Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery) (16 page)

I didn’t know the next few greeters but assumed they were family members. They were not Harris, Elise, or their parents, thank heavens, nor even the less-antagonistic Walt Hainner. Once I’d gotten through the line, I was able to breathe again.

Although I now saw Dinah and Judy sitting in the middle of a row near the front, I approached Arvie and Reed. Fortunately, they had an empty seat near them.

As I sat down, people began walking onto the stage. I saw Les Ethman move down the side aisle and take a seat near other City Council members, including Billi Matlock. Some of Billi’s upper-echelon family members sat in front of them.

I assumed that anyone who was anybody from this town was here, no matter what they’d actually thought about Myra. Too bad I couldn’t take a poll as to who really cared that she wasn’t around any longer and who was there just to score points with other elite Knobcone Heights residents.

“Hello, everyone.” The female voice was raspy over the loudspeaker system. Elise Hainner, dressed in a slinky black dress, held a microphone in her black-gloved hand. Her husband Walt was right beside her, also dressed in black—a button-down shirt and trousers. On the stage now were Harris and his parents, all in black too and staring sad-faced toward their audience.

“Thank you for coming,” Elise announced. “In case you’re wondering what we’re planning, it will be a celebration of the life of Myra Landrum Ethman, my dear sister-in-law.”

I wondered if any of Myra’s blood relatives were here—and, in any event, what they’d thought of her. But if none had been in town at the time of the murder, I couldn’t consider them as possible suspects.

“We’re going to make this fairly informal,” Elise continued. “I’ve already got a list of people who will come up here and talk, but feel free to join us—though we’ll have to cut it off if the service gets too long.”

Elise seemed right at home up there in front of everyone. I wondered what she’d done for a living before taking over at the resort. Her husband was a contractor. Had she designed homes? Sold them?

Presented memorial services?

Or had she done nothing, the way her brother Harris had until his wife had bought him a pet store to manage?

Elise next launched into her sister-in-law’s life history, as if she’d seen it all.

Had they really been that close? Maybe so.

My mind, and eyes, wandered as she spoke. I wasn’t surprised to see that my newest best friends, those detectives, were among the people seated in the audience. Like me, they must have been there to observe the show—and see if they could glean any antagonism against Myra among the mourners. I certainly didn’t object to that. Maybe they’d be convinced to aim their suspicions in a different direction.

Unless they’d spotted me, too, and were waiting for me to say or do something to provide irrefutable evidence of my guilt.

For the next half hour, I watched and listened as person after person walked out on the stage area, took the microphone, and described his or her relationship with Myra, all in the most eloquent and sorrowful language. Music was piped in from somewhere, kept low but possibly representing some of Myra’s favorites songs, everything from current pop to music from Broadway shows.

It was an amazing presentation, all the more astounding because it had been put together so quickly.

Plus, there were so many folks who had nothing but nice things to say about Myra.

Apparently Myra had gotten a degree in tourism management and had held jobs in L.A. and San Diego at various hotels before winding up here in the San Bernardino Mountains. She’d started at the reception desk at the Knobcone Heights Resort and worked her way up to manager.

Neal wasn’t here. I’d called him on my way over, in case he had some interest in coming. He’d called me back and said he’d requested the time off but was told that although his caring was appreciated, he could do more in support of Myra’s memory if he just stayed at the resort and did his job.

Too bad. I’d have liked to have had his company. Plus, it might have been a good thing for Neal to hear this part, at least. His main goal these days was to head as many outdoor escapades as possible, since he considered boating, hiking, and skiing to be his bliss. But lately that hadn’t been working out. Maybe hearing Myra’s story would ignite some other interest in him.

Or not.

I was listening to it, though. And I admitted to myself, although I wouldn’t to anyone else, that Myra’s story got to me. She might have been nasty to me, but there were obviously a lot of people she’d gotten along with just fine. More than fine. She’d been cared for by some, both family members and friends. She’d inspired others as she had worked her way up at the resort and caught the Ethman family’s attention, especially Harris’s. From the descriptions of those who had reported to her, she had been an inspirational leader, even though she hadn’t put up with any mistakes. Maybe that was because she never made any.

Or at least, no one who was given time off work to attend the service had ever noted any on her part.

Sitting among all the other mourners, I heard whispers and sighs and even a wail now and then. When I looked around, people tended to be staring raptly at whoever was speaking or down into their own laps, perhaps hiding tears—or disbelief.

I sometimes looked out the large side windows toward the lake, just to escape momentarily from the room’s emotions.

I glanced often toward Arvie, whose expression was solemn but didn’t seem to convey great sorrow. And every time I looked toward Reed, he looked back at me, his dark brown eyes questioning and caring. I had the sense that he’d come here more for me than to mourn Myra, and I appreciated it.

Among those who spoke were Harris, of course, and both of his parents. Apparently Myra had fit their version of an elite Ethman. The two children of Harris and Myra both said something brief and tearful. The daughter must have come back from college to mourn her mother, but the high school age boy appeared to grieve even more.

My odd, caring, sad mood seemed to carry me away, and at one point I had an urge to go and stand in front of everyone and take that microphone, relate the story of my non-relationship with Myra, explain how I regretted her death for many reasons—and tell everyone here that I’d had nothing to do with it despite our argument.

But that wasn’t exactly in keeping with the spirit of the day. And my doing so was unlikely to convince anyone of my veracity anyway. They’d probably consider it self-serving and entirely inappropriate for today’s memorial.

So I just sat there.

After about an hour, at least a dozen people, maybe more, had expressed their sorrow, and Elise again took the microphone.

I could see even from here that her eyes were damp. “Thank you all for coming. And our particular thanks to all of you who got up here to talk about our Myra. We don’t have her back yet to bury her, and that ceremony will be a private family affair.”

And then it was over.

Which was a good thing. I hadn’t intended to stay away from my shops this long, but there’d been no graceful way to depart.

Everyone started leaving the House of Celebration. I heard laughter, as if some people needed to change the subject fast to keep from crying. I heard others talking about Myra.

“You all right?” Reed took my arm as we waited for a break in the crowd so we could leave our row.

“More or less. I think this was a lovely thing to do, and it was handled well. But—”

“You did come. We thought maybe you wouldn’t,” Dinah said. She and Judy stood near the end of our row, holding the crowd back so we could leave. Arvie was first, followed by Reed, then me.

“Thanks,” I told my assistants. “Are you going back to the stores now?” Fortunately, they were.

When all of us finally made it outside, I saw that the crowd was mostly dispersing. But as I started to thank Reed and head toward my car, I saw Billi Matlock looking in my direction. She gestured for me to join her on a tree-shaded path along the vast lawn on the inland side of the building.

I didn’t like the idea since she was with some fellow council members, including Les Ethman. But my friendship with Billi seemed to be growing, and I figured it would be in my best interests to learn what she wanted.

As I got nearer I had an urge to ignore Billi and dash in the opposite direction, since others had joined the group. Some I believed were Billi’s relatives. And some I knew were Les’s. Many had spoken about Myra at the service.

But even if it could be a bad idea to join them, I had nothing to be ashamed of and I wanted everyone to know it.

“I need to talk to Billi,” I told Reed, who was still at my side.

“Okay, then I will too,” he said, earning him another brownie point or two in my estimation.

I was especially glad he was still with me since, as I approached the group, so did the two detectives. Harris Ethman was there now, and even Elise and Walt.

Walt saw me and broke away from the others. He stopped me before I reached them—by design? Was he protecting me too, as Reed was attempting to do?

“Thanks for coming, Carrie.” His voice was hoarse, his eyes moist. “This was a very moving memorial, wasn’t it?”

Interesting. Had he been that close to his sister-in-law, or was he just an emotional person?

I didn’t get a chance to ask, since the two cops suddenly joined us.

“Hey,” Detective Wayne Crunoll said. “Ms. Kennersly and Mr. Hainner, two of my favorite people. What did you think of the memorial?”

“Yeah,” said Detective Bridget Morana. “Did it give either of you any urge to talk too … to us?”

Was she implying that we were so upset we might confess?

We? No, most likely just one of us.

But she said “either of you.” That wasn’t only me.

Did Walt have enough of a motive to kill Myra that the authorities were pestering him about it, too?

FOURTEEN

I
NTERESTING,
I
THOUGHT.
B
UT
now wasn’t the time to ask those kinds of questions.

Maybe the detectives, who’d not exactly discouraged me before from trying to figure out who actually killed Myra, would be amused if I started asking questions now.

But I didn’t trust them. They’d probably been teasing me, assuming I’d only dig a deeper hole for myself by attempting to find someone else to toss into it—a better suspect—when they seemed to believe that no one could be a better suspect than me.

So, although this wasn’t a good time, I’d have to figure out when I could learn more about Walt and his possible motive.

Was that why he’d acted nice to me when so many people in his family were giving me a hard time? But if he actually was guilty, wouldn’t he have encouraged them to think I was the killer?

“Is something wrong here, detectives?” Elise joined her husband and stuck her arm through his.

If I hadn’t already known Elise was an Ethman, I’d have guessed it from the two detectives’ behavior, since they immediately smiled and denied they were there for anything but being nice fellow citizens of Knobcone Heights who had come to mourn Myra and were now simply chatting like everyone else.

The gleam in Bridget’s narrowed brown eyes as she glared at me suggested otherwise, though—it seemed she knew I was the guilty one but was willing to consider someone else, like Walt, until she had enough evidence to haul me in.

Okay, I was reading an awful lot into that snide look. It could have meant nothing at all. But it was time for me to go.

Like Elise, I had someone whose arm I could grab: Reed’s. “Sorry,” I said to the others as I stood close to him. “I need to get back to my stores. But I found the celebration very moving. I know you don’t trust me or believe me, but I’m sorry that Myra is gone—and that’s not because I had anything to do with her death. Honest.”

I turned and was glad I didn’t have to pull Reed to get him to stay with me. He walked at my side toward the large parking lot that was now nearly vacant of cars.

I heard mutters behind me but didn’t know who said what. I assumed some might be calling me not only a killer but a liar, too.

I could possibly say the same about one of them and have it actually be true. But if so, which one?

If I had a choice it wouldn’t be Walt, although I’d already figured that his niceness could be an act to turn my suspicion away from him.

Well, damn. I really needed to do some digging to figure out if he had a viable motive. Didn’t I?

Oh, how I wished I didn’t. That none of this affected me.

“Are you okay, Carrie?” Reed had slowed despite my efforts to nearly run away from the group behind us.

“Sure,” I fibbed. It wasn’t an out-and-out lie. I was sort of okay.

And sort of upset.

Reed stopped altogether, which made me halt too, since I held his arm tightly. I gasped and looked up at him.

“No, you’re not. You shouldn’t have gone to Myra’s memorial, but—”

“And you shouldn’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.”

That came out much harsher than I’d intended, and I felt my free hand go up to my mouth as if I wanted to shove what I’d said back inside me. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean—”

He put one sturdy, warm finger over my mouth to stop me, a finger on a hand that had caressed and cared for more pets than I could possibly count. That perhaps someday might caress me. We had already kissed briefly. But that had been all … so far.

We were standing in the parking lot now and I realized we were beside his nice black luxury car. Of course he had stopped. My own old white Toyota was only a row away.

I looked up at him. I hadn’t paid a lot of attention before to what he was wearing that afternoon, but he’d put on a dark suit that looked great with his wavy black hair. He had a touch of the five-o’clock shadow that he tended to have at this time of day.

And he was looking back down at me with his caring dark eyes.

“I know you need to get back to your stores, Carrie. I need to get back to the clinic. But let’s get together for dinner tonight, okay? And not at the resort. Someplace nice and neutral and unemotional.”