one will miss her?”

  “No one I know of.” Bernadette jabbed her hook in and out of her work like it was Ethel laying there instead of an afghan. “Everywhere she went that woman stirred up trouble. I called Dinah’s yesterday to ask how Beulah’s funeral had gone, and the shouting in the store was so bad Dinah couldn’t hear me. She called me back later when the fuss had died down.”

  “Do you know what they were yelling about?” I asked.

  “Dinah stays in business,” Bernadette said, “because she knows what to pass along and what to leave out. She said it was Ethel and Bill Lambert, and it was nothing exciting, just the usual.”

  “Knowing those two,” I said, “they were probably arm wrestling for the last bag of barbecue potato chips.” I got to my feet and laid a hand on Bernadette’s fleshy arm. “Let me know if you need anything.” Bernadette nodded and started adding another row to her blanket. I punched the lobby button in the elevator and thought about what Bernadette had said. It looked like I needed to ask Bill some more questions.

  “How’s the patient?” Augusta stood near the exit looking at some lobby art work.

  “Harold’s holding his own.” I said.

  “I was talking about you,” Augusta said. “You look like death warmed over.”

  “It’s been a long week.”

  “You need a pick-me-up.”

  “The last time you said that to me I spent a weekend in a Tennessee bog looking at timeshare property.’

  “It’ll be better this time. I’ll get the car.”

  Augusta dragged me to the mall. Christmas spirit was so thick in the air there should have been a health advisory for asthmatics an
d the elderly. We joined the fray and picked up a few things for the DaSilva kids and Luisa. I used love to shop for Christmas, but since the boys have grown up, their Christmas lists are as much fun as unsalted oatmeal.

  My Christmas cheer returned as we gathered up board games, wooden puzzles, stuffed animals, building sets and a sled. And a red, angora sweater for Luisa. She could keep warm and still look glamorous.

  Once the shopping was complete Augusta muscled her way through the crowds toward a beauty salon.

  “I’ve done all I can with her,” she said to the bubble gum-popping child behind the counter. “The hair is best left to professionals.” She gestured toward my head as she consulted with the child.

  “Enjoy your hair appointment while I find you a new wardrobe,” she said.

  “Shouldn’t I go with you to pick out what I like?”

  Augusta looked me over from head to toe. “Good God, no. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  I should have known the direction things would take when they had me sign a waiver before they started. I should have spoken up when my scalp began smarting from the chemicals, but Augusta’s words about beauty hurting rang in my ears, and I kept my mouth shut. When the girl spun me toward the mirror, I prayed the fluorescent lighting was unflattering. From the way the salon staff refused to make eye contact, I suspected it was more serious than the lights. I paid quickly, then slunk off.

  “Do you want me to slip a hat in your stocking Christmas Eve?” the mall Santa yelled out to me. His elves snickered and elbowed each other. Thankfully, I saw Augusta hustling in my direction, her arms weighed down by shopping bags. She marched straight past. Clearly, I was so altered, not even my own sister recognized me.

  “Hey, over here!” Augusta stopped, flicked her eyes across the crowd and eventually landed on me. Digging in her purse, she pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses. She grabbed a complimentary wheelchair and shoved me into it. She dumped the bags in my lap and whipped off her wool coat. Throwing it over my head, she broke into a trot.