by Diane Morlan
“I can’t believe that Bernie told you that.” I said.
“Well, actually, Della overheard your conversation with Bernie and mentioned it at dinner last night.”
“Great, now the whole town will know and I won’t be able to get anyone to talk to me.”
“Oh, pshaw, Jennifer. I’ll keep your little secret. In fact, I may have some information that will help you solve the murder, just like Miss Marple!”
In one fell swoop, Natalie had managed to call my investigation a “little secret” and insult me by comparing me to the oldest mystery sleuth in history. Not to mention, she used the word “pshaw.” Who says that?
“Okay, I’ll bite. What do you know that will help me?” I figured it was better to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“Whitney was seeing someone. You know, romantically.”
Why not? She was a reasonably attractive young woman. “What makes this important, Natalie?” I asked. “So she was dating. Big deal. Do you think her boyfriend killed her?”
“I didn’t say a boyfriend. I said someone. She had a secret girlfriend.” Natalie gave a little huff, crossed her arms and nodded her head.
“Whitney was gay? That sure is information, Nat. Not sure if it’s important, though. Who was she seeing? And how do you know about it?”
“I don’t know who the woman is. Heck, it might not even be anyone from town.”
“And you know about this, how?” I asked again.
“I overheard someone talking.” Natalie was twisting the dishtowel that was tucked into the waistband of her pristine baby blue pants.
“Who did you over hear? Okay, Natalie, where were you snooping?”
Natalie squared her shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m not the only one who snoops. That’s how you found out who killed Wes last summer.”
“Fine. Just tell me who said that Natalie was gay.”
“Shush, Jennifer. Keep your voice down, someone will hear you.”
“Do you really think it matters in this day and age if someone is gay? Good grief, Natalie, gays can get married in Minnesota. They’ve come a long way, baby.”
“You may have come a long way but a lot of people in this town don’t see it that way,” Natalie said.
“I never thought about it that way. You’re probably right. This could have been a hate crime. Okay, Natalie, before you call Lieutenant Jacobs and tell him everything you know, tell me who said she was a lesbian.”
“I was at the rally in Mankato for Charlie Jackson. Isn’t it great that our very own rock star is going to be the Governor of Minnesota? I can hardly believe it. That will put Hermann on the map for sure.”
“Natalie, focus. What did you hear?”
“I heard Charlie Jackson’s mother tell Mrs. Wentworth. I guess Mrs. Jackson saw Whitney and a woman together somewhere and they were kissing.”
“Do you think Charlie’s mother was telling the truth?”
“Why would she lie? Mrs. Wentworth must have believed her because she didn’t throw a tantrum like she usually does when she hears something she doesn’t like.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It just doesn’t make sense. How do you know how Mrs. Wentworth usually acts?”
“What rock have you been hiding under? Jennifer, I’ve been Mrs. Wentworth’s—er, ah, assistant for several years.”
“Does that mean you clean her house once a week? I think someone mentioned that. Thanks, Nat for the info. I need to get going.”
I left the house not knowing if I’d learned anything or not.
Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Wentworth were always arguing. Could Mrs. Jackson have just said she saw Whitney kissing some woman in order to try to hurt her friend? Or did she actually see something?
What about all the pictures in the house? They showed Whitney with guys. Although she did go to the prom alone. Or maybe not. Could one of the girls in the picture have been Whitney’s date?
When I got to my vehicle, I realized that I was still holding a half-eaten brownie. I got into the SUV and tossed it into the litterbag. I needed a cup of coffee, or maybe something stronger.
Perhaps Pam would enlighten me tomorrow night when we met at the library. There were a few things I wanted to look up while I was there.
I looked at my phone to check the calendar. I was scheduled to cater a rally for Charlie in Marshall, Minnesota, on Sunday. I only signed on for events that were in southern Minnesota. It wasn’t profitable to go too far from Hermann. I could grill Megan when we made campaign cookies for the event.
With a little luck, I’d be able to talk to Mrs. Jackson at the rally. Maybe I could get her to tell me who she had seen kissing Whitney.
I headed toward my coffee warehouse. Time to get some coffee roasted and fill some orders. I couldn’t let this investigation interfere with my business. Well, not too much anyway.
I got the coffee roaster set and running, then fired up the computer and got on the Internet.
I believed Decker when he said he didn’t have anything to do with Whitney’s death. What I wasn’t sure about was whether he was a suspect in the murder of the drug dealer. I wanted to learn more about that incident.
I found the story about Decker’s wife and child. I also found the article about the death of the drug dealer, although they didn’t call him that in the article. They did include much of his extensive criminal record and said that the police were following up on leads.
I looked in later issues and couldn’t find anything. It seemed that the website only showed part of the newspaper. I’d need microfilm or a database for follow up stories. I wondered if the library had a database with the information I wanted. I made a mental note to check it out tomorrow when I went to meet Pam at the library.
I finished packaging the coffee beans my student workers had roasted yesterday. With a delivery list of restaurants in the area that had standing orders for my Prima Gusto Coffee in my hand, I loaded up my new SUV and was pleased that everything fit with room to spare. I mentally revamped my delivery schedule to accommodate two new customers.
Back inside, I spread the coffee that I had just roasted on the cooling table. I’d come back first thing tomorrow to package up the whole beans and grind and package the orders for people who don’t want to bother grinding the beans right before they brew the coffee. Coffee beans are at their best right after they are ground.
I snagged several one-pound bags of my finest blend and headed back to my car, tossing them into the front passenger seat. I often stop at restaurants that don’t use my coffee. I give them a freebie so they can taste for themselves how wonderful my Primo Gusto is.
Bernie had invited me to dinner this evening and she always welcomed a gift of my Java Java blend.
19
I finished my deliveries and pulled into the parking lot of Bernie’s apartment building at five-thirty. She has a first floor apartment that was advertised as a garden apartment. I didn’t see any garden, but she did have a patio with a privacy fence around three sides. I usually park close to her apartment and knock on the patio door instead of getting buzzed into the building and walking down a long hallway to her apartment.
Bernie answered the door with a spatula in her hand. “Hi. You’re right on time. Supper is almost ready.”
I pulled myself up on the stool at her breakfast bar. “Bernie, you’re the only person in the country who still eats supper. Everyone else eats dinner at this time of night.”
“You know, Jennifer,” she said, shaking her spatula at me “city people eat lunch and dinner. Those of us who grew up on the farm eat dinner and supper. And since we produce the food eaten at those meals, I think we got it right.”
“Whoa!” I said holding up my hands, “I give up. You’re right!”
Bernie set two stemmed wine glasses and a bottle of Chianti between us. She got out her corkscrew gizmo that pulled the cork out without any effort and poured us each a glass. We sipped the dark red wine while I brought
her up to speed on where Decker and I were with the investigation. That took about 30 seconds.
“I’m sorry that Delmar put Jerry on leave,” she said, “although I have to say, that I’m glad he’s going to help you. You’ll be safer that way.”
I waved my hand at her. “Don’t be silly, Bernie. I’m not in any danger.”
“That’s what you said last summer and looked what happened.”
“I was just fine. Nothing happened to me. What’s for supper?” I didn’t want to be reminded of a scary event that could have ended badly.
“You’re being treated tonight to my favorite Italian meal.”
“Where did you learn to cook Italian food?” I asked.
“Remember a few years ago when I went on a retreat in Vermont?”
“They taught you how to cook Italian food at a retreat?”
“Don’t be silly. We all took turns cooking and shared recipes. Sister Maria Lourdes grew up in an Italian neighborhood in New York City. She taught us how to make several Italian dishes. When it was my turn, I cooked brats and German potato salad.”
After two helpings of Bernie’s baked lasagna and a big scoop of spumoni, we moved to the living room, taking the bottle of wine with us. After I settled in on the sofa, I brought up the subject of Whitney’s sexual preference.
“I wouldn’t tell you if I had any information, Jennifer. I can say that of all the things I’ve heard about that poor girl, homosexuality wasn’t one of them.”
“You know, Bernie, I wonder if Yvonne Jackson made it all up. But why? Would she do that just to irritate Mrs. Wentworth?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Charlie is the center of her life. If Whitney had a crush on him, Yvonne might tell him that Whitney was gay, just to keep him away from her, but she had no reason to tell Henrietta, even if it was true—which I doubt.”
“I’m meeting with Pam Frey tomorrow night. I’ll ask her if she knows if Whitney was gay. I’m hoping she can tell me more about the girls Whitney hung around with in high school and since graduation.”
“Pamela is such a nice girl. After Mass last Sunday, she told me that she is taking night courses at Hermann Community College so she can get out of waitressing and work in an office. It must be hard for her with two little kids to take care of.”
“I didn’t know she had kids. Is she married?”
“She’s a widow. Her husband was in the Army reserves and got called up. He died in Afghanistan last year.”
“Oh, Geez, that’s too bad. She’s so young to have had that kind of loss in her life.”
While I was pondering that information, there was a knock on the door. When Bernie opened the door, I heard Decker’s husky voice.
He came in and sat next to me on the sofa while Bernie went into the kitchen. While she was gone, Decker gave me a quick kiss and asked how my day had gone.
Before I could answer, Bernie was back with a cold bottle of beer for him. He thanked Bernie and took a long drink.
“So, Jerry, Jennifer’s been telling me about her day. Did you find out anything useful to help clear Harold?”
Decker sat back and lifted his right foot over his left leg. “I did find out some things, Sister. I don’t know how much it helps to clear anyone—or to point the finger at any one either.”
Decker had met with the medical examiner, off the record. “He said that Whitney died from blunt force trauma. There was a bruise on her forehead consistent with the size and shape of a baseball bat. The interesting thing is that she didn’t die until just minutes before she fell out of your car, Jennifer.”
“How can that be? Where was she?”
“She was probably unconscious and bleeding in her brain. The injury occurred hours before she died. In fact, the medical examiner said that she might have lived if she had received immediate treatment.”
“Wow, so whoever hit her probably did drag her into the woods and then put her in my car later.” I was thinking that it was too bad that whoever did it hadn’t just runaway and left Whitney on the ground near her car. Harold would have alerted us and we could have called an ambulance.
Decker said that Jacobs had met with Charlie Jackson. “Just like we thought, Charlie had an airtight alibi. After the rally on the day Whitney disappeared, Charlie had a news conference, and then went to dinner at the Schnitzel Haus, a restaurant over in Hanska, with a group of businessmen who were supporting his run for Governor. He wasn’t alone until he left the restaurant to go home at about eleven o’clock. Of course, Jacobs has to check it all out.”
“That lets Charlie off the hook,” Bernie said. “I’m glad it wasn’t him. I know it wasn’t Harold, so who did it? It’s so frustrating!”
Decker uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and patted Bernie’s hand. “Don’t worry, Sister, we’ll find out who did this.”
Bernie gave Decker a grateful smile and said, “Well, hurry up, Jerry. Get it in gear.”
We all laughed and that broke the tension. Decker started telling us about the rest of his day. I noticed Bernie wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.
Decker had also stopped in to see Lisa Vetter at the Emergency Room of the Hermann Hospital. There were no patients there at the time, so Decker was able to question her. He told her about the list the police had found on Whitney’s phone and that her name was on the list. He didn’t mention the other names, although Lisa had asked him. It turns out that the police had already talked to her, but she was willing to tell Decker what she’d told them.
“She says she was with Trudy and you at the Lace Haus, and then she went home with her family and they would vouch for her,” Decker said. “We know that families aren’t the best people to give someone an alibi. Family members will often lie to protect their loved ones.”
Decker went on to tell us that Lisa said Whitney had contacted her and asked for, or rather demanded money, threatening to tell Randy about an affair that Whitney had found out about somehow. Lisa laughed in her face and said that Randy knew all about the affair. She said that her private life wasn’t any of Whitney’s business.
“What about Randy?” Bernie asked.
“What about him?” Decker and I replied in unison.
“We know Lisa was with us when Whitney disappeared,” explained Bernie, “but where was Randy? He can be very overprotective. Remember when I was going into the convent and he went a little nuts and tried to ‘save me’ from a life in a ‘nunnery?’”
I remembered but Decker wasn’t around then so we explained to him how Randy and Bernie had been a couple until Bernie decided that she was meant to be a nun. We knew that he was certainly capable of protecting his loved ones.
“Would he kill someone to protect Lisa?” Decker asked.
“I think he may be capable of it,” said Bernie. “But if Randy and Lisa worked it out, I can’t see him hurting Whitney just to save Lisa’s pride or Randy’s manliness.” Bernie shook her head. “It’s such a shame that people can cause so much pain to others.”
I knew she meant more than Whitney’s death. The people being blackmailed by Whitney had done things that they wanted to be kept secret.
Bernie and I brought Decker up to speed on my day and what I had learned. In the end, none of us had any idea of who had committed the awful crime and Harold was no closer to being exonerated.
“Is today Wednesday?” I asked. “Bernie, do you get the paper?”
“Sure, let me think where I put it. I haven’t had time to read it yet,” Bernie called over her shoulder on the way to the kitchen.
“Let’s see if there is an obituary for Whitney in it,” I said to Decker.
“I’m not sure they have released the body yet.”
Bernie came back into the room, handed me the newspaper and said, “Oh, Henrietta isn’t having a funeral for Whitney. I believe that Whitney will be cremated later. The memorial service is tomorrow.”
I stopped paging through the paper and looked at Bernie. “How do you know that?” I asked.
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br /> “I got a call from the funeral home asking me for the email addresses of the staff at Sunrise Group Home and several others.”
“Who has a funeral by invitation only? That’s just weird.”
“It’s a private memorial service, not a funeral, Jennifer. Henrietta is a very private person. I mean, when she’s not drinking. You have to realize that she’s been through so much these last few years.”
I found the obit and read it to Bernie and Decker.
“Wentworth, Whitney, 26, Hermann, MN, Died Saturday night, September 24, in Itzig. Preceded in death by her father, Graham. Survived by her mother, Henrietta. The family requests that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to Mary’s Haven Group Homes.”
I shook my head. “It seems so odd to need an invitation for a funeral—I mean memorial service.”
“It’s probably rare around here,” Decker said. “They do it a lot in bigger cities with celebrities and prominent families who don’t want a lot of gawkers at the service.”
“I sure can’t blame them,” Bernie said. “The place would be overcome by ghouls who want to see a murder victim.”
“I suppose,” I said. “I was hoping to go to the funeral to see who would show up. Bernie, do you think Mrs. Wentworth would mind if I tagged along with you?”
Bernie put her index finger over her mouth as to shush herself. “I might not mind, but I’m sure Henrietta would. I got my invitation this afternoon. Have you checked your email lately?”
“No, but I will right now.” I dug out my phone, clicked on the internet connection, and saw an email from Walhalla Funeral Chapel. “Here it is. I can go. I wonder if the murderer will show up. I know the police always look at funerals. Isn’t that right, Decker?”
“They often do. I’m not sure if they will this time. If it’s by invitation, it’s a whole different deal.”
“Why,” I asked.
“Whoever did this isn’t in control. The killer might be there but it would have to be by invitation, so it changes the whole scenario.”
I turned to Bernie, “I’ll pick you up at ten o’clock tomorrow morning in my snazzy new car.”