by Elise Sax
“With roasted potatoes and asparagus on the side?” Auntie Ida asked.
“Do you like roast chicken?” I asked Rocky.
He nodded. “I could go for a drumstick.”
My aunts raced to the icebox and took out the ingredients. I sat next to Rocky at the kitchen table.
“I’m sure this’ll get worked out soon,” I assured him. “The killer has to get caught eventually. He’s going to run out of people to kill and then it’ll be simple deduction.”
“I hope my customers don’t go to another mobile knife sharpener while I’m away,” Rocky worried. “And what about my van? I hope they didn’t trash the van. It has a lot of good miles left in it.”
“You want me to check on it tomorrow? I can do that.”
Rocky’s eyes widened, and he almost smiled. “You’d do that? Gee, Agatha. That would be swell.”
“Here’s the chicken and potatoes,” Auntie Ida sang as they put the food on the table.
“How do they cook so fast?” Rocky asked me. “I’ve never heard of roasting a chicken in five minutes. Do you have one of those new speed cooker things?”
“Sure, that’s it. Speed cooker thing,” Auntie Tilly said and winked at me. She lifted a large blanket off a chair and tossed it onto the floor. “Ida and I are practicing our knitting,” she explained to me.
“If the whole town’s doing it, why shouldn’t we?” Auntie Ida asked, flinging a knitted jumpsuit off a chair so she could sit down.
“Are you entering the competition?” I asked, surprised. My aunts were constantly telling me about the importance of maintaining a low profile. I couldn’t picture them knitting with most of the town.
“No, but we want to be involved,” Auntie Ida said, carving the drumsticks off the chicken for Rocky. “I’m going to make Rocky a whole set of knitted underpants next. I’ll measure you after dinner, Rocky,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
“Uh,” Rocky said.
“Way to be obvious, Ida,” Tilly sneered, biting into an asparagus spear.
“I’m not sure there’s going to be a knitting competition anymore,” I said, spooning potatoes onto my plate. “Eddie Acid got shot in the rear, and rears are very important in punk rock.”
“I bet,” Auntie Ida said.
“If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t cancel the knitters,” Auntie Tilly said. “If I know anything, I know that women with knitting needles shouldn’t be crossed.”
After dinner, I went upstairs and took a long hot shower. I had gotten filthy on the floor of Jesus’s studio, and I was covered with metal shavings.
After the shower, I slipped on a nightgown and padded back to my bedroom in my bare feet. Sitting at my little table, facing the mirror, I started to comb through my long, wet hair. John appeared behind me.
“I don’t think there’s any greater pleasure than to watch you comb your hair,” he said, gazing at me longingly through the reflection. He spoke of pleasure, but his face was the embodiment of pain. He was standing so close that I could almost imagine his breath on the back of my neck.
“I heard that you have been very active today,” he continued after watching me comb my hair for a long while. “I heard that you found another murder victim.”
“Yes, but I’m no closer to finding the killer. Each time that I’m sure I’ve figured out the mystery, it changes path, and I start back at zero again.”
“Perhaps that’s what you should do,” John said. “You need to start at the beginning before the paths veered and before the complications appeared. Start at zero and go from there. Remember, with crime, it’s usually the simple answer, not the complicated one.”
There was a silence between us, and I stopped combing my hair.
“You mean like witches?” I asked, turning around to face him.
John locked eyes with me. “Yes. Like throwing accusations about witches.”
We had never spoken about it. In all of the hundreds of years since Salem, we had never broached the subject. But now something had changed between us. I had gone out into the world. I had gone on a date with a living, breathing man. I had friends and a job, and people waved to me on the street.
For the first time in my life, I felt like I could talk to John about my mother. About it all.
“You wanted to be a prosecutor?” I asked.
“Are we going to talk about this history lesson now, my beautiful Agatha?” he asked, the contours of his face etched in pain. “It’s been a very long time, and you’ve never wanted to talk about it before.”
“Because I thought I knew the story, but I didn’t know the story from your lips, so how could I know the story? It’s like trying to understand the murder without talking to the killer.”
John’s face dropped, and he looked down at his feet. “Ah, so I am a killer now.”
“No,” I said, regretting that I had hurt him further.
“Yes, but of course I am. Fine. Let’s discuss it.” He looked back up at me. “You must know that I regret that I ever was a prosecutor,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Of course, you are. We know that, but you wanted to be one back then?”
“I had been a military officer for king and country. When I settled in Salem, I was gifted certain positions of power because of my military service.”
“You were a magistrate. A politician,” I supplied. I knew this part of the story.
“And a businessman. With power, gets money, even in the so-called pious town of Salem in the 1600s. I was a very prosperous man, even in my young age.”
“Thirty-five,” I said. “That’s how old you were when you hanged my mother.” The words stayed in the air between us, like they had taken on a life of their own.
John nodded slightly. “Thirty-five when I ordered the hanging of your mother. The actual hanging was done by a man who wore much shabbier clothes.”
“Did you believe she was a witch?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you believe that she was communing with the devil?”
“No.”
“But you hanged her.”
I expected John to stop the conversation or to pace the room or to evade the questions. But he stood still, his eyes never leaving mine. He was a brave man. A man of character that used to exist in the world, but has since disappeared from most men.
“I ordered her hanging because I was one of many, and when you are a prosperous man, you do nothing to jeopardize that prosperity. So, I did not go against the many. I was a coward, Agatha. A miserable coward with five servants and a fine house. I wanted for nothing, and I feared wanting.”
The admission shocked me, but didn’t surprise me. It was as good of an explanation as any.
“But my mother was pregnant,” I said.
John nodded. “So, I allowed her a two-month reprieve, and she gave birth to you in the jailhouse. Your three aunts took you out, and your mother was hanged.”
“But not before she uttered the words,” I said.
“Yes, not before she uttered the words that bound me to you forever. As long as I would be in death, I would be with you in life. A curse that I have treasured all these years.”
I wondered if my mother knew that I would grow to love John or that he would love me. That was something I would never know.
“Are you happier now that we’ve had this discussion?” John asked me, gently.
“No. You didn’t come out very well in it.”
“I could have told you that I was an unworthy man. I thought you already knew that. I was sure your aunts would have told you.”
“They never got that far about you,” I said. “I suppose they figured that you killing my mother was enough of a sign about who you were.”
It was a terribly mean thing to say to the man that I loved. John had committed a terrible wrong, but he had committed it long ago, and he had paid his price over and over. The evil and greedy prosecutor that he once was was long gone, and in his place
was a beautiful, gentle man whose only thought was my safety and happiness.
And besides, he had been wrong about my family not being witches. We had always been guilty of that particular crime.
“Tilly told me that I should go away and let you live your life,” John told me, his voice barely audible.
“You mean go quiet?”
John nodded and began to pace the room with his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes. Go quiet forever.”
“Don’t do that. The last year without you was torture. I don’t want you to leave,” I said, but thoughts of Remington flooded my mind, and I wondered if John could read them. He studied my face for a moment and nodded sadly.
“I see. Well, this is something to be considered,” John said and disappeared.
The next morning, I arrived early at the soup shop and finished preparing the soups before Doris and Irving showed up. When they arrived, Doris had a bandage wrapped around her hand, which she explained was due to a knitting accident.
By lunchtime, the shop was only half full. There was no Area 38ers anymore, and the knitters’ enthusiasm had definitely waned, probably because of yesterday’s jail scare after they tried to attack the Area 38 group. At one o’clock, I was surprised when Eddie Acid hobbled in with a walker.
“I can’t pose because of my injury,” he told me between clenched teeth. “I hate geeks, and if I ever see that glowing man, I’m going to kill him.”
Two diners approached Eddie for a selfie, but he declined since he couldn’t pose. “But the Punk Rock Knitting Championship begins tomorrow at sunrise!” he announced loudly so the entire shop could hear. “Spread the word. It’s on, punk rockers! Remember to keep knitting. If you stop for anything, you’re disqualified.”
He stuck his tongue out and tried to pose, but his face contorted in pain, and he gave up. He waved us off and shuffled out of the shop with his walker.
“I’m going to win that damned thing, even with my injured hand,” I heard Doris tell Irving when Eddie left.
“Nobody’s better with a knitting needle than you,” he agreed.
When the lunch rush was over, I left Mouse in charge of the shop, and I walked down Sea Breeze Avenue toward the marina. I was going back to zero. I had suspected Donald since the beginning, and for good reason. Donald had been suspicious. Very suspicious.
I had never figured out why Donald and Felicia owned an expensive boat while their house was about to be foreclosed. So, I decided to start there. I walked through the gate at the marina and into the marina office. It was good not to be hiding behind the door this time.
“May I help you?” the man behind the counter asked.
I decided to cut right to the chase. “I want to know about Donald White’s boat.”
“Too late. The government seized it for back taxes after he died. I’ve got other boats I can sell you, if you want.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “What can you tell me about Donald? Was he an avid sailor? Did he go out often on his boat?”
The man smiled and leaned forward with his hands on the counter. “Finally, somebody’s out here asking about the boat. Wouldn’t you think if a man gets eaten by cats, someone would think to inquire about his damned boat?”
No. It hadn’t occurred to me at all. Not until now.
“What’s the deal with the boat?” I asked, breathlessly, hoping that I would get the clue I desperately needed to solve the mystery.
“To answer your first questions, neither of the Whites were avid sailors, and they never went out on their boat. A few months back, they came out here and asked me to find them a boat to—get this. Are you paying attention, because this part’s really good.”
“I’m paying attention,” I assured him.
“To get them to Mexico. He wanted a boat that could get them out into deep water, international waters, and then back into Mexican territory. His wife was talking about getting a new wardrobe in Cabo San Lucas.”
“They were going to Mexico on vacation?” I asked.
He shook his head. “If you go on vacation to Mexico, you don’t buy a boat that’ll get you around the Coast Guard. You know what I’m talking about?
“Were they smuggling in drugs?”
“Lady, have you ever seen a movie?” he asked me. “You don’t smuggle drugs into Mexico. It works the other way around. They were going to flee to Mexico.”
I sucked in air. “Like criminals?”
He pointed at his eye and then to me. “Yep. Just like criminals.”
I left the marina and walked aimlessly as I tried to make sense out of the new information. Why were Donald and Felicia fleeing to Mexico? Were they escaping their creditors? Why not just declare bankruptcy, if that was the case? Living in Mexico was cheaper and was therefore an alternative for many people, but those people didn’t need to evade capture by the Coast Guard.
What was going on?
“Yoo-hoo! Agatha! Yoo-hoo!” Frances was coming down the street toward me at a fast clip. Her tan pumps click-clacked on the sidewalk, and I could hear the faint rustle of her pantyhose-covered legs rubbing together. “Yoo-hoo!” she called one more time before she reached me.
She put her hands on my shoulders and urged me to stop walking. She huffed and puffed as she caught her breath. “I’m so glad I found you,” she said. “I heard that you poured molten lead over Jesus Alvarez’s head.”
“No, I found Jesus Alvarez with molten lead already on his head. People have a hard time telling the difference between finding a dead body and being responsible for a dead body.”
“Oh, good. I had figured he must have been the killer and that’s why you did it. But, this way’s better.”
“I haven’t found the killer yet,” I told her with a fair amount of shame.
I gave her the rundown about Jesus and his handmade antique whaling hooks and the conversation with the marina worker.
“Wow, you’ve been busy,” she said, impressed. “I’ve only been making fudge and trying to sell houses, and I’ve missed all the excitement. I heard that Eddie Acid got shot in the ass, and he mooned the whole town. You know how much I would have paid to see that man’s buttocks?”
“A lot?” I asked.
“A lot! Anyway, I’m not missing anything anymore. I’m sticking like glue to you, since all the interesting stuff in this town happens around you.”
“That’s what Remington says. He thinks disaster follows me.”
“Oh, gee, I hope so,” Frances said. “So, what’s next? Are you planning on finding any more dead bodies today?”
“I’ve been thinking that Bunty has an airtight alibi for Jesus’s murder, but what about Sid? We’ve never actually questioned Sid, and we’re only a couple blocks away from his house.”
“You’re right, Agatha!” Frances said, obviously impressed with my detective skills. “Let’s ram bamboo shoots under his nails and make him talk. Maybe he’ll try and kill us. That’ll bring some excitement into my life, for sure.”
Chapter 17
“You poor, simple fools, thinking you could defeat me. Me! The mistress of evil.”
–Maleficent, “Sleeping Beauty”
There was no answer, so Frances and I climbed through the office window again. “We need to find his real hiding place,” I said.
“Someplace that Bunty wouldn’t find,” Frances agreed.
“The garage,” we said in unison.
We found the garage, and it was full of workout equipment.
“They sure like to exercise,” I noted.
“Men like women with no fat. That’s why I haven’t had a date in donkeys’ years. So I get puffy this time of year. The days grow shorter, and I need comfort food. Is that a crime?”
“Let’s focus on Sid right now,” I said.
“I wish he was here. We could jam the bamboo shoots up his nails, and he would tell us everything.”
“Do you have bamboo shoots?” I asked.
“No, but I could order some on Amazo
n, I bet.”
“Over here,” I told her. Past the workout equipment in the corner were Sid’s tools. He had quite a bit of equipment, and something told me that Bunty never touched any of it, no matter if she was a women’s studies professor.
We started searching through it, and Frances found a stack of letters under a sander. She raised them high in triumph. “Eureka! Look at this, Agatha. Old-fashioned letters. I guess Sid’s a romantic.”
We sat on a nearby weight bench and opened the letters one by one, organized by date. They were all written to Felicia by Sid, but never mailed. I guessed he never had the nerve to send them.
“This doesn’t sound like a polyamorous situation,” Frances said, reading. “It sounds like he was gaga about Felicia and didn’t give a fig for his wife.”
The letters started out talking a lot about Felicia’s breasts and her eyes and various other body parts. Then in time, they moved on to re-living their sexual escapades. Then, they turned full on to Robert Browning to Elizabeth Barrett Browning kind of letters.
Frances wiped at her eye. “This so romantic. I love love. Love is the best. Have you ever been in love?”
“Let’s keep reading,” I said, changing the subject.
It was a good thing we kept reading. A few letters in, they turned dark and angry. The love and romance turned to stalking and obsession.
“Holy crap. This is just like when Harold the stalker kidnapped Brooke on All My Children. He’s really angry.”
“I don’t think this was a casual relationship,” I said.
“I’ll bet you Felicia was less into him than he was into her. That’ll drive a man crazy every time.”
“It’s like when a kid gets a smaller piece of cake than their sibling. Total meltdown,” I agreed.
“Look at this letter. He threatened to burn down her house with her in it,” Frances said. “That’s worse than Harold the stalker.”
There were other threats of violence. “But he never sent these,” I noted. “He was angry, but he didn’t act on the threats. He might not be the killer.”