A Curio Killing

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  Or so she convinced herself.

  Eight

  Callie rose early the next day and immediately checked her phone. No message from Hank. Well, he’d never been a rise and shine kind of guy. She’d hear from him later.

  After a quick shower, she pulled on a T-shirt and pair of jeans and headed down to her kitchen. The sight of her overflowing cupboards, plus the jam-packed refrigerator, wasn’t as exciting as it had been the night before, but trusting Delia’s assurance that the rewards would be tenfold, Callie braced herself for a day of chopping, simmering, and blending.

  But first, a cup of coffee.

  She fixed a strong brew of her favorite Colombian and carried it outside to enjoy the pleasant morning air. Light perfume wafted from the roses Aunt Mel had set twining through the trellis overhead, and she breathed it in deeply, turning then to stroll along the line of sprouting flowers that edged the front of the cottage. Callie hadn’t touched a thing in the garden beyond keeping it tidy, and she hoped the perennials would return regularly for years as one more reminder of a wonderful aunt.

  She was halfway through her coffee when she heard voices coming from the shop area and stopped to listen. She thought she recognized Duane Fletcher’s but wasn’t sure about the others. Curiosity drew her down the footpath between her property and Karl’s until she reached the street. There she found Duane facing several shop owners. From the tone of their voices and looks on their faces, this was not a friendly gathering.

  Howard Graham, who ran Christmas Collectibles, was shaking a finger in Duane’s direction. “I paid for two full days for my booth. I want half of that back!” Not normally an assertive person, Howard was apparently able to rise to the occasion when it came to money, though his high-pitched voice wobbled just a bit at the end.

  “We all paid the same, Howard,” Pearl Poepelman said, her vintage necklaces draping her ample bosom even on an off-day. “But he’s right, Duane. We’re owed refunds.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Duane protested.

  “Of course it is,” Karl Eggers countered. Tall and burly, Karl’s thick brows were pulled together in his habitual glower, a full, dark beard adding to the fearsome look. “You write a check and it’s done!”

  Why was Karl part of this? He hadn’t taken a booth. Callie suddenly wondered if the sounds of the argument had pulled at him like Pavlov’s dog and a dinner bell.

  “Right!” Howard cried. “Just write us our checks.”

  Callie saw Delia step out of her closed shop to see what was going on. Then Brian came out of his café. Laurie Hart, Duane’s perpetual antagonist, could be seen heading over. Well, that wasn’t going to calm things.

  “Look,” Duane said, “a lot of the association money, including the booth fees, went into costs that we’ll never get back. Do you think the town leased us the grounds for nothing? Or that the stage, the dance floor, and those tents were set up for free? Then the bands had to be paid ahead of time, and they weren’t cheap.” Then he noticed Callie and turned to say pointedly to her, “We wouldn’t be in this jam in the first place if someone hadn’t pushed me to hire their boyfriend’s band. Then the manager goes and drops dead!”

  What? She’d had nothing to do with Duane hiring the Badlanders, and Duane knew it! Callie opened her mouth to protest but Laurie beat her to it.

  “Don’t go trying to shift the blame onto somebody else, Duane Fletcher. This was your responsibility. You should have planned ahead for something coming up that could cancel things. A bad storm or whatever!”

  “But it wasn’t a storm. It was a murder,” a quiet voice said from the back. Everyone turned at that stunning statement to see who’d made it. It was Lyle Moody, a Keepsake Cove newcomer and owner of the John Wayne memorabilia shop. Leather-faced and lanky, Moody’s looks fit his shop’s theme, as did his fringed vest, jeans, and boots. But it was his statement that caught the group’s attention.

  “Murder!” Howard cried, his already-pale face blanching two shades paler.

  Lyle nodded. “Yup. Just heard it on the news.”

  Oh, no. Callie pulled her phone from a pocket to check. No message. Brian had come to her side, and he looked questioningly at her. She shook her head. But as she did, the phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number but she quickly answered.

  “Hey, babe, it’s me,” Hank said.

  Callie turned away from the others. “Hank. Where are you?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I’m, uh, kinda locked up. They think I killed Bobby. Which I didn’t! Babe, I need you. You gotta get me outa here!”

  Callie quickly stepped away from the group, pulling Brian with her. “It’s Hank,” she whispered. “He’s been arrested for the murder! He wants me to help, but what can I do?”

  “Does he have a lawyer?”

  “Hank, do you have a lawyer?” Callie asked.

  “No, I don’t have a lawyer,” he said, his tone blatantly sarcastic; a bad choice, Callie thought, considering the circumstances. “How’m I gonna have a lawyer in a place I never been to before? That’s why I called you! You’re the one and only person who can help me here.”

  “He doesn’t have a lawyer,” Callie told Brian. “The only one I know is George Blake, who handled Aunt Mel’s will.”

  “Hank needs a criminal lawyer. Let me see what I can find.”

  Callie told Hank to hold on. He didn’t take that well but she ignored him, refraining from reminding him of his limited alternatives. Finally Brian held up his phone’s screen for her to read.

  “I have the number of a local defense attorney,” she said to Hank. “Can you take it down?”

  “Babe, you’re my one phone call.”

  “Okay. I can call him for you.”

  “Get him over here fast!” There was a pause, and then Hank spoke in a quieter tone. “I mean, please get him here fast. Sorry, babe. I’m kinda stressed.”

  “I get that. But try to stay calm. Hang in there.” Callie wanted to add it’ll be fine but couldn’t say it. She wasn’t at all sure about that.

  She followed Brian into his closed café and placed the call to Clark Allard, the defense attorney. She spoke briefly to Allard’s assistant, who then put her through to Allard. He asked a few questions, then promised to get right on it. Callie ended the call and relayed the conversation to Brian.

  “What do you know about Allard?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I fortunately never needed a criminal lawyer, nor do I know of anyone who did. I did a search and his name popped up.”

  “Allard. Probably listed alphabetically. So if there’d been an Aaron Aardvark, that’s who Hank would have gotten?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Well, he’ll just have to hope for the best, and it has to be better than nothing.” Callie thought for a moment. “What happens next?”

  “I don’t know all the ins and outs, but hopefully Allard will get Hank out on bail and start to work with him on this murder charge.”

  Brian had maintained a neutral tone throughout, but Callie was pretty sure about what must be running through his head. “There’s no way Hank could have done it,” she told him. “I can safely say I know him as well as anyone, and it’s just not in him.”

  “You haven’t seen him in close to a year though, right? Could he have changed in that time?”

  She shook her head. “No way. Not that much. He was the same Hank I’ve known.” Though as she said it, she had to admit they’d spent only minutes together in the last two days. The rest of the time had been watching him perform on the stage. There was nothing to learn from that.

  “Well, we’ll have to see what kind of evidence they have. And hope it’s not a reliable eyewitness.”

  Callie’s heart sank at the thought. She’d spent the last year wanting to fully distance herself from Hank. But not this way. Definitely not this way. She shook her head
. No use thinking like this. It all had to be a terrible mistake, and Hank’s lawyer would quickly see that it was cleared up.

  She thanked Brian for his help. “I guess all we can do now is wait.”

  He gave her a squeeze. “Want some company for that? I have supplies to pick up for the café, but you could ride along.”

  “Thanks. That’s tempting, but I have a ton of my own supplies waiting to be dealt with. That’ll keep me busy and my mind occupied.” Though she knew she’d have her phone within reach at all times.

  As she left the café, she was glad to see that most of the group had dispersed. But Delia remained, waiting, Callie was sure, to offer help despite not knowing exactly what for. Callie went over and filled her in. She was swiftly engulfed in a hug.

  “I’m so sorry,” Delia said. “For Hank, of course, but also that you’re being pulled into his problem. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “I’m probably Hank’s only helpline, so I can’t see not doing what I can. What isn’t fair and what I didn’t appreciate at all was Duane trying to shift the blame for the festival’s closing early onto me. Just two days ago he apologized for bringing Hank here and told me he hadn’t known about our connection.”

  Delia shook her head. “Typical Duane, I’m afraid, always quick to look after his own skin. But nobody will take that seriously.”

  “Maybe not yet. But what about when they find out about Hank’s arrest? Well,” Callie concluded, “first things first. Hank was really anxious to be released. A lawyer is heading over to work on that. Do you know anything about how quickly—or not—that all works?”

  Delia shrugged. “’Fraid not.”

  “Wish I’d thought to ask that lawyer, Allard, when I had him on the line.” Callie thought a minute, then nodded. She had an excellent source—not a lawyer, but probably the next best thing and luckily not far away.

  Nine

  Callie called Lyssa to clear it, then headed on over to her friend’s new home just outside of Keepsake Cove. As she wait-ed for a response to her knock at the front door, she glanced around. She’d been to Lyssa’s place before, of course, the first time shortly after the author had bought it. But that was in the fall, and her second visit had been in the middle of winter. Lyssa only left DC for her country home when both her mood and her schedule of writing commitments coincided.

  The fall and winter seasons had given very different looks to the property than it had now, and Callie could understand her friend’s desire to do a little gardening work. Whether Lyssa intended to do it herself or hire someone, the yard could definitely benefit from some sprucing up, though its view of the water made up for any shortcomings on the landscaping side.

  Lyssa’s ideas about buying a vacation home in the area had sparked to life when she and Callie had met with a realtor in Easton while searching for answers to the two fall murders. At the time, Lyssa had only pretended to be interested in buying a place, and her list of “must-haves” was a mishmash of every house feature she could think of. But the experience seemed to have planted a seed, and within weeks she had purchased a house.

  “Hi!” Lyssa cried, swinging open the door. “Sorry to make you wait. I had an email from my agent that needed a quick answer. C’mon in!”

  She waved Callie into the house, which had proven to be the complete opposite of what Callie had expected her to choose. It was a very modern A-frame with a huge two-story window that faced the water. A wrought-iron staircase wound its way from the living room up to a bedroom loft that shared that same view. All lovely, but quite different from the Victorian-era B&B Lyssa had been so delighted to stay in, with its hidden door and other mysterious features. It seemed she’d had enough of that style, though, and Callie felt the same way given the experience they’d had at the B&B. The old inn was the kind of place Lyssa tended to feature in her books, but apparently this contemporary Eastern Shore home was meant to be her escape from all that.

  “Coffee? Tea? Wine?” Lyssa asked as she led the way into her stainless-steel-and-butcher-block kitchen.

  Callie suddenly remembered that she’d left her half-finished coffee in Brian’s café. “Is it really only ten thirty? A small coffee would be great.”

  “I won’t tell anyone if you want the wine. It sounds like maybe you could use it.”

  Callie had filled Lyssa in on the basics when she’d called. “More likely Hank could, though I don’t think that’ll be on his menu.” She grimaced. “He’s pretty stressed over being held. I’m hoping you can tell me about the process so I can estimate how soon he’ll be able to get out.”

  “Well, it all depends.” Lyssa set her Nespresso machine to work fixing their brews. “You got him a lawyer, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then from what I remember from the research I did for Dark Grave, after you’re arrested you go through booking. That means getting fingerprinted and photographed. That shouldn’t take long. Maybe he’s already gone through that?”

  “I don’t know. But if it’s all a big mistake, which it has to be, can’t his lawyer stop things before it comes to that?” Callie hated the thought of Hank getting a mug shot.

  Lyssa handed Callie her coffee. “You said he’s been arrested, Callie. It’s already come to that. It means they’re sure they have enough evidence on Hank to charge him.”

  Callie sank onto one of the bar stools at Lyssa’s counter. “But how could they? This is a murder! I know Hank, and it’s just not possible.”

  “I’m sure you know Hank well enough to say that. But it’s the police who get to make the decision.” Lyssa pulled out her own stool across from Callie. “Now, his lawyer can try to get him out on bail. If all goes well, that shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Like, how long?”

  “In Maryland, he has the right to be seen by a commissioner for bail review within twenty-four hours.”

  Callie groaned.

  “But it could happen right away. It depends how busy they are. I wouldn’t think here on the Eastern Shore there’d be much of a back-up.”

  “So Hank should be out on bail any time now?”

  “Again, it depends.”

  Callie didn’t like those qualifiers. “On what?”

  “Well, the commissioner could set the bail really high, and Hank might not be able to handle it. Or want to. Does he have much money? Or property?”

  Callie rolled her eyes. “We’re talking about Hank, here. All his money goes into guitars and things like snakeskin boots. He wasn’t much of a saver.”

  “Well, don’t worry too much about the bail money. You don’t have to cough up the entire amount—just a percentage to a bail bondsman. All that will take some time to arrange. But with luck, maybe only a few hours.”

  Callie wasn’t thrilled with the you that Lyssa had used in connection to coughing up bail money, but she’d realized it might come to that. If it meant keeping Hank out of a cell, she didn’t see that she’d have much choice.

  “So, several hours,” she said.

  “At least.” Lyssa took a long sip from her mug. “I’m sorry. When I warned you there’d be a bumpy ride, I didn’t know it would hit so close to home.”

  Callie shook her head. “Not home. But close enough to shake it up.”

  “Sure. And maybe too close to get involved, do you think? I mean, investigating like you were for Dorothy Ashby. Which was great, but you weren’t as emotionally involved as you are with Hank.” Lyssa held up her hand to forestall Callie’s protest. “I know, I know. You’ve been broken up for a long time and have no desire to get back together—”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “But there’s still a connection from those years together. You can’t deny that. And it can get in the way of clear thinking sometimes. Make that a lot of times.”

  “Lyssa, either Hank is innocent or he’s guilty. I know what I believe at
this point, but if I’m wrong, if totally credible witnesses say with one hundred percent certainty that they saw Hank kill Bobby, then that’ll be that. I can’t imagine such a thing happening, which means Hank’ll be released, whatever flimsy evidence they had against him will be dismissed, and that’ll be the end of it. No further action on my part needed.”

  Lyssa was silent for a while, her expression sympathetic but not exactly agreeing. Eventually she nodded, saying, “I hope so.” She drained her mug and pushed her stool back. “More coffee?”

  Back at her cottage, Callie tried to work at her stockpile of food. She pulled out celery, carrots, and multiple other ingredients from her refrigerator and started chopping to make the soup she’d planned, telling herself she couldn’t just sit and wait for her phone to ring. Neither did she want to let all that food slowly turn to mush. But it was difficult. As someone who seldom cooked from scratch, the process didn’t come automatically or easily. It required concentration, a state that had evaded her all day, and she found herself rereading the recipe several times after her thoughts had wandered off.

  “Ow!” she cried, having cut a finger while struggling to slice through a fat parsnip. Just then there was a knock at her door. Callie grabbed a towel to press against the wound and went to answer.

  “Hi,” Brian said. “Just thought I’d check in, see how things are …” He looked down at the towel with its spreading dark red blotch. “Should I call 911?”

  “It’ll be fine. I keep forgetting how sharp Aunt Mel kept her knives.”

  “Where’s your first-aid kit?” Brian asked, heading for the kitchen and locating the box at Callie’s direction. He helped her wash and disinfect the cut, then wrapped it neatly, brushing off her embarrassed claims to klutziness. “Happens to me all the time.” He stowed the kit and looked over her piled-high counter. “What are you doing?”