Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case Page 12

  “How long have you known me, Doc?”

  “Long enough to know that was a foolish question,” he said on a chuckle. “You take it easy. Call the office for a follow-up appointment or if you have any questions. And Miss Nix—”

  “Call me Nixy, Doctor.”

  “You watch for symptoms, anything that’s not normal. She won’t want you to call me, but do it anyway.”

  He winked. I smiled.

  Sherry rolled her eyes, but we soon had her home.

  She was a little shaky as she got out of my Camry, and her hands trembled a bit as she ate the light brunch Aster had prepared from the many dishes of food friends had dropped off at the house. Eleanor and Maise were up by then, and Maise must’ve noticed Sherry’s small tremors because she insisted that Sherry go up to her own room to rest.

  “I know you’ve been in bed for hours,” Maise said, “but you want to be refreshed and sharp for the meeting this afternoon. Take your shower and have a lie-down.”

  Sherry grumbled about being hovered over, but I noticed she stayed upstairs until about an hour before the meeting.

  In that time, I worked with the seniors to make the parlor company-ready. I carefully repacked the family treasures and stacked papers I wanted to look at again so they’d be handy to snag.

  I also got my laundry done and got to see Dab’s “moonshine cellar” in the surprisingly bright and clean basement. The collection of some thirty mason jars and honest-to-goodness old-fashioned brown jugs bore white self-stick labels with a carefully printed year on each. One jug held liquor eighty years old, and I shuddered to imagine how that tasted.

  I also called the gallery again. I called from the front porch, and about the time I got my boss on the line, Detective Shoar pulled into the gravel drive. I rushed through my conversation with Barbra, keeping the explanation simple: Sherry was ill and I wouldn’t be back at work until at least the following Monday.

  When I disconnected, the detective climbed the porch steps and sat beside me. “I got your message from this morning. Were you talking to your boss?”

  “She’s not happy, but she didn’t fire me.”

  “So you’re sticking around?”

  “I can’t leave until you do something about Hellspawn. She had to have poisoned those chocolates. No one else has a reason to harm Sherry. And,” I rushed on, “I overheard her talking to an accomplice.”

  “You what?” He turned the full weight of his gaze on me. “Where was this? When?”

  “Trudy was stranded at the hospital last night, so I took her back to the inn. After I left her in her room, I went down the hall to snoop.”

  He gave me a black look. “Tell me you didn’t intend to break into Elsman’s room.”

  I reared back. “Are you nuts? I just wanted to see if she was there. Trudy says she leaves at night a lot, and Trudy doesn’t know where she goes.”

  “So, in spite of the obvious, that Elsman is on the far side of stable, you thought it was a good idea to hang out in the hall at her door. Let her find you lurking there?”

  “I didn’t stay but a minute or two.”

  He shook his head. “Fine. What did you hear?”

  “Not enough. I couldn’t understand the words, but their tones of voice were angry. Hellspawn hissed, and the man spoke just above a whisper. I can’t identify the man, but I did see someone who could have been Clark Tyler in the alley when I left.”

  “What?” He came partly out of his chair, then fell back. “Spill.”

  “I heard a door shut as I was opening the back staircase door. I thought it was upstairs, so I hurried outside. That’s when I saw a guy walking away fast in the alley. When he turned at the street, I saw a bearded face.”

  “Did the man see you?”

  “I don’t think so, but whether it’s Clark or someone else, Hellspawn hasn’t struck me as the hands-on type. An accomplice could’ve been doing her dirty work, from the vandalism incidents all the way to the poisoning. What I can’t figure is how Elsman could’ve known about the candy Sherry gets after the folk art festival. Doesn’t that make you think a local is involved?”

  “It’s possible, but Elsman could have overheard one of the vendors mention the tradition. She cruised the festival before she confronted Sherry Mae.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I spoke briefly with Harold Woods when we first arrived at the festival. You recall that?”

  “Vaguely. I was more interested in seeing Aunt Sherry.”

  “Harold told me Elsman had talked to vendors, and not in a friendly way. So yes, she’s on my suspect list, but she didn’t buy the candy. Be Sweet had a big sale Monday, and the ladies who work there don’t remember who bought what. They only know Elsman wasn’t there. No one reported Clark Tyler being there either.”

  “What do you do now?”

  “I have a list of customers the ladies remember being in the store, and I’m tracking down credit card buyers. If it was a cash transaction, I have no way to trace the buyer.”

  “I guess you checked to see if the store has security cameras.”

  He gave me a duh look.

  “How about the inn? If Lorna or Clark—”

  “I’ve checked with them. Neither of them saw the candy delivered, and they don’t have working surveillance cameras.”

  “They should fix that. I’ll bet whoever left the box used the back stairs.” I sighed. “Did Hellspawn find the candy box in her room?”

  “Outside the door, and I think she’s telling the truth, but I’m not taking anything at face value.” He laid a hand on my arm, gently squeezed, and then let go. “Nixy, listen, please. I’m on this. I can’t stop you from snooping, but don’t interfere in my investigation. The deputy prosecuting attorney, Bryan Hardy, is hell-bent on finding and frying whoever is behind our crime wave. If you do anything that puts the case in jeopardy, I’ll have to arrest you.”

  “Huh. Then I suppose I shouldn’t get a room at the inn.” He made a choking sound, so I cut him a break. “Chill, Detective. It was a thought, not a plan. I made Sherry move back to her room, and depending on how long I’m here, the sofa might get uncomfortable.”

  “I’ll recommend a massage therapist in town. Stay away from the inn.”

  I don’t take ultimatums well, and really, who does? But I agreed. And when he thanked me so sincerely, I resolved to keep my word. Unless I came up with a good reason not to.

  • • •

  BY A QUARTER TO FIVE THAT AFTERNOON, THE house smelled of brownies, and plates and bowls of cookies, pimento cheese finger sandwiches, and chips—much of it food from friends—crowded the folding tables I helped set up. Pitchers of sweet tea and water, paper plates, cups, napkins. Refreshments were ready and then some. The parlor was crammed full with the extra chairs from the dining room and kitchen. Even then, some people attending the meeting would have to stand, and I’d be one of them.

  Sherry was ensconced in a corner of the sofa on the far side of the room when the neighbors arrived. With word about her poisoning having spread, a few people brought her flowers, which Aster put on the table with the food.

  Every single person exclaimed over the poisoning incident, and threats flew, too. The people I’d seen at the church breakfast led the pack.

  Duke Richards pounded a fist on his knee, barely missed hitting the plate he balanced there. “Bog, Big George, and I are of a mind to take Barker and a couple of two-by-fours and go run that woman out of town.”

  Yikes, the shotgun guy Duke, bald Bog Turner, and Big George the bear nodded as if the plan was a done deal, and so did John Lambert. His wife, Jane, gave him a stern look.

  “Too bad the police can’t get rid of her for us,” said Pauletta Williamson, of the squash blossom jewelry.

  “Or they won’t,” petite Marie Dunn snipped. “I ran into Ida Bolli
ngs this morning, and she thinks our city and county officials are up to no good.”

  “Do tell,” Jane Lambert said, leaning so far forward, I thought her bosom would squash the finger sandwiches on her paper plate.

  “As you likely know, this Elsman woman threatened to take Ida’s rental house land for the unpaid back taxes.”

  Murmurs of disgust rippled through the room.

  “Well, she found her tax receipts and checking account records, and marched down to the courthouse to straighten things out. She talked to that head clerk, Patricia Ledbetter. The one whose child is so sick all the time.”

  “Bless her heart,” Jane Lambert said.

  “Yes, and things must be bad with that tyke, because Ida said when she showed Patricia that her property taxes had indeed been paid, and early to boot, Patricia became completely flustered.”

  “How so?” Sherry asked, her voice a hair too weak for my liking.

  “According to Ida, she got real defensive, then angry, and then cried.”

  Pauletta shook her head. “Ida didn’t let it drop, did she?”

  “No, but Patricia’s boss—y’all know the tax collector, Mac Donel?”

  Heads nodded.

  “He came charging out of his office, sent Patricia off to compose herself, and told Ida he was looking into the irregularities. Irregularities, plural. So Ida doesn’t think she’s the only taxpayer with screwy records, and she thought Mac looked more guilty than concerned about the problem. Why, Ida was so upset, she had to go home and take her medicine.”

  Every person in the room reflected silently on that flood of information for a moment. I kept an eye on Sherry, who seemed to be wilting. Did I butt in to get the meeting moving?

  I caught Maise’s gaze and nod. Right, butt in.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “I know you all want to get home, so if we could refocus on the purpose of the meeting?”

  “Getting rid of the wicked witch,” Big George’s voice boomed.

  “Without violence,” Sherry added.

  “Sherry, you’re entirely too good,” Pauletta said. “Why, that woman tried to kill you!”

  “In fairness, we don’t know that,” I said. “Her assistant was poisoned, too, and Elsman claimed the candy had been sent to her.”

  “I still think she needs escorting out of town,” Duke growled.

  “Y’all, please, we are better than that,” Sherry said. “If we all pledge not to sell options to her, she’ll have to give up sooner or later.”

  “Needs to be sooner,” Bog rumbled darkly. “Before she does kill someone.”

  I suppressed a shudder that snaked up my spine. “Okay, then, all of you refusing to sell land options is one positive step. Dab and Sherry have filed destruction-of-property complaints against Elsman, and Detective Shoar is investigating those and the poisoning incident. I’m wondering if each of you might be willing to file harassment complaints. Or get an attorney to send cease and desist letters. There’s no guarantee those measures would get Elsman to leave town, but it’s another proactive step.”

  “I’m all for it,” John said.

  “Which choice?” Jane asked her husband.

  “Either. Both.”

  Maise cleared her throat and stepped forward. “We have an attorney who’d be happy to help us with a letter, and I think he’d charge only a modest fee.”

  “In the meantime,” Pauletta said, “I suggest that none of us so much as talks to Elsman. If she comes around again, we slam the door in her face.”

  No one shouted Hear, hear, but that was the consensus. The departing neighbors vowed to contact those who hadn’t made the meeting and tell them the plan. Duke, Bog, and George offered to patrol Sherry’s property, but Fred and Dab nixed that idea right away.

  “If I’m in my workshop at night, I don’t want you wallopin’ me,” Fred told them. They didn’t argue with him.

  I joined the Six in the kitchen to nibble on leftover finger sandwiches and the slaw Maise hadn’t put out for the guests. We rehashed the meeting as we ate, and the point they glommed on was the tax payments glitch.

  “Mac Donel is such a straight arrow,” Sherry said, “I can’t believe he’d falsify property tax records.”

  “Or pick Ida’s to mess with,” Dab said. “She was a court clerk herself. Everyone knows she keeps her papers in meticulous order.”

  “But I do believe where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Eleanor mused.

  “Yep, somethin’s up with somebody at the courthouse. I just hope it gets straightened out in a hurry.”

  I carried the folding tables back out to the storage room in the barn, Dab along to open doors for me. I got a look at the still that was being reconstructed in the far corner.

  “I need to get supplies to finish it to Eleanor’s new design, but we’ll have it running in no time. And don’t worry,” he added. “We’ve set up well away from the gas and the oil products we keep for our machinery. Fred moved those to his workshop.”

  “Does he really come out alone to work at night?”

  “Not since the trouble with Elsman started, I don’t think, but he’s been known to burn the midnight oil. We seniors sometimes don’t sleep as well or as long as you younger folks.”

  “My mother said the same thing.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m glad you’re staying a spell longer.”

  “Me, too,” I answered with a smile.

  • • •

  SHERRY TURNED ME DOWN WHEN I OFFERED TO SEE her up to bed, but when Eleanor said she believed she was tuckered out, Sherry allowed it was time for her to go upstairs, too. Maise and Aster followed not long after that, and though Fred and Dab played cards for a while in the kitchen, they retired before ten.

  I made up the long sofa and snuggled in. After ten minutes, I realized I was too wired to sleep. Attempting to read the Stanton patriarch’s papers with that faded ink sounded like the perfect way to come down. Or at least tire my eyes enough to sleep.

  I began reviewing handwritten notes about Samuel Allan Stanton. Born in 1830 in southwest Missouri, he was already married to Yvonne Ritter and had children before the Civil War began. Sam, one of his brothers, and his wife’s brother sided with the South, and Sam moved Yvonne and their five children to Fort Smith. He fought in an infantry unit until wounded and sent home. Several moves later, Sam bought land from a Civil War widow, and they settled down for good. They farmed, had some livestock, and opened a general store in what was barely a crossroad. Eventually the crossroad grew to be Lilyvale.

  I peered at Sam Stanton’s death date. Was that 1903 or 1905? I rubbed my itchy eyes. Shoot, I couldn’t see straight. I’d go check the grave marker tomorrow. Not only were my eyelids drooping, but I didn’t entirely trust that Duke wasn’t roaming around with his shotgun.

  Reading the old papers, the neighbor meeting, and the poisonings fueled my dreams. I woke once to what I thought was a scream or a screeching and a buzz saw. It turned out to be Fred wheezing and snoring. When he didn’t quiet down, I crept off the sofa long enough grab my phone and earbuds, and fell back asleep to a nature sounds relaxation MP3.

  Next time I awoke, it was to the aroma of bacon cooking. Was Sherry awake yet? How did she feel this morning? I thought about going up to peek in on her, but I needed to change first. And take care of other business.

  Neither Fred nor Dab was in the bathroom, so I dashed in and got ready for the day in record time. I wore my cargo shorts again, so I dropped my phone in a leg pocket, then I straightened my belongings and the family papers I’d left out last night. As I finished, Aster came in.

  “I thought I heard you up. Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.”

  “Is Aunt Sherry awake?”

  “Yes, and she seems to feel fine, but Maise says she will tire easily. Keep that in mind when you
plan your day with her.”

  “We’ll work on the historical documents. Which reminds me, I need to check a date in the cemetery.”

  “Then call the others in, will you? They’re in the barn.”

  “At this hour? Why?”

  “Looking at Dab’s still. Scoot now. Some of us have volunteer jobs to be at by nine today.”

  As I trooped through the dewy grass, Eleanor, Sherry, Fred, and Dab emerged from the barn door, Fred pausing to secure the padlock. All but Sherry were dressed in senior business casual, Eleanor’s outfit elegant as always. Eleanor and Sherry walked with their arms tucked into Dapper Dab’s.

  “Is breakfast ready?” Sherry asked.

  “Aster says just about,” I answered as I hugged her and greeted Dab, Eleanor, and Fred. “How are you feeling, Sherry?”

  “Hungry,” she said.

  “So am I, but I’ll catch up. I have a quick date with a gravestone.”

  “I’m not saving food for you, missy,” Fred said as he clacked past me.

  “You won’t have to,” I called. Dab escorted the women on toward the house, and I quick-stepped behind the barn.

  The huge azalea bushes still bloomed bright pink, and a squirrel chittered at me from one of the oak tree branches spreading over the graveyard. I pulled out my phone to take pictures, something I’d forgotten to do when I came out with Sherry. It wouldn’t take long.

  I hurried, phone in hand, pausing only long enough to steady the images as I snapped photos even as I reached to open the gate. One step in, and I stumbled in shock.

  The small marble tombstones just inside the gate stood drunkenly, or lay on the ground, and the three-foot angel in the children’s section of graves was missing a wing.

  Fury boiled as I snapped photos of the damage on autopilot. I didn’t see more obvious damage but kept taking pictures as I walked toward the center of the cemetery.

  Then I froze, shocked immobile.

  A woman lay sprawled on her side across Sam Stanton’s grave. Black jeans, black long-sleeved T-shirt, black asymmetrically cut hair matted with blood. Open eyes stared straight at my sneakers.