Two Sleuths Are Better Than One

by Elizabeth Ashby

  Matt saw that as his opening. "Do you have plans for the collection now?"

  Georgia shrugged. "I'll probably donate it to a museum. It really doesn't mean anything to me. The kids' quilts are special for me and for them, but I don't have any attachment to the ones in the collection."

  "I'd love to see the collection before you dispose of it." Matt checked three pockets in his cargo pants before coming up with a business card. "I'm an arts reporter for the Cove Chronicles, and your husband had offered me a tour."

  "Of course." Georgia took his card. "I'll contact you once I'm settled back at home."

  "If you do decide to donate the quilts somewhere," I said, "I hope you'll consider the Danger Cove Historical Museum for the Shoo-Fly quilt that was made locally. I understand your husband picked it up this weekend."

  Georgia frowned vaguely. "That's right. Gabe was supposed to be picking up a new quilt last week. I'd forgotten that he should have taken possession of it, so I didn't think to look for it in the cottage. I wonder what he did with it. He didn't usually trust delivery services with his acquisitions. Said it was too hard to insure them for what they were really worth."

  Matt and I exchanged glances. Robbery might not be such an unlikely motive, after all. I needed to have a word with Detective Marshall and make him listen this time. And then I needed to have another one with Detective Ohlsen, since he would actually pay attention and make sure someone was looking for the missing quilt.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Maria Dolores

  Merle continued to insist on staying at the market until I was ready to leave, but eventually he relaxed enough to go down to the parking lot to wait for me in his truck and do some research on people Coach Andy might have made enemies of during his professional football days.

  I went back to overseeing the last of the vendors as they packed up and left. A couple took their canopies because they couldn't come back on Sunday, but most planned to try again, when their produce would still be reasonably fresh. Even the beekeeper and the wooden bowl seller agreed to return, even though their products weren't as perishable as Tommy Fordham's vine-ripened tomatoes.

  It took about an hour for everyone to finish, but I finally trailed the last vendors, the dairy farm owners, down the Memorial Walkway, double-checking for anything that might have been left behind inadvertently. When we reached the first aid tent, I stopped to check in with Richie Faria, who was standing outside the entrance where the Baxter twins usually hung out.

  "Would you let Detective Ohlsen know that all the vendors have gone home and I'm leaving now?"

  "Got it," he said, taking out his notepad and writing something down. "All clear at fourteen-oh-seven."

  There wasn't anything left in the market area of any value, but the crime scene might attract more attention, and thus more risk of mischief, than the site might otherwise get. "Will you or someone else be keeping an eye on this area overnight?"

  "I'm just here until Bud leaves," Faria said, "but I heard him make arrangements for some overnight shifts. And the forensic team will be here for a while too. You know how slow they work."

  "Thoroughness is a virtue in forensics work." I knew Faria, unlike his boss, was naturally inclined toward fast and splashy actions, rather than slow and steady, so I added, "And in police work generally."

  "I get it," Faria said, putting away his notepad. "That's what Bud tells me all the time too."

  I continued on down the Memorial Parkway and had just entered the gravel parking lot when a cherry red subcompact Volvo came roaring up behind us. A woman jumped out of the driver's side, leaving the engine running. She was extremely tall, probably just a speck under six feet, and she had an androgynous look, with her dark hair shaved in the back and sides and only slightly longer on top, and a loose, figure-hiding navy suit jacket over a men's-style white shirt and khaki pants. She had a model's high cheekbones, but instead of a catwalk pout, her lips were tight with irritation. "Do you know where Detective Ohlsen is?"

  I shook my head, and she rushed to say, "What about Richie Faria? He called me to say the detective who wanted to talk to me was here."

  For all Officer Faria's faults, he usually did know where his superior was. I turned to look at the first aid tent, but the rookie must have gone inside or perhaps joined Detective Ohlsen elsewhere. I looked farther up the hill to where Olsen had been conducting his interviews. His table was still there, but I couldn't see any people.

  "I haven't seen him in a while," I said. "Is there anything I can do to help you? I'm the market manager, Maria Dolores."

  She recoiled visibly. "You've done quite enough. It's your fault my husband is dead, and as if that's not bad enough, the police think I did it."

  I had to wonder if the police might be correct about her guilt, although they shouldn't have been so quick to accuse her. Detective Ohlsen wasn't one to jump to conclusions, but I could picture Faria saying something accusatory to her, since he was far quicker to develop and share preliminary theories of a case.

  I couldn't reassure her about the police investigation, so I settled for saying, "I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Zielinski."

  "It's Eileen Murphy," she snapped. "Mrs. Zielinski is Andy's mother, and I'd rather not think about her right now. She's going to blame me for his death too, I suppose. She's blamed me for everything else she hasn't liked for the past ten years."

  "I'm sorry," I repeated, reminding myself that the woman was grieving and deserved some slack. "If there's anything I can do—"

  "You've done quite enough," Eileen said. "The only thing that would help me now is if you could point me toward this Detective Ohlsen so I can explain to him that I just got back from an international business trip and that's why I wasn't home when the police first tried to contact me. It's also why I couldn't possibly have killed my husband."

  She spoke so matter-of-factly about her husband's murder that I couldn't help thinking she was lucky Ohlsen had been assigned to the case, or else Marshall would have taken her lack of tears as proof of guilt and arrested her on the spot.

  "If he's still here, someone from the forensics team will know where he is," I said. "I can take you to them if you want to come with me."

  "How far are we going?"

  "Just over to the first aid tent."

  Eileen muttered something that I couldn't quite make out but that seemed to be a combination of a complaint and acceptance of my offer. She spun on her heels and stomped over to her car. She left it in place but turned off the engine, stripped off her suit jacket, and tossed it inside before slamming the door shut.

  As we walked, I said, "I wish I'd known your husband better. Everyone tells me he was a wonderful person."

  "Yeah, Saint Andy," she said sarcastically. "Giving up a life of luxury and parties in Seattle to come here and teach ungrateful brats."

  Okay. So she wasn't exactly heartbroken or in need of condolences. I decided it would be better if I didn't even try to comfort her and just kept quiet.

  Eileen didn't like silence any better than my words. "They're going to think I killed him for his money, aren't they?"

  "It's an obvious motive," I said noncommittally. "Something the detectives have to consider."

  She snorted. "That's such a joke. My net worth is easily twice his. And growing, while his income took a huge hit when he retired from football and keeps on dwindling."

  "I'm sure Detective Ohlsen will be able to confirm that and cross you off his list of suspects."

  "Ha!" she said. "Then you don't know how the local grapevine works. Once they decide someone's a gold digger, it becomes fact and no one cares about the truth."

  "Did you ever try to set them straight?"

  "Why should I?" Eileen said. "It would only have made me seem desperate. And probably hurt Andy's feelings. Men and their egos, you know. Gotta be the breadwinner, and gotta make sure everyone knows it."

  I did know the stereotype, but I also knew that there were exceptions. Merle certainly
wasn't interested in his social status. He tended to portray himself as something of a country bumpkin most of the time, unless someone was being a pompous jerk, and then he'd haul out his legal qualifications to shut them down.

  Fortunately, we'd reached the first aid tent, so I was saved from having to answer Eileen and risk setting her off again. The flaps were open, but a young female officer—I hadn't met her before, but she could have been Richie Faria's younger sister, with her blonde hair, all-American looks, and eager-puppy expression—was standing there to keep out anyone who wasn't authorized.

  "This is Andy Zielinski's wife," I said. "She's looking for Detective Ohlsen. Do you know where he is?"

  "Wait here," she said, turning toward the opening. "He's inside."

  *

  The officer returned in less than a minute, although it felt much longer with Eileen simmering beside me, on the verge of exploding. Ohlsen had indicated he'd be with her shortly, so I excused myself with another expression of my condolences, which weren't accepted any better than the previous one had been.

  Merle was standing outside the truck, holding the passenger-side door open for me. "What's up?" he asked. "I saw you go back to the first aid tent with someone after you were done for the day."

  "That was Coach Andy's widow." I climbed into the truck and waited for Merle to get behind the driver's wheel. "If she were your client, you'd be appalled by how easy she's making it for people to think she killed her husband. She seems bitter and self-absorbed, and she's acting as if Andy's death is more of an unwanted complication in her life than a tragic loss of someone she loved."

  "Everyone grieves in their own way," Merle said. "Sometimes it takes a while for the reality to sink in, especially when they're dealing with things like giving statements to the police."

  "I'll try to cut her some slack," I said. "And I'll count on you to tell me if I'm letting my dislike of the woman get in the way of seeing the situation objectively."

  I remembered then that I'd turned my phone off at Detective Ohlsen's request before he began his interview and I'd forgotten to turn it back on. I scrolled through the messages, stopping at one from the market's delivery driver, Scott Ingell. He'd managed to get everything dropped off on time, but it had been a close thing. I definitely needed to hurry up and figure out a plan for dealing with any increase in orders. We only had a few weeks left of peak harvest, but at the rapid rate the app was being adopted by local residents, I couldn't wait until next year to look into adding a second driver or perhaps adjusting the promised delivery time.

  Back at the farm, we found that three goats had escaped from their pasture and were munching on landscaping plants near the farmhouse's front porch. Merle's young assistant and brewmaster, JT, had stayed behind specifically to keep an eye on the livestock, but we found him inside the brewery, making adjustments to the equipment. When asked why he hadn't corralled the goats, he just shrugged and explained that they weren't endangering the orchard, just some plants that were decorative and, judging from the tone of his voice, didn't have a good reason to exist, so he considered the goats to be doing everyone a favor.

  Merle sighed at the excuse but refrained from telling me that this was exactly why he couldn't leave the farm in JT's hands for long. In just a few hours, three goats, out of the fifty or so in the herd, had munched their way through half of the bushes and all of the flowers in the front yard. What would have happened if we'd been gone a month or even a week instead of less than one full day?

  We got the goats secured with barely enough time to take a shower and change before it was time to leave for the Smugglers' Tavern to meet up with Keely and her boyfriend. We arrived half an hour early to deliver a few cases of Merle's pear cider before dinner. It was almost the last of his stock until the next batch was made from this year's pears, and the assistant manager, Lilly Waters, was anxious not to run out in the meantime.

  While Merle was packing the cases onto a hand truck to bring into the tavern, I went inside to let Lilly know about the delivery.

  I headed straight for the bar, where Lilly, a tall and deeply tanned young blonde woman, was helping to prepare a drinks order for the almost filled-to-capacity restaurant.

  "Perfect timing." Lilly kept working as she talked, glancing down occasionally at an order slip. "We would've run out tonight if you hadn't hooked us up. Thanks so much. But how are you doing? I heard about what happened at the market today."

  "I'm fine." I realized that made me sound as cold as Coach Andy's wife had, and I didn't want to give the wrong impression. Eileen had been right that once the grapevine picked up on something, it was hard to change their minds. I was still, by Danger Cove standards, a relative newcomer to the town, and I needed people to like me in order to do my job. It wouldn't be good for them to think I was coldhearted. Especially since it wasn't true. I was going to have nightmares about bloody bodies for the next few weeks, and I was truly sorry about the man's death, although I hadn't known him well enough to be distraught. I added, "Considering what happened today."

  "It's traumatizing, isn't it?" Lilly paused to double-check what was on the order slip before grabbing another glass to put on the tray. "If I never see another dead body the rest of my life, it will be too soon."

  "Me too," I said emphatically. "It helps a little that I didn't know Andy Zielinski personally. Did you?"

  "Not really." She waved to a waiter to come get the completed drinks order before turning her attention back to our conversation. "I mean, I knew who he was, and he used to bring a handful of students here after school every few weeks, usually the week before exam time, to do some extra tutoring, so I saw him then, but he was totally focused on the kids."

  "What about his wife?" I asked. "Did she ever come with him? Not when he was with the students, but at other times, just for a meal?"

  Lilly shook her head. "Not since I've been here. She always gave me the impression she was too good for Small Town, USA. Have you seen the bright red Volvo she zips around in? And I heard through the grapevine that she subscribes to one of those wardrobe rental services, where you get designer clothes shipped to you, and then you wear them once before returning them. It makes sense when you think about it. I've certainly never seen her in the same outfit twice. And if she ever wears weekend-casual clothes, it's not in public. I once saw her in a silk blouse at the grocery store."

  Keely arrived then with her boyfriend, Matt Viera. He was taller than Merle by an inch or two, with dark hair and wearing a polo shirt with cargo pants. I'd seen his picture in the newspaper a few times as part of stories he'd written, and I'd even met him briefly during my very first visit to Danger Cove, but it still took me by surprise how incredibly handsome he was. It was a testament to the force of his personality that it wasn't until after we'd all introduced ourselves that I noticed what a truly putrid shade of brownish pink the polo shirt was. On anyone else, it would have been the first—possibly the only—thing that made an impression.

  The men stayed at the bar to order drinks while Keely and I headed over to an unoccupied table. It was in an area near the windows but with an obstructed view of the ocean, so it wouldn't be anyone's first choice of seating even if the clear, warm weather hadn't made the outdoor tables the most coveted. It offered us the most privacy of anywhere in the restaurant.

  "How was your conversation with Detective Ohlsen?" I asked Keely.

  She shrugged and took a seat with her back to the window. "About what you'd expect. He listened while doing his impression of someone taking a nap and then refused to tell me anything about the case."

  "Same here. And he insisted on closing the market for the day, although he said I could open again tomorrow if I wanted."

  "Will you?"

  "Definitely," I said. "If I wait until next week, people will have had too much time to dwell on all the bad things that have happened at the market and forget about the good."

  "It must be hard for you, having to come back to the scene of the crime rep
eatedly. I've been fortunate not to find any bodies in my own workspace."

  I glanced back at the bar to see whether Matt and Merle had collected our drinks yet. Lilly had been called away to help deal with the initial stirrings of what promised to be a rowdy group at a table near the entrance, so it would be another few minutes before the men joined us.

  "Any more thoughts on what happened to Coach Andy?" I asked. "And whether it might be related to the murder you were looking into?"

  "It certainly feels like they have to be," Keely said. "But a feeling isn't the same as evidence. It's definitely odd that the two murders happened so close in time and the two victims had some sort of relationship, since Gabe was staying on Andy's property. It's hard to see what the motive would be for killing them both though. The only motive for Gabe's murder that I know of is that there's a valuable quilt missing, so he could have been killed during a burglary."

  "No offense to quilts, but that doesn't seem like much of a motive for murder."

  "No offense taken," she said. "I wish no one had ever died because of a quilt, but I'm afraid it's happened before. And this quilt probably had a higher value than most contemporary ones, since it was made by a professional artist. Could be worth a few grand."

  "Still, it's a bit of a stretch for a motive, compared to what the wives could gain from their husband's deaths. Coach Andy was a rich man, and it's possible their marriage was in trouble. I ran into his widow, Eileen, at the market, and she didn't seem particularly upset about her husband's death. She acted more like it was a nuisance than a tragedy."

  "Gabe was rich too," Keely said. "I was doing some background research on him earlier in the week and found some online articles with him talking about what it was like to be a billionaire before he was forty years old. Nothing about his marriage, but apparently he and his wife were living apart."