Behind Chocolate Bars (17 page)

The cool night air whooshed over us as we went out the doors. Bean's car was outside the light shining from the front of the building, and the closest street light in the parking lot was out.

The guard turned on his flashlight and shined it on the tires, all very, very flat. He moved it closer and pointed to the top of one tire. It had several slashes in it, obviously done with a large, very sharp knife. By someone who was very, very angry.

T
he local police arrived to take a statement, but neither one of us gave them any suggestions of who could have knifed Bean's tires. Really, the list of possible suspects was just too long. They asked the hotel security guards for security camera footage to see who might have been close, and promised to let Bean know if they found anything useful.

An un-uniformed Bobby arrived, shaking hands with the Urbana police and saying he was just there as a friend to give us a lift home. After the tow truck came and went, with the sad little Honda loaded on it, he gestured toward his car, luckily not a patrol car. Sitting in the backseat of those made me feel like a criminal.

I got in the back, exhausted, which didn't stop Bobby from confronting me. “What a coincidence,” he said in a sarcastic
tone. “You have an incident at the reunion of the murder victim.”

“Isn't it?” Bean used a mild tone but gave Bobby a
back off
look.

“I can't believe I have to ask this,” Bobby said, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “But haven't you learned anything from that threat on your van?”

“Obviously not,” I said. “I'm tired and I'm going to close my eyes back here. You two go ahead and fight.”

Bobby started in, saying that having Bean encourage us amateurs would end in disaster. I ignored him, going again through the people we'd talked to at the reunion and wondering who we'd angered with our questions.

Maybe someone who was really good at hiding their feelings.

*   *   *

T
he next morning, Honor called my cell before I left for work. She sounded horrified at the incident with the tires. “Everything got a little muddled later in the evening, but at some point I realized you had left,” she said. “And this morning I heard what happened to your car. That's terrible!”

It probably got “muddled” because of the martinis she'd been drinking. “It's just tires.” I tried to calm her down. “No one was hurt.”

Her voice rose. “But that means someone from the reunion was trying to warn you off!” And then it dropped dramatically, like she was telling a ghost story. “Maybe someone didn't believe you weren't investigating Faith's murder. Which means the killer was
at the reunion
!”

“You don't know that,” I said. “You're jumping to
conclusions. You said yourself that it had been talked about on Facebook, so anyone who heard about it and not even been connected to Faith's murder could have done it.”

“How can you be so blasé?” she asked. “The killer knows what you're doing.” She gasped. “Maybe he knows that I'm helping you!”

“I'm sure that's not true,” I said. Of course, she was a total blabbermouth, so maybe the whole town of Urbana—and Frederick and West Riverdale—knew.

I certainly felt uneasy after we hung up. This warning seemed both impulsive and violent. Someone had been carrying a knife and jabbed it into Bean's tires over and over. What would have happened if Bean or I had been out there? Could it be the same person who had bashed in my car?

Erica came down to the kitchen with the notes Honor had sent over, highlighting everything she remembered about Faith's bullying back in high school. “Can you go over these today and fill in anything you and Bean learned last night?” She dropped them on the table and poured a cup of coffee.

“Sure,” I said. I glanced at them while taking a sip and realized someone was missing from the reunion. “Wade Overton didn't show up.”

Erica looked at me. “It could be a simple explanation, but given what happened last night, perhaps we should ask Detective Lockett to follow up with that.” She drank some coffee.

“Do you think we can get away this morning to drop in on Nancy's neighbor?” I asked. Faith's sister-in-law might not have told us the whole story, and we hoped Nosy Neighbor knew something more.

“The one you thought you saw hiding behind the curtain?” she asked. “The timing will be tight with the opening, but let's do it.”

*   *   *

W
e opened up the store and waited for Kona and Kayla to arrive before leaving. I drove the rented minivan and had to move aside the folder of papers from Phoenix so Erica could sit in the front seat. “I haven't had time . . .” I told her, feeling vaguely guilty even with everything we had going on.

“No rush at all,” she said.

We drove up to Nancy's neighbor's house. She must have been looking through the window again, because she came to the door before we could even knock.

“I knew you'd be back,” she said. “My name is Celia Diamond. Come in, come in. Would you like some tea? I'm so sorry that I don't keep coffee here any longer. Not enough guests who enjoy it, I suppose.”

“Tea would be wonderful,” Erica said. “Can I help?”

“Oh, no.” She bustled over to pat two chairs opposite the one she'd been sitting in by the window. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis. “Have a seat and I'll be out in two secs!” Her delight in having visitors was both infectious and a little bittersweet.

The sunlit room was filled with overstuffed furniture in various shades of lavender, looking cozy and inviting. An ancient black poodle with a gray face lay in a dog bed in the corner. He lifted his head for a moment before going back to sleep.

Photos of her family and the poodle in younger days covered the walls, along with framed Playbills from Broadway musicals and photos of their chorus lines.

“Are these photos of you?” Erica asked.

“Oh yes,” Celia called out from the kitchen. “So nice of you to ask. I had a lovely time during my theater career. I was a gypsy, in the chorus, on Broadway for years.” She poked her head out. “Never a leading lady, I'm afraid, but I could kick higher than a Rockette.”

“How nice,” Erica said, fascinated by the pictures.

“So you two are looking into that nasty woman's murder?” she called from the kitchen. “Erica and Michelle, right?”

I turned with wide eyes to Erica. “Um, where did you hear that?”

“Oh, I don't get out as much as I used to, but I know people who know things.” She said it with a little laugh. “Almost as good as the Google.” We heard teacups rattle. “I used to be in a creativity class with your neighbor Henna, when her name was Carol. And Beatrice Duncan, you know her. She was the director of the Boys and Girls Club forever, but now she helps out at her son's hardware store. Anyway, we go way back. I taught tap-dancing to the kids. Until my knees got too bad. But I call Beatrice and Henna all the time. I like to keep up on things. Keeps my mind fresh.”

That was the best reason I'd ever heard of for gossiping. I'd have to remember that when I got to be her age.

She appeared in the doorway, holding an overloaded tray, and we both jumped up to help. She shook her head. “Just sit, dears. I got this, as they say.” She poured tea for all three of us and sat down. “You go ahead and take all the sugar and milk you like.”

She watched us prepare our tea, probably so she'd know next time. “We were hoping to find out what you know about Faith Monette. And how close she was to Nancy and Vaughn,” I began.

The change in her expression was instant, as if a happy puppy had been scolded. She shook her head. “That Faith. There was just something wrong with that girl. A bad egg, as they say.”

“Did you know her well?” Erica asked.

“No, but I talked to plenty of people who had just awful encounters with her,” she said. “And that poor brother of hers. Knowing what she was and having to explain her nastiness away his whole life. It's no wonder Nancy pulled a gun on her.”

What? “That was a couple of weeks ago, right?” I was amazed at how casual I sounded. I knew we hadn't gotten the full story out of Nancy. She'd still been so angry at Faith during our conversation.

She nodded, seeming to enjoy the drama while still empathizing with how Nancy was feeling. “Nancy just had enough,” she said simply. “To tell you the truth, I would have done it a lot earlier.”

“Nancy only told us a little of that day,” Erica said. “What happened to bring her to that point?”

“Well she didn't tell me much either, but from what I understand, Faith had secretly friended Nancy's daughter on Facebook and arranged to take her out when the parents weren't supposed to be home. But luckily Nancy canceled her plans at the last minute and then, you know, Faith showed up.”

“Why do you think Faith did that?” Erica asked.

She shrugged. “Well, if there's any bit of humanity in her, she just might want to know something about her family, her own blood. They kept her away from her niece her whole life. But I suspect it was to drive Nancy crazy and just cause more misery in the world. That's what made her happy.”

“How did Nancy react?” I asked.

“Ooh, it was intense.” She gave a theatrical shiver. “I saw her slam the door in Faith's face. And then Nancy opened the door.” She paused dramatically. “With a
shotgun
in her arms.”

“A shotgun?” I couldn't imagine that ultra-suburban mom brandishing a big shotgun like Annie Oakley.

“Yep,” she said. “And this part I could hear clear as day. Nancy yelled that if Faith came anywhere near her family again, she'd shoot her and bury her where no one would find her. And that no one would look for her because no one would miss her or mourn her.”

“What did Faith do?”

“She ran. She hightailed it out of there as fast as she could. And then she squealed away in her car.” She took a breath. “It was very exciting.”

“What did Nancy do next?”

“Well, it's almost like she came to her senses, like she'd been driven right out of her mind for a minute. She looked around to make sure no one had seen her act like that, and closed the door quick.”

“Does she know you saw her?” Erica asked.

“I don't think so. I'm very discreet,” she said with a humble expression.

Hmm. Probably not as discreet as she thought.

“But Nancy did pop over to tell me why it all happened, so maybe she suspected,” she admitted.

“Did Faith ever come back?” I asked.

“No, but something weird happened.” She leaned toward us and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “For a while I thought Nancy had a stalker.”

“What caused you to think that?” Erica asked, writing in her notebook.

“There was a man sitting out in front of her house several times. Right under that tree.” She pointed out the window.

I got to my feet and looked outside. It was a great location for a stakeout. Shade from the tree would not only keep the car cool but would also make it more difficult to see who was inside. “When was that?”

“It started the day after the big scene with Faith,” she said. “I thought it might be Faith herself, but I could tell it was a man.”

“What did you do?”

“The first time, I didn't do anything. He could have been eating lunch or a worker or any number of things. But the second time I got annoyed. He thought he could fool us with a different car. So I walked right out there to tell him to move along.”

I couldn't imagine this little old lady confronting a potential stalker. “What did he do?”

“He saw me coming and peeled out,” she said with pride.

“Did you get his license number?” Erica asked.

“Oh no, dear,” she said. “My eyesight isn't good enough for that.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

“I sure did. He came back in another car, a big van, and I called the police.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” she admitted. “By the time they got here, he was gone.”

“What did he look like?” I asked.

“It was hard to tell, but I got the impression that his hair was dark and he was kinda, I don't know, slouchy.”

“Slouchy?”

“Yes. I pay a lot of attention to posture and he did not have good posture.” She shook her head.

I slowly straightened my spine to sit up properly.

This woman was a gold mine.

*   *   *

S
omehow, another hour flew by as we listened to Celia regale us with stories from her Broadway days. We learned that sometimes a lot more drama and shenanigans happened backstage than onstage.

Celia couldn't see well enough to drive and was looking into an assisted-living home. “One of those places with old people who still have spunk enough left to party.”

She said that Nancy often drove her to the store, or picked up things for her, so if we needed her to find out anything, she could ask Nancy for us. She looked around. “I'll miss this house,” she said. “But change is good. I'm excited to see what comes next.”

I thought of something to ask. “Did you happen to notice if Nancy and Vaughn were home last Sunday night, the night of Faith's murder?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I don't know,” she said. “I was watching an
NCIS
marathon.” She fanned her face with her hand. “Ooh, that Mark Harmon.”

*   *   *

I
t seemed like the whole town, plus a lot of nearby towns, had come through the huge orange-and-black-balloon arch for opening night of the West Riverdale Halloween Festival. Erica and Yvonne dashed around, coordinating last-minute issues, while volunteers helped small children at the carnival games. Screams were emanating from the haunted house. During the many run-throughs, we'd reminded the more gung ho volunteers that enthusiasm was important, but we didn't want to give anyone a heart attack.

Oscar allowed Dylan to work in the haunted house, as long as he arrived in his costume so customers wouldn't know who he was.

Luckily, Reese was in community-event mode, rather than rabid-dog attack mode, taking photos of families in costume and writing down names. She was wearing a witch's hat. I was proud that I kept all of my comments about the appropriateness to myself.