by Leena Clover
“Can you please let me know if you think of anything else?” I asked.
Fiona nodded and stood up. It was clearly time to go.
“Couldn’t you wait until you hit on her?” I punched Tony in the arm as he drove toward home.
“Have you seen her?” Tony rolled his eyes. “I bet the guys are lining up to ask her out. I wasn’t gonna miss a chance.”
The lights were on in our house when we got home. Motee Ba and Sally came out on the porch.
“I’m starving, Granny!” Tony called out as he jumped down from his truck. “Got anything to eat?”
Sally smiled.
I had begun to notice she didn’t speak much.
We followed the women into the house, shed our coats, and trooped into the kitchen. Jeet was at the table, devouring a plateful of fried goods.
“Your mother made fried burritos,” Motee Ba said.
“You mean chimichangas?” Tony shouted in my ear, pulling up a chair.
I fixed myself a plate and topped it with the steaming queso. Was Sally finding a way to my heart?
Chapter 7
“Have you spoken to Stan yet?” I asked Motee Ba the next morning.
She was quiet.
“You haven’t, have you? I’m calling him right now.”
Stan solved my problem by walking into our kitchen. He sniffed the air and looked around hopefully. He had come mooching for breakfast again.
Sally wasn’t around for once and I was glad.
Motee Ba fixed two plates with scrambled eggs and toast and put them before us.
“Do you mind if I get started on this?” Stan asked.
I waved a hand and let him eat.
“Thanks Mrs. Patel. I just got off a double shift and I was starving.”
“What brings you here?” I asked pointedly.
Motee Ba topped up Stan’s coffee and gave me a stern look.
“Motee Ba has something to tell you.”
She brought Stan up to speed reluctantly.
“Have you talked to everyone present there?” I asked Stan.
“Most all of them. Many were there just for the food. And to pass the time on a Saturday morning.”
“We need our foot soldiers,” Motee Ba said. “There are very few meetings where everyone is invited. They expect a nice spread and look forward to catching up with the others.”
“Any progress?” I asked Stan.
“We are nowhere nearer to establishing a motive. What have you found, Meera?”
“Henry was hurrying back to grab a meal. Mary Beth is a smooth talker. And Fiona Thomas, that new girl stubbed her toe against Dot.”
“That’s news to me.”
“She was probably already gone by that time, or she would have yelped or something.”
Stan was thoughtful.
“The Browns decided to go for cremation. They’re not saying much.”
“Walter is not big on talking,” Motee Ba mused. “And Atticus. Well, Atticus is a whole different story.”
“What are they saying about all this?” I asked.
“That boy came to the station and made a big to-do. The husband didn’t say much. I suppose he’s sorry.”
“Walter was almost dependent on Dot. I’m sure he’s grieving. But he won’t say much.”
“Have you checked their alibis?”
Stan turned to look at me.
“Walter Brown was home. He had a sitter, a neighbor’s kid. And Atticus was holding up a bar somewhere. So yes, their alibis are air tight.”
“Of course they are. You think we wouldn’t have noticed a man in that roomful of women?”
“It was dark, Motee Ba,” I pointed out.
“You’re saying one of those men got in, did their business and fled the scene in the minute or so the lights were out? Come on, Meera!”
“Does sound like a stretch,” Stan agreed.
“Maybe someone climbed in through a window, Motee Ba.”
“The drapes were drawn, remember. And it was freezing outside. The windows were closed.”
I was stumped.
“Here’s some food for thought,” I burst out as I remembered something.
Motee Ba and Stan both looked at me expectantly.
“Fiona said Dot was asking people to vote for you, Motee Ba.”
“But I’m not interested,” Motee Ba protested. “I thought we talked about this, Meera.”
“She didn’t know that. Neither did the people present at that meeting. After all, both Sylvie and Henry were going around asking people to vote for you.”
“Henry was?” Motee Ba asked.
“That’s what she told me. She went there at 11 AM so that she could talk to people as they came in.”
“She did no such thing!”
I stared at Motee Ba.
Stan had finally wiped his plate clean with his last piece of toast and was beginning to take an interest in the conversation. These are the people that protect us.
“She was there at 11 alright. But she made a beeline for Dot the moment she came in. They were huddled together for over an hour.”
“So she lied to me?”
Henry Thompson is so strait laced. I couldn’t fathom her fibbing about the weather.
Stan held up a hand.
“Let’s try to recap, Mrs. Patel. We thought there were three people in the running for President. Mary Beth Arlington, Dot Brown and you. You are taking your name out, and apparently Dot Brown wasn’t interested either. That leaves Mary Beth Arlington unopposed.”
“As she has been all these years,” Motee Ba muttered.
“But she didn’t know that,” I stressed. “As far as Mary Beth is concerned, both Dot and Motee Ba were her opponents. She said it would make things interesting.”
“So we still can’t rule out the election as a motive,” Stan said.
“In that case, Mary Beth is the only suspect, Stan. Unless someone else wanted her to be President.”
“My head’s spinning,” Motee Ba shook her head. “I need to eat something.”
I began making a fresh batch of eggs. Stan had gone through most of what we had.
“What’s your next move, Meera?” Stan asked.
“What’s yours?”
“We talked to the family, and some of the women present. I will go through all of them. After that, we are stuck.”
“Hey, what about that note you found in Dot’s pocket?”
Stan pulled out a paper from his shirt pocket.
I scanned it and my mouth dropped open.
‘You think you can get away with what happened? You’re guilty and you know it. How many more lives should suffer at your hands? I’m gonna tell. I’m gonna tell and what will you do then?’
“There’s no sender’s or receiver’s name.”
“I gathered that,” Stan smirked. “It was in her pocket so let’s assume it was written for her.”
“Sounds like nonsense,” Motee Ba spoke up. “Dot Brown made lives. Most of her students are doing very well, enjoying respectable lives across the country. No one ever suffered at her hands.”
“I’m not saying it’s true,” Stan said hurriedly. “That’s just what the note says.”
“Does this mean someone was threatening Dot?”
“I don’t know Meera. I’m about ready for some shut eye.”
Stan thanked Motee Ba and shuffled out. I sat lost in thought, wondering what to do next.
“I’m still going to talk to the Browns.”
“Don’t forget to take Tony with you when you talk to that boy,” Motee Ba said.
“You too? I’m not afraid of some drunk.”
“He can be pretty mean. Until we know who harmed Dot, I don’t want you taking any chances.”
“Alright, alright!”
I stood up and went to my room. It was still Friday but I had the day off. I needed to start writing all this down. I am a very visual person. I need charts and graphs to make sense of something. When a str
ange man was found dead by the lake, we had set up a large white board in the guest house. It had helped me list out the people involved, the suspects, and their alibis.
I have accidentally stumbled upon only two crimes, that too in the past year. But I had learnt something from them. People hardly ever told you the truth, or the whole truth. And they could have plenty of reasons for hiding something. That didn’t meant they were guilty.
I walked into the kitchen just as Sally was coming in. I decided to get the board while she had breakfast. I was in and out in a minute, lugging the board toward the kitchen.
Pappa made some rude sound when he saw me bring the board in. I was expecting an earful from him any day.
The phone rang and I answered. It was Becky.
“What you doing, Meera? I need you here.”
“Hey Becky. What’s up?”
“We’re serving your Chicken Curry this weekend. Remember? Sylvie and I are trying out a batch based on your recipe. But we want you here. If you can make it.”
“On my way.”
I made tracks toward Sylvie’s diner and got busy making chicken curry. Becky and I had convinced Jon and Sylvie to add some Indian food to the diner menu. Our pakora fritters and skillet potatoes had been a huge hit. So had the Blue Plate specials I had put up. Chicken Curry was next in line. It was to be a weekend special. Becky was very upbeat about it. I grew up eating this Chicken Curry so I wasn’t sure what was great about it.
“How was your visit to Fiona?” Becky asked as I roasted the spices for the curry.
“Tony hit on her, right in front of me.”
“He’s young and single, and so is she.”
Becky raised an eyebrow, daring me to protest. She wanted me to admit I was jealous.
“You’re right. Tony can go out with whoever he wants.”
“Is she as uptight as they say?”
“She’s posh.” I thought a bit. “She was quite friendly, actually. But her heart wasn’t in it.”
“Why would she fake it?”
“I don’t think she likes living here.”
“Our small town is not good enough for her, you mean.”
“I didn’t get that impression. Maybe she’s tense while talking to new people.”
Sylvie came in and looked over my shoulder.
“It’s beginning to smell good. We may have your recipe, Meera. But we don’t have your touch.”
“Oh, Sylvie!”
I hugged her and indulged in some gossip.
“Did you know they went for cremation?” I asked.
“That boy called here yesterday. He wants us to put up some food for a memorial.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Maybe the town will do a memorial? She did a lot for this town, you know?”
“I know, Sylvie. What about WOSCO? Shouldn’t WOSCO do something too?”
“Depends on that Mary Beth,” Sylvie spit out. “And she’s tight fisted. I doubt she’ll go for it.”
“Maybe we should get everyone together and do a potluck,” Becky said.
“That’s an excellent idea,” I said, high fiving her.
It would be interesting to see who turned up and who didn’t. I thought about the note in Dot’s pocket. Maybe the note writer would turn up too.
“I’m planning to go talk to the Browns. Why don’t I float the idea of this potluck?”
“He’ll go for it. Anything that saves them a penny.”
“Was Henry going around asking people to vote for Motee Ba at that WOSCO thing?”
Sylvie looked at me.
“She was cooking up something with Dot. Those two had their heads together all the time. And they went through those dumplings of yours like there was no tomorrow.”
“Henry ate the samosas?” I asked.
“And how!” Sylvie quipped.
So Henry had lied about being hungry too. Professor Henry Thompson, that paragon of righteousness, wasn’t looking too clean anymore.
Chapter 8
“Take the second right.”
I gave directions as Becky drove us to Dot Brown’s house. It was the last house in the lane, on a large barren lot. The lane ended there so the only reason anyone would come this far in would be to visit the Browns. A couple of cars were parked in front. Two ladies and an older guy came out just as Becky pulled up the hand brake. We waved to them.
“Looks like people are coming in to pay their respects,” Becky observed.
I picked up the large basket Sylvie had pressed in my hand as we were leaving.
“I’m sure people will be leaving them casseroles and such. But let’s do our bit.”
The basket contained a fresh meatloaf, a cherry pie and some banana nut muffins. There were some mashed potatoes and veggies in small containers. The Browns would eat a fresh dinner tonight, if they wanted to.
The Browns had never had a lot. Walter Brown had been without a job since I was a kid. He had a bum leg and a worse mind. There was nothing much wrong with him medically. But he had always clung to Dot’s apron strings. They had raised a son on Dot’s meager school salary. The son, Atticus, was no better. Dot had prodded a townful of kids into being responsible, productive citizens. But she had left out her son.
No one knew what Atticus did for a living. He could be found drinking at all hours, always ready to pick a fight.
We stared at the abject state of the house. It could use a lick of paint. The first step was broken, and so was the porch railing. I skipped over the first step and knocked on the door.
“Now what?” a voice muttered.
I knocked again and the door swung open. Atticus stood framed in the door, his mouth set in a frown. It turned into a smile when he saw us. He invited us in.
“Two pretty young ladies. What a relief!”
I ignored him and looked around for a place to put the basket.
“Take that from her, boy!” Walter croaked.
He peered at us with no sign of recognition.
“This is Meera Patel, Pop, don’t you remember?” Atticus growled.
Walter smiled uncertainly.
“Sit, sit. What brings you two young ladies here today?”
Becky stared at me, willing me to handle it.
“We have come to pay our respects, Mr. Brown.”
“That’s mighty nice of you.”
Atticus was rifling through the basket.
“What’s this? No casseroles? Looks like we’re having a hot meal today, Pops.”
“Sylvie would like the basket back,” Becky said primly.
“So this stuff is from Sylvie’s?” Atticus asked.
“Sylvie and Jon Davis?” Walter asked. “Nice people. They have a café in town.”
“They know that, Pops. These girls work at the diner.”
“They do?” Walter smiled.
He looked at us again.
“Why are you here?”
Atticus came in and collapsed on a couch. The fabric was faded and the stuffing was oozing out from one end.
“He’s got a few loose wires,” he told us, tipping his head at Walter. “The old woman’s death has pushed him over the edge.”
I tried not to react. Atticus Brown was a jerk. The whole town knew it. I didn’t want to be the one to tell him that.
“Say, Meera, weren’t you there when the old woman dropped down?”
“I was outside, knocking on the door.”
“Lame idea. Running for President. I told her that.”
Walter fidgeted.
“What’s the time, boy? Why isn’t your mother home yet? I need my dinner.”
Atticus got up and pulled a coat out of a small closet.
“Time for a drink,” he said and walked out.
Becky and I stared at his back. We were stranded with Walter. Becky stood up and began fixing him a plate. She brought out a TV tray and placed it on a small table before Walter.
Walter beamed at us and began eating. A tear rolled down his cheek.
>
“She was the love of my life. How am I going to survive without her?”
“The whole town is feeling the loss,” I assured him.
“She never cared about money. She worked overtime when needed. She helped kids with their college applications, and taught night school for some of the uneducated adults around here.”
I hadn’t known all this.
“How long were you married?” Becky asked.
“Forty two years this Fall,” Walter said.
He asked Becky for a second helping of meatloaf. He probably hadn’t eaten in a while.
“I saw her at Sylvie’s, having lunch with her friend. It was love at first sight. I was new in town, but I had a good job. I wooed her until she said yes. Atticus came along a year later.”
“So you’re not from here?” Becky asked, gently placing the plate in front of him.
“Of course not! I’m a Yorkshire man.”
“Where is that?” Becky asked. “In Kansas?”
Walter laughed spontaneously.
“No, in England.”
“You’re British?” I burst out.
I had not known that.
“I suppose I am,” Walter mused. “I never went back. But the blood that runs in these veins is British alright.”
“You didn’t go back to visit?”
Walter shook his head sadly.
“Never had the money for it. My Dorothy was saving up for a trip. We were supposed to go after she retired. But the roof started leaking one year, and the boiler burst the next year. We never made it.”
I knew Dot had been an Anglophile. Now I realized the reason for it.
“Miss Brown always talked about going to London,” I said meekly.
Becky nodded.
I felt sad.
Becky cleared her throat.
“Several people in town want to do something for Dot, err, your wife. We had an idea. Why don’t we hold one big memorial and make it a potluck? We can try and book the town auditorium for it, or better yet, do it at the High School gym.”
Walter barely nodded. He was beginning to look lost again.
I rushed ahead with my questions.
“Did your wife have any enemies?”
Walter stared ahead.
“Did she have a fight with anyone, do you know?” Becky pressed.
We looked at each other.
“I think I want to sleep now,” he said. “Wonder what’s keeping Dot.”