April Fools

by A. C. Mason

  I surveyed the foyer and hall once again. A glint of light on the floor beneath a small vintage cherry side table in the hall caught my eye. The dust had been disturbed next to it, a big area too large to be footprints.

  Kneeling down, I peered under the antique table and spotted what appeared to be a charm from a bracelet or pendant. I pulled it out from its hiding place. The front of the sterling silver piece was in the shape of a windmill, but had a flat back. No telling how long the piece had been under there. Several months before she died, Anne and Steven traveled to Europe; most likely she brought it home as a memento of their trip. But I don’t ever remember seeing her wearing anything like it. I slipped it into my pocket and walked back through the dining room and kitchen to the rear door.

  Once outside I placed the key in a new hiding place and hurried down the driveway to my car. The smell of fresh cut grass elicited a big sneeze from me. I rummaged in my purse for a tissue and another sneeze erupted.

  “Bless you,” a female voice called out.

  I looked up, startled. “Melanie, what are you doing here?”

  She shifted her Versace handbag from one shoulder to the other. “I saw you turn off, so I figured you were stopping here.” She averted her gaze from my face for a moment. “Does Steven really have an alibi for Greg’s murder?”

  “I wouldn’t have said so if the statement wasn’t true,” I said, annoyed.

  “So I guess you’re still trying to prove he didn’t kill Anne.”

  “You bet I am. Whoever stole his gun is the one who killed her and Greg. The killer might very well be a female.” I studied her face to see her reaction. She didn’t reveal any emotion.

  “You’re probably correct in your assumption. This has been my impression all along except I believe Steven instigated the whole affair.”

  “A man is involved, but I don’t believe my brother had anything whatsoever to do with the murder of his wife or of Greg.”

  “You don’t have any proof to back up your theory, do you?”

  I shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

  Melanie’s smile came pretty close to a sneer. “In other words, you don’t have any proof.”

  “Think what you want, but I will find the evidence to back up the information I discovered today.”

  Her expression clouded into a frown. “If you keep digging you may find out things which were better left hidden.”

  “Like what?”

  “Steven’s guilty of Anne’s murder.” She clinched her hand around the shoulder strap of her purse.

  “Why are you so sure he’s guilty? Is there information to which you’re privy, something to prove he killed her?”

  “No…” She dragged out the word.

  “I think you’re afraid I might discover evidence to the contrary because it could expose other matters you and the rest of the clique would prefer to keep hidden.”

  Melanie’s face reddened. “How dare you!” She whirled around and stalked to her car.

  Oh, that went well. I wanted to call her back and start the conversation over. My irritation with her smug attitude destroyed any chance of finding out what part she played or what she knew about the murder. Aside from the lost opportunity, the animosity between my cousin and me made my stomach roil.

  For several moments, I wondered if trying to prove my brother’s innocence was worth all the ill feeling with the rest of my family, not to mention my marital difficulties. On top of everything else, I never received the expected chastising from my mother after the party at Amanda Williamson’s home. Mom and Dad probably share Melanie’s view. Let sleeping dogs be awakened by the police. But they surely wouldn’t want their son to go to prison for a murder he didn’t commit. They couldn’t possibly believe he’s guilty. I’ll call them or drop by for a visit to get their take on the situation.

  I had a lot of information to sift through, plus I needed to take a closer look at the charm someone dropped in the house. This little morsel could belong to the mysterious blond who came here with Greg.

  After a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up cat food, I arrived home to find Katy waiting patiently by her empty food bowl. I opened a can of tuna and spooned out the smelly food which she immediately set about devouring. You’d think she hadn’t eaten in days.

  My mind reverted back to the scene at Steven’s former residence. Melanie seemed uncomfortable or anxious. Was her anxiety related to my visit to the house because of her own recent outing here? Could the old crowd be involved in something other than Anne’s murder? Her unease might very well be caused by her concern I might discover an activity none of the group wanted exposed, something other than murder. I couldn’t imagine Melanie killing anyone much less a good friend. But what kind of pursuit would involve both Steven and Anne? Deep in thought, I jumped when the phone rang.

  A quick glance at the caller ID told me to expect another one of those nasty phone calls. My curiosity forced me to pick up anyway.

  “You made a big mistake nosing around in the house. If you keep digging, you’ll find yourself in so deep you won’t be able to get out,” the caller said.

  “Or I could discover the identity of the real murderer.” My words displayed a confidence I really didn’t feel. But how did he find out I went into Steven’s house?

  “You already know who killed Anne and Greg. Your brother,” he came back.

  “I don’t know any such thing. You seem awfully anxious to make Steven the killer. Maybe you know who killed them and you’re covering up for the real killer by throwing the blame on my brother.” The faster my heart raced the bolder my words came out.

  He laughed. “What a joke.”

  I heard a click, and the dial tone buzzed in my ear. His last sentence stayed with me. The word joke kept echoing in my head. Murder, especially one perpetrated on April Fool’s Day, was no joking matter. Everyone from Melanie and her husband to Steven and this unidentified male repeatedly referred to a joke or April Fools. I brushed off my observations and went back to concentrating on real clues.

  Hopefully the mystery man’s quick disconnection indicated concern on his part; fear his secret would be discovered. I wished him a lot of sleepless nights because I intended to spend a number of evenings hashing this out until I found proof to put the killer away for a long time.

  My internal conflict came to a boil again. Jim started coming around to my way of thinking about the murders. I didn’t want to run afoul of his trust, so the need to go slow seemed evident. However, time played the part of a villain in this story. I decided not to go the psychic route because I had to find the person who killed Anne myself before the police arrested Steven, or who knows, they might even come after me as an accessory to murder. The idea of prison raised goose bumps all over me.

  Settling on the sofa, I pulled the windmill charm from my pocket and studied the tiny silver piece carefully. The year engraved on the flat backside indicated a possible purchase date. Assuming the owner acquired the charm on a trip to the Netherlands in the year of the inscription, this couldn’t have belonged to Anne. She died three years earlier.

  A reddish tint covered the charm’s crevices. An unusual color in my mind, but on the other hand, tourist items needed to be distinctive in order to catch the eye of a buyer. Research on windmills looked like my next step. Although the Netherlands remained the usual choice for the origin of the piece, something didn’t seem quite right about my analysis. I just couldn’t put my finger on why. Possibly the red coloration had thrown me a curve.

  Another interesting tidbit about the charm entered the mix. There were two jump rings attached to the top. Obviously, one ring connected the windmill to a bracelet or even a necklace, but I couldn’t figure out the purpose of the second one.

  I retrieved my laptop from the bedroom and curled up on the sofa to research windmills. While waiting for the machine to boot up, I pondered the idea of keeping my discovery of the charm secret from Jim. If he knew about it he would turn it over to the
detectives handling the case. I felt guilty about hiding the truth from him, but I just couldn’t let go of my mission to find Anne’s killer.

  The information on one of the internet sites about windmills contained numerous photos and indicated the Dutch didn’t corner the market on these structures. All over Europe during the Middle Ages windmills were used to grind grain, and later to pump water.

  The Man from La Mancha suddenly came to mind. Could I be tilting at windmills by continuing this quixotic quest? I shook off the notion and went in search of my digital camera. A picture or two of the charm might come in handy at some point. After all, evidence is always photographed.

  A couple of snapshots later, I settled back on the sofa to do more research, but my stomach began making serious growling noises. I glanced at my watch to discover lunch time passed about two hours ago and I hadn’t eaten. Leaving my research I headed for the kitchen to make a sandwich.

  After lunch I made the difficult decision to make another visit to Steven’s former residence. Maybe whatever attachment belonged on the second jump ring still lay hidden under the table where I found the charm. I decided to bring my camera along to snap some photos at the scene of the crime although the photograph in my mind never faded. Snatching my purse off the dining room table, I left the house for the short drive back to the Garden District.

  Thankfully Henry and his grandson were gone by the time I arrived. I didn’t feel like being confronted by Jason again. Although their lawn service had been keeping up the yard regularly, the newly mown grass and clipped shrubbery afforded the place a fresh appearance.

  I strolled around to the back of the house and located the key in its new hiding place. Steven really needed to contact an alarm service to protect the house. Entering the kitchen, I felt excited, confident I would find the missing piece to this puzzle despite my reluctance to view the murder scene again. I firmly believed a woman killed Anne, and the windmill charm belonged to her. Of course the idea of a woman as the killer didn’t explain the identity of the man making those calls to me. He had to be an accomplice. This jerk couldn’t be Greg unless he phoned from the grave. So who the heck was he?

  Dismissing my questions about the phone caller’s identity, I shot photos of the footprints in the dust and stuffed the camera into my purse. Now I needed to concentrate on finding the other piece of the charm. Under the table in the foyer seemed the most obvious place to look. Come to think of it, nothing about the business of solving a murder proved to be logical. I searched for a few minutes and couldn’t find a thing except a lot of dust bunnies.

  I crawled around on the floor, straining my eyes and banging my knees on the hardwood, and continued the search without any luck. The piece had to be here somewhere near the table. I doubted it fell too far from the charm. I spotted a small metal object close to the baseboard molding and reached for it.

  A sharp pain resonated through my head. The force of whatever hit me knocked me flat on the floor. My vision dimmed, and went dark.

  Later, how much later I don’t know, I felt someone shaking my arm. A familiar male voice called my name.

  “Suzie, can you hear me? What the hell happened?”

  My head ached when I tried to turn over. “Steven? Is that you?” I moaned. His blurred figure loomed over me.

  “Yeah it’s me. I’ve got to get you to the emergency room. You’ve got a pretty bad head wound. They’ll probably need to put some stitches in the cut.”

  He tried to help me to my feet, but my legs turned into gelatin. The room started spinning and faded to dark again.

  ~ * ~

  A few hard knocks ought to keep her out of commission for a while. If she gets close again, I’ll simply have to get rid of her just like Greg St. Martin…and Anne—too bad about her, but she was stupid for keeping a philandering husband around.

  Ten

  I awoke with an aching head and a parched throat. Curiosity about the vague mumbling on the other side of the room forced me to turn. Pain shot through my head. A groan escaped my lips. Jim and Steven approached the bed, one on each side.

  “Hey there,” Jim said. “You finally woke up.” He clasped my hand gently and leaned down to kiss me. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a streetcar,” I croaked.

  Jim moved the chair closer to the bed and sat down, taking hold of my hand. He looked tired.

  “Is there any way I can get a drink of water? My throat feels like the Sahara,” I pleaded.

  “I’ll get it,” Steven offered. He reached for the small turquoise pitcher on the table next to the bed and poured me a glass of water. “Here you go. Easy now.” He pushed the straw right up to my mouth, silently insisting I take a sip.

  “I believe I can manage. I‘m not helpless.” I took the glass from him. “Would y’all mind standing on the same side of the bed. Looking from one side to the other makes my eyes hurt.”

  My request elicited a smile from both men. “What’s so funny?”

  Jim exchanged a glance with my brother. “Nothing’s funny. We’re just relieved you’re going to be alright.”

  “Was there any doubt?” I asked.

  “You’ve been out for quite a while. If you’ll notice it’s dark outside now.” Steven checked his watch. “I found you on the floor at the house nearly five hours ago.”

  “Wow, whoever hit me really wanted me out of the way. What does the doctor say about my condition?”

  “He stitched the cut and said he wanted you to stay overnight for observation,” Jim explained. “The bump on your head caused a mild concussion.”

  “Sure doesn’t feel mild.” The mention of my injury sent a sharp pain coursing through my head. The power of suggestion?

  “What were you doing in Steven’s house anyway?” Jim asked.

  “Looking for the other half of a clue,” I said with a great deal of reluctance.

  Jim raised an eyebrow and Steven simply looked confused.

  “Looks like I have to tell the whole story.”

  “Yeah, I think you need to explain. What clue are you referring to?” Jim said.

  “When I went to the house earlier today after Greg’s funeral, I found out from Henry Dupre and his grandson about Greg St. Martin’s visit to the house with an unidentified blond.”

  “How did you find out it was him? Steven asked, surprised. “The Dupres told me neither of them bothered with introductions.”

  “True, but later Henry recognized Greg from his picture in the newspaper after the murder.”

  “This could be very important to the investigation,” Jim said. “You should have called me right away with that bit of information instead of going off by yourself.” He spoke calmly, but I could feel his anger over my lack of restraint.

  “I’m sorry. But there’s more.”

  He shot me one of those I-almost-hate-to-ask looks. “What?”

  “Inside the house there were dozens of footprints zigzagging through the dust. Greg and the blond must have been searching for something. Anyway, I found a charm shaped like a windmill on the floor under the hall table.”

  “What kind of charm?” Jim asked.

  “The kind a woman attaches to a bracelet,” I explained.

  Steven frowned. “Don’t tell me you lay on the floor for hours before I found you.”

  I shook my head, an action which brought on another sharp pain. “No, I left and went home. After examining the charm closer I discovered there seemed to be another part to the piece, like a small medallion. I hoped the other piece might have the place engraved on it.”

  “So you went back for another look,” Jim said.

  “Yes.” This time I didn’t move my head.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “I can’t remember. Seems like I saw something. After I went to the spot where I found the charm, the sequence of events gets kind of fuzzy.” I rubbed the side of my head, trying to ease the pain.

  “Where’s the charm now?” Jim ask
ed.

  “In the pocket of the pants I wore to the funeral,” I said. “At least I think so.”

  Jim opened the door to the small closet and pulled out a pair of slacks. He searched both pockets but came up empty.

  “In that case, it’s back at the house,” I said. “If not, the person who hit me took it.” Panic hit me at the thought. I closed my eyes and wished the anxiety away. Wishing didn’t help much.

  “Are you alright?” Jim asked.

  “No, I need some quiet time.”

  “Good idea. I’m going back to the house to see if I can find this charm. How big is it?”

  I used my thumb and index finger to show the measurement.

  “I’ll stay with her until you get back,” Steven said.

  “Check on Katy, will you?”

  “I’ll make sure the kid’s okay.” Jim’s smile warmed me from across the room. He slipped out the door. Steven adjusted the position of the chair slightly and sat facing me. His height—about five foot ten—allowed him to be at eye level for me as I lay in bed. I didn’t have to move my head in order to look him square in the face. He seemed uncomfortable at the prospect.

  “Who were you with the night Anne died?” I demanded.

  “You just don’t give up, do you?”

  “No, I don’t, and after what happened today and this pain in my head, I’m not letting you off the hook like the other day at The Grill.”

  “I spent the evening at the family camp on the river,” he said.

  “Who was with you?”

  “Nobody. I’m not saying any more about it and that’s final.” The angry response hardened his handsome face.

  “I believe you were with Mary Catherine.” I paused, studying his reaction. “And from your expression, she’s a safe bet.”

  “Drop it,” he said. He rose and stalked out of the room.

  I mulled over his so-called alibi. If Mary Catherine spent the evening with him, why wouldn’t he name her? She could verify his story. His refusal to use her as an alibi didn’t make sense. Immediately I made a decision. As soon as I got out of the hospital, I’m going to find out where Mary Catherine was that night—somehow, some way.