Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case Page 18

“I’ve got bags of pea gravel and soil in the wheelbarrow,” Dab said as he strode beside us toward the barn.

  “And I got tools ready, if you need ’em,” Fred added, clanking along with the rest of the gang.

  “Sherry,” I said over my shoulder, “why don’t y’all sit on the deck and enjoy the evening while we do this.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Detective Shoar, is the cemetery still a crime scene?”

  “Matter of fact, I released it.”

  “Then I’d rather supervise if it’s all the same to you both.”

  Eric shrugged. “Sure, and Fred and Dab can help take down the crime scene tape if they like.”

  With that, the older men hotfooted it behind the barn, Fred’s walker clanking up a storm. Eleanor, Maise, and Aster each grabbed a tool from where they rested against the barn wall—a rigid-tined garden rake, a shovel, a hoe. Eric hefted the wheelbarrow handles, rocked the front wheel to start the momentum, and rolled the bags of topsoil and pea gravel as if he were pushing a load of feathers. And, my, my, I did enjoy the play of muscles bunching under his navy blue T-shirt. Mrs. Gilroy would have vapors at the sight.

  “Thanks for including them,” I said, walking beside him.

  “They need a sense of control.”

  Which was partly why I wanted them to help me snoop, but I didn’t mention that. “Still, you recognized their need, and I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said as we rounded the corner of the barn and headed straight on for the cemetery. “I still can’t believe you got Miz Gilroy to agree to the plan.”

  “I think she only did it because I remind her of Sissy Stanton. One of my ancestors,” I added when he gave me a puzzled look.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard stories about her. Miz Gilroy knew her?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “I haven’t worked out the math on how old Mrs. Gilroy would’ve been when Sissy was alive, but I understand Sissy was a legend here.”

  Eric tossed me a grin. “I have a feeling you’d be, too, if you stuck around.”

  I wouldn’t touch that comment with a hazmat suit. “Come on, let’s get this done so I’m not late to Mrs. Gilroy’s.”

  Sherry wore her bangs fastened in a clip again, and she looked paler than I liked as she surveyed the damage. She gently stroked the angel’s one undamaged wing, lips pursed as I approached.

  “If I’d known what that woman was up to out here,” she said, fire in her eyes, “I’d have found Fred’s .45 and given her what for.”

  “And I’d have helped you.”

  She blinked at me in the gathering dusk. “Thank you, child. Now, let’s get to work.”

  Maise called for all hands on deck, and it took less than forty minutes to reset and stabilize the markers. The angel was a lost cause, but Eric carried it and the broken wing to his truck. The man was as strong as he was kind. I scooted in the house to wash up while he helped return the tools and materials to the barn.

  I had the detective standing by on his cell when Mrs. Gilroy let me in her home. Tonight, though, the lamp by the sofa and the television screen—sound muted—shed light on the minimally furnished living room.

  “Come along,” she said, grabbing me by the wrist.

  Whereas her kitchen was to the right, she led me into a short hallway that extended behind the living area. A small bathroom was at the end of the hall, the master bedroom to the right.

  “There.” She gestured across the room, which was nearly as Spartan as the other rooms I’d seen. “I opened the window for you, just like it was that night.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Gilroy.” I went to the single window, hunched down to approximate her height, and peered through the screen before I put my phone on speaker. “I’m in position.”

  “Good deal. Start taking pictures.”

  “Not of my home, you won’t,” Mrs. Gilroy snapped.

  “No, ma’am,” I soothed. “I’m just going to snap the view from your window. Nothing inside. I promise. I’m not even using the flash. See?”

  I showed her the palm-sized camera Eric had given me to get a better handle of what was visible from the window. No super lens, although the camera had a zoom function. But he didn’t want me to use that either.

  “Did Miz Gilroy see one flashlight beam or two?”

  “One,” she said from behind me, then scooted closer to the window.

  “Got it. Nixy, what can you see right now?”

  “The streetlight is strong enough that I can see some trees near the street. I can see the outline of the azalea bushes, too, but then I know where they are.”

  “Miz Gilroy is familiar with them, too.”

  Within half a minute, I saw a stream of yellowish light moving. I took a few photos, and reported seeing the light to Eric.

  “You don’t see me?”

  “Move toward the far corner by the chain-link fence to the children’s graves, where the broken angel was. Wait. There. I see you as a figure, but not your features. Hold still while I get shots.”

  When I finished, he said through the phone speaker, “Let me know what you see next.”

  I watched his shadowy form move to the corner. “I see you, but I wouldn’t be able to identify you as a man or woman. Hold there a minute.” I took four photos. “Done. What now?”

  “I’m going to whisper. Let me know if you can hear anything at all.”

  I heard sound, the cadence of speech, but no words. Then I heard another voice, not that much difference in pitch, but the cadence was very slightly different.

  Again, I gave my report.

  “Is Miz Gilroy there?”

  “I am,” she said. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Will you kindly listen this time, ma’am?”

  “I heard the voices just now, young man.”

  His smile came through the phone. “That’s great, Miz Gilroy, but will you do it again? I need to know if the whispers were louder or softer than the ones you heard the night of the murder. If you can remember.”

  I didn’t think Eric had thrown the gauntlet consciously, but Bernice Gilroy slowly stood to her tiny full height, eyes blazing. “If I can remember? Bring it on.”

  I smothered a chuckle as he whispered again, using both lower – and higher-pitched voices. Or had he recruited one of the ladies to help? I couldn’t have identified either voice.

  “The voices I heard that night,” Mrs. Gilroy said with great dignity, “were neither considerably louder nor softer than those I just heard. One, however, sounded more gravelly than the other.” She paused. “That is the one I thought was a male voice, although from your demonstration, I would not be able to differentiate male from female. Now, if you’re quite finished, it’s time for my shows.”

  “We appreciate your assistance, Miz Gilroy,” he said over the speaker.

  “As well you should,” she said, then gave me the stink eye. “You can leave now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I hit the disconnect button on my phone, and with one last glance out the window, I followed her out. “Thank you, Mrs. Gilroy.”

  She sniffed. “Like I said, I did it for Sissy. And,” she continued as she opened the front door, “if that man takes a superior tone with you like he did with me, I hope you read him the riot act.”

  I blinked. Smiled. “Don’t you worry, ma’am.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  ERIC LEFT AFTER A GLASS OF TEA AND A SLICE OF chocolate cream pie. I wondered how that jibed with fraternizing with suspects, but, hey, that was his problem. I only wish he’d shared thoughts about the Mrs. Gilroy experiment. Like did knowing that she did see and hear something make any difference to his investigation whatsoever?

  Eleanor and Dab were high on the experiment because Eric had recruited both of them to whisper. Eric had whispered, too, but he’d changed it up. As they s
poke about their roles, I realized that what Mrs. Gilroy had said was true. I couldn’t have identified the speakers, and I couldn’t hear a marked difference between male and female whispers either.

  I spent the rest of the evening finishing my laundry and making plans to both shop for a few essentials the next day and begin my discreet inquiries. First stop: Patricia Ledbetter, the property tax clerk. With a seriously ill child, she would’ve been an easy target for Hellspawn to manipulate.

  Yes, I was back to calling her Hellspawn, at least in my thoughts.

  Morning found the seniors dressed in their Friday-go-a’snooping duds, although Eleanor looked no less elegant, and Fred was only marginally more spiffed up. He’d taken a few tools out of his overall pockets.

  Dinah Souse arrived for brunch and interviews at eleven on the dot, and I ushered her into the kitchen.

  “Where are Eleanor and the men?” she asked as she set her soft-sided briefcase on the kitchen table.

  Sherry waved a hand. “They’re in the barn tinkering with the still design.”

  Dinah coughed. “Should I be hearing this?”

  “Dab distills my herbs,” Aster said. “It’s nothing illegal.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it. Then she turned to me, brown eyes serious. “First, how did the meeting with Detective Shoar go?”

  “No problem.” I gave her the overview, including our visit with Trudy and Jeanette, and highlights of what Mrs. Gilroy had seen and we’d confirmed.

  “Detective Shoar was here last night? He assisted you in this”—she waved her hand in a circle—“experiment?”

  “Then stayed for tea and pie,” Sherry added.

  “That’s . . . unusual. Did he share any thoughts afterward?”

  “Not a one,” I groused. “Is there an official cause of death yet?”

  “The coroner doesn’t give a cause. That’s up to the medical examiner in Little Rock. The newspaper article that ran today reports only that the suspicious death is being investigated.”

  “When it’s official, will you know?”

  “Possibly. Let me explain,” Dinah said as she opened her briefcase and pulled out a yellow lined legal pad. “The police don’t share evidence with the prosecution or the defense until there is an arrest. Sherry Mae is free at the moment because the evidence is likely too circumstantial to make an arrest. However, that could change at any time. My focus right now is to glean information about your encounters with Ms. Elsman. I heard you butted heads with her several times, Ms. Nix.”

  “Nixy, and yes, I stood up to her.”

  “When?” she asked, pen poised over the pad.

  I ran through my various encounters with Hellspawn while Sherry, Aster, and Maise put in their two cents now and again. When I finished, she looked thoughtful.

  “Detective Shoar came up in your story a great deal. Are the rumors about you two true?”

  “What rumors?”

  “That he’s seeing you socially.”

  I snorted. “It’s Aunt Sherry Mae he’s sweet on. She must be his favorite teacher of all time.”

  Dinah hesitated, then shrugged. “If you say so. Now I understand you took Trudy back to the inn from the hospital on Monday night. Did you see Elsman then?”

  “See her, no. I heard her in her room. Or, to be precise, I heard two voices coming from her room. They were speaking softly, but sort of hissing, like they were arguing. I figured one was Elsman, and the other voice sounded male. Although last night I realized that it’s hard to judge the sex of a speaker when the person is whispering.”

  Sherry smiled. “I know that from the classroom. Until I memorized my seating chart, I couldn’t distinguish the boys from the girls when they whispered behind my back.”

  “And yet,” I said, “if another woman was in Elsman’s room . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I pursed my lips. “It’s just that we thought Trudy most likely helped Elsman pull her stunts. The burglary and such. But Trudy was in her room the night I eavesdropped, so what other woman would help Elsman?”

  “We need to put that on the list,” Maise said.

  “What list?” Dinah asked.

  “We made a suspect list with Nixy,” Aster told her with pride. “We’re going to investigate ourselves.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Dinah began.

  “Hogwash,” Maise said. “Sherry’s neck is on the line, and ours are, too. We left it to the police to find the vandals and they didn’t do it. Besides, as Nixy pointed out, people will tell us things they won’t tell the police. Nixy’s already passed on a passel of information to Detective Shoar. He just has to get his act together.”

  Dinah took such a deep breath, I could almost hear her counting to ten. Or twenty. “Skipping over that, did any of you ever threaten Ms. Elsman?”

  I shook my head. “No threats, but we made it clear that Sherry and most of her neighbors were banding together against selling land options.”

  “All right. Nixy, I have one more specific question for you. Sherry said Detective Shoar asked you not to talk about what you saw when you discovered the body.”

  I shot a glance at Sherry and company. “He did.”

  “You are not legally bound to that, you know.”

  I wrestled with keeping my word versus helping Dinah keep Sherry out of jail. No contest.

  Movement outside caught my eye. “Here come Fred, Dab, and Eleanor. Dinah, let’s go to the parlor for a minute.”

  “Go,” Maise said, shooing us. “We’ll get brunch on the table.”

  • • •

  I SHOWED DINAH THE PHOTOS ON MY PHONE, HAPPY that they had been good for something after all. She didn’t say much about them as we scrolled through, and only nodded when I told her the Six had reported the crowbar, glove, and gingham strip stolen a week or so before Elsman’s death. When I finished, she asked me if I thought I’d captured anything else of importance in the photos. I told her no, and she suggested I delete all but the shots of the azaleas and the squirrel. I complied. I also remembered to take the wads of paper out of my bag. I’d dig for any smaller pieces of paper later.

  Dinah continued to ask questions during the meal, but was so subtle that the exchange flowed like easy conversation. That is, until she asked if Sherry or any of the Six had ever met with Elsman alone. That was pointed enough to make them stop and think.

  “We’re not attached at the hip, but my friends and I do spend most of our time together. Especially before the folk art festival, when we were finishing our projects. I don’t recall even seeing her in passing when I was alone.”

  “We saw Trudy Monday morning,” I added, “but not Elsman.”

  “That’s most helpful to know.”

  Dinah got a call during our dessert of banana pudding and vanilla wafers. She left after making us swear to call immediately if the detective questioned Sherry—or any of us—again. We swore, we cleaned the kitchen, and we scattered to do our own snooping.

  Maise specifically charged Dab and Fred with asking three things. Had anyone seen the Hummer or another car in the neighborhood late the night Elsman was killed? Had anyone seen Elsman or someone else on foot in the neighborhood that night? Did anyone know if Clark was gambling? They’d talk with Big George at his hardware store while they picked up supplies for the still. Then they’d see Duke at the Dairy Queen, and Bog at the barbershop. They’d also catch Councilman B. G. Huff at the furniture store.

  “Don’t forget Dab and I need to eat early tonight,” Fred said as he maneuvered his walker toward the kitchen door.

  “Goodness, I’d forgotten about concert night,” Sherry said.

  “We’ll have supper ready at five thirty,” Maise assured him.

  Fred nodded and clanked out of the house with Dab.

  “Concert night?” I asked when the men had go
ne.

  “Concerts on the Square,” Eleanor explained. “They only run from seven to nine, but it’s a way to bring the community together. We start up after Easter and go through the summer.”

  “Weather permitting,” Aster added.

  “What about community togetherness the rest of the year?”

  All four women gave me a duh look. “We have a few events around Christmas, but fall is high school football season,” Sherry answered.

  “Oh.” And didn’t I feel like a dummy, since I’d grown up in Texas, where Friday-night football was sacrosanct.

  The women narrowed down the most prime gossip spots. Aster and Maise would take the grocery and shoe stores, and Sherry and Eleanor would visit the beauty salon and dress shops. They’d all go in Sherry’s car and ask the same general questions that the men were asking. I hoped Sherry would get a trim at the salon, but when I mentioned it, she gave me a blank stare. I threw up my mental hands. If fiddling with her bangs was a nervous habit, so be it.

  My assignment was to hit Gaskin Business Center, where I’d drop off the historical designation paperwork to be photocopied. Then, I’d storm the courthouse. My cover story in seeking out Patricia Ledbetter the clerk and Mac Donel, the tax collector, was genealogical research. I’d wing it from there. In point of fact, I truly was curious about Mrs. Gilroy’s property, first because it had once been part of the Stanton spread, and second because she’d told me Hellspawn had never visited her. That had me wondering. Hellspawn had made a nuisance of herself everywhere else. Why not at Mrs. Gilroy’s? My inquiring mind wanted an answer.

  When we completed our rounds, we women would meet at the Lilies Café. The plan was to talk with Clark if he was there, but with luck we’d also run into Trudy. None of us felt comfortable asking Lorna about her husband’s alleged affair or possible gambling, as the men had mentioned, but I’d bite the bullet if I had to. After all, I didn’t live here. I didn’t want to embarrass Sherry either, but her neck was on the line. I could start with asking about the Hummer. Find out when they closed up for the night and if they noticed the behemoth in the parking lot when they went home. That was an innocuous enough conversation starter.