All Murders Final! (3 page)

“We all get notices at the same time. Although I could set it up so I saw things first.” And I might in the future—it was one of the few perks of being an administrator. “I just happened to be on the site when Margaret posted the picture.”

Pellner continued to scroll through the conversation. But I knew what he was reading. Margaret said sorry to me and told Frieda she could have it. I told Margaret that wasn't fair or right, as we'd already agreed on her price. We'd even agreed that I would stop by at nine this morning to pick it up. I also told Frieda it was rude to jump in after arrangements had been made. She told me to suck it up and put my big girl panties on. I was so mad at both of them, I threatened to ban them from the site. Margaret said she could sell to whomever she wanted to. Then I realized she was right. Sometimes in the heat of the moment, when I really wanted something, I lost perspective. It was just a tablecloth, for crying out loud, and I had several similar ones at home. I apologized to both and made arrangements to come get the things for the silent auction.

“How do I get ahold of Frieda?”

“I don't know. I could send her a message through the group.”

“You don't know her?”

“Not personally, but to be a member of the group, she has to know someone else in the group. That's why these kinds of sites are different than other bigger sites. Someone has to add you to the group. And virtual garage sale sites are more localized. I run the one in Ellington, but Bedford, Concord, and Lexington have them, too. It makes it safer to do business.”

“Not so safe for Margaret.”

Oh, no.
If Pellner thought Margaret's death had something to do with my site, others might too.

Chapter 3

On our drive to the police station, where the staties would interview me, I called a lawyer, Vincenzo DiNapoli. He'd gotten Mike “the Big Cheese” Titone off racketeering charges, kept his own son out of jail, and helped my best friend, Carol Carson, last fall, when she'd been accused of murder.

“What'd you go and do that for?” Pellner asked when I hung up.

“Because a wise man once told me never to talk to the police without a lawyer. I should have called Vincenzo before talking to you.” Especially before I mentioned the online argument.

Pellner glanced upward, as if sending up a silent prayer. “Since you called Vincenzo, I'm guessing it was Angelo DiNapoli who gave you that bit of advice.”

“It was.” Angelo and his wife, Rosalie, were two of my favorite people in Ellington. They owned DiNapoli's Roast Beef and Pizza and were almost substitute parents, since my family lived out in California. “They'll be so shocked when they hear that Margaret's dead. That she was murdered.” I shivered, the ice storm back inside me.

“Everyone will be,” Pellner said.

* * *

The rest of the morning was a blur. The state police arrived and were impatient when they found I wouldn't say a word until my lawyer showed up. It took Vincenzo a long time to arrive, and then he basically wouldn't let me say more than I already had. Under his watchful eye, I signed the statement certifying that what I had told Pellner was true.

“When can I get my car back?” I asked Pellner as Vincenzo and I followed him to the lobby.

“When they're done with it,” he said. “I'll see what I can do.”

“I'll drop you home,” Vincenzo said, whisking me out before I could say anything else.

Vincenzo's driver held open the back door of the car for us to climb in. I thanked him as I scooted across the luxurious leather seat to make room for Vincenzo. He took up a lot of space in the back of the car. Part of it was his physical presence—barrel chest, long legs, big head, with slicked-back dark hair. Large hands adorned with a ruby-studded pinkie ring. The other part was a mixture of charisma and confidence.

“What a nice way to travel. My Suburban is ten years old, and I need it to last a lot longer.” I ran my hand across the leather.

“It's comfortable, yes,” Vincenzo said. “But it's also quite handy. I can work if I don't have to drive, and with the traffic in the Boston area, I get a lot done.”

I would like to have a driver but didn't ever see that happening. Since my divorce I'd started a business organizing garage sales for people, but garage sales and snow weren't a good mix. I'd had to get creative, which was why I'd started my online garage sale site last October. I'd attracted some advertisers and sold my own stuff on the site, in addition to selling things for others and taking a commission. Last fall the town had hired me to run New England's Largest Yard Sale. I had tucked some of that money into savings, where I'd also put the money from our divorce settlement. CJ had insisted I take half our savings when we divorced, as well as half his retirement pay and alimony. If Margaret's murder was linked to my site I could be in big trouble.

The car glided to a stop in front of my apartment building—an old frame house with a large covered porch. The house had been divided into four units. I lived on the upper right side. The upper left side had been empty since last spring.

“Call me if you hear anything from the police,” Vincenzo said as I slid out.

“Thank you.”

As the car pulled away, my stomach rumbled, but it wasn't hunger for once, which was a good thing, since without a car, it would be a long, cold walk in the snow to pick up groceries.

My apartment was on the west side of the town common. A thin layer of snow covered the lawn and made the beautiful old Congregational church on the south end look like the cover for a fancy coffee table book—
Winter Scenes of New England
. A corner of the common had been flooded to make an ice skating rink. A couple of families were out there, laughing and falling. It was the way a bright, sunny day should be—not shadowed by a murder.

I headed over to Carol's shop, Paint and Wine, on the north side of the common, just down the block from DiNapoli's. I wanted to talk to Carol. I'd known her for almost twenty years, and could rely on her to listen and be discreet. But as I walked toward the shop, a large group of laughing women went in, so I knew she'd be tied up for a couple of hours. Carol taught people how to create a painting in a couple of hours and made it a lot of fun in the process. I toyed with the idea of going to DiNapoli's, but the smell of food might make me nauseous. And I wasn't ready to be in the middle of the hub of gossip in Ellington.

As I walked back home, a few snowflakes started to fly.
Great. More snow.
While the ski resorts and the winter sports fans would be happy, I'd enjoyed the almost snowless winter. When I got home, my stomach rumbled again. Maybe it was hunger. I made a fluffernutter sandwich, which consisted of a thick layer of Marshmallow Fluff, invented in Massachusetts—I accepted no imitators—and a layer of peanut butter on white bread. Not the healthiest lunch, but a Massachusetts staple and the official state sandwich. It was completely satisfying after an awful morning.

I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat on the couch, which, like most of my possessions, was a find at a garage sale. I rubbed my feet on the worn Oriental rug that covered the wide-planked wood floors, which I'd painted white. My apartment was usually my safe haven, but Margaret's murder had me on edge. I grabbed my computer and opened it to my virtual garage sale site. There was nothing there about Margaret's murder, and I didn't want to be the one to break the news. At least not yet. I posted a couple of gentle reminders about always listing an item's price, condition, and location of pickup. People so often ignored my rules.

I decided to dive into the growing number of private messages about the site, hoping to be distracted. People in the group were always complaining about this item or that person. Someone who hadn't picked up at the arranged time, someone who thought a seller had picked another person to sell to, even though they had posted “interested” under the item. The only message that really concerned me was one about a ppu—a porch pickup. The seller had left the item on their porch for the buyer. When they had returned home, the item was gone, but the payment hadn't been left. They had made several attempts to contact the person but hadn't heard back. I banned the offender from the site and wrote a note telling the seller what I'd done. There wasn't much else I could do. If the banned person made payment, they'd be allowed back on and given one more chance. I'd learned quickly that you couldn't put up with nonsense from people, or things spiraled out of control.

I closed my computer and snuggled into my blanket. Big flakes drifted by the window. The sight of Margaret sitting in her car danced before my eyes. I wanted to push the whole thing aside. But I might as well face it now, instead of letting the reality of Margaret's death fester in some dark spot in my heart. Someone must have staged her body, because no one would sit calmly, with their hands in their lap, while someone else shoved a tablecloth down their throat.

It might mean she was killed somewhere else and moved. But I hadn't seen anything unusual that might indicate she'd been dragged from one place to another or deeper footprints, caused by extra weight if someone had carried her. Maybe the killer had surprised her from behind, killed her in some other way, and then stuffed the tablecloth down her throat after the fact. The police wouldn't know the cause of death yet. Not that they'd be running to me with it when they did know.

I'd have to research the old-fashioned way. I reopened my computer and Googled Margaret. Not surprisingly, a bunch of stuff came up. Honorary chair of this, president of that, her work to save the home where Thoreau was born in Concord, her position on the board of Orchard House, the home of the Alcott family in Concord. She had had her finger in a plethora of pies.

I moved on to searching for information about her personal life. She had nine siblings, most of whom had stayed within a five-mile radius of Ellington, but a couple had moved to Boston.
Gasp!
The fifteen-mile move to Boston was, by Massachusetts's standards, the equivalent of moving to the moon. People stayed put here. Roots ran deep. I made notes of their names for further research, but from what I could tell, they looked to be a successful, productive bunch. All of them had their own large families. It could take days to sort them all out. One of her sons was an Ellington selectmen, a member of the executive body that ran the town, and was engaged to our sometimes prickly town manager.

I gave up on that and went back to my garage sale site. I'd promised Pellner I'd message Frieda Chida. He might have already tracked her down, but I was curious as to what she might know. Wording the note was a bit awkward. How did you tell someone, “The police want to talk with you,” without telling them why? But my worries were for naught. She'd already messaged me. It read:
Thanks for siccing the police on me
.

Yeesh. Thank you, Ellington police
,
I thought
.

Then the message said
: They wouldn't tell me it was you, but I know it has to be. Who else would have known?

Oops, not the EPD's fault.
Well, anyone who had read the post last night would know we were both interested in Margaret's vintage tablecloth. I should have deleted it last night, per the rules of the site, which stated that as soon as an item was sold, the post had to be deleted. That way the site wasn't clogged with old posts. Actually Margaret, as the seller, should have deleted it. But last night I'd been so mad, I'd slammed the cover of my laptop closed without following my own rules.

Now how to respond to Frieda's remark? I could deny it. The police had told me not to say anything. I could fess up or just point out that others had seen the post too. Or I could not answer at all. But my curiosity got the better of me. I wondered how much she knew.

So I sent a quick note.
Really?

That seemed noncommittal enough. I didn't know how long I'd have to wait, but I'd barely hit
SEND
when I heard back.

No, she wrote.
I'm making the whole thing up
. Sarcasm almost dripped off her reply.
They asked me all sorts of questions about how I knew Margaret and how well. I told them I'd cleaned for the woman for years, until last spring, when she fired me. Besides, it's not like you can live in Ellington and not know about Margaret and her family. It's annoying. You'd think they were royalty, the way people fawn over them
.

Whoa.
Frieda worked for Margaret and was fired? I wondered what the police thought about that.

Gee, thanks.
I wrote back:
She shouldn't have said I could have it and then changed her mind.

I shook my head. I didn't want to rehash our argument.

Another message popped up.
I wanted the damn tablecloth. I just remodeled my kitchen, and it's the perfect finishing touch. I wonder how long I'll have to wait to get it now.

The twelfth of never.
Apparently, the police hadn't told her the tablecloth was the murder weapon, or so it seemed to me.
I have no idea.

If she'd told me all of this last night, I'd have lost more gracefully. And I wished she'd arranged for an early morning pickup. Then she would be the one who found Margaret, and I'd be here, doing something other than seeing Margaret's cold, dead body over and over in my mind.

I waited to see if she'd type more. When she didn't, I clicked on her profile picture. She had bleached blond hair, with dark roots and purple ends. Wrinkles framed her eyes, as did her thick black eyeliner. I clicked through her photos. She lived in a modest ranch, if anyone could call any home modest in this high-priced area, where the cheapest homes were almost four hundred thousand dollars. There were pictures of her with some twentysomethings, but none with a man. She didn't have anything marked on her relationship status. Most of her posts had to do with games she played and pictures of puppies. Nothing else to learn about her there.

Every time my phone chimed, I cringed. But no further pictures came in. I berated myself for not remembering the user name of whoever had sent the picture. It wouldn't be much to go on, but it might help. I closed my eyes more than once and tried to do some deep breathing, but nothing would pop the user name back into my consciousness.

As the afternoon wore on, I checked the local online news several times, but the story of Margaret's death hadn't broken yet. I was amazed that the police had somehow managed to keep it quiet for this long. I worried about Margaret's family, about how shocking the news of her death would be. I was so antsy, I couldn't stand myself. Staying busy seemed to be my best option.