Blessed Is the Busybody (21 page)

I turned back to my daughters. “Did you eat lunch?”

The girls were too immersed in skinning each other to do more than nod.

Ed arrived ten minutes later, looking tired and pale. I sat him at the table and made hot tea with lots of milk and sugar. “A tough one,” I said. “But you got through it.”

“I’ve decided to pre-candidate at Third Church next weekend. One of the local ministers has appendicitis, so there’s an opening for a speaker, and I have that weekend off. The search committee wants to take advantage of it. Unless you have some strong objections.”

I sat across from him. Truth was, I would follow him to the middle of the Mojave if I had to, but I was never going to tell him.

I tempered my response. “I like Boston. We’ll find a community there. We still have friends in the area.”

“But you don’t want to leave Emerald Springs, do you?”

What could I say? That after all my jibes and complaints I was actually beginning to feel at home here? That I thought this might be a good place to raise our daughters? That eventually, when the storm passed us by, this might be a very good life?

Instead, I told a different piece of the truth. “I don’t want to stay if you’re under fire here.”

“At a certain point it becomes counterproductive for everybody.”

I covered his hand. “We could skip the dedication this afternoon.”

“I’m doing the opening prayer. But you don’t have to come.”

“The girls want to play on the new playground. Hopefully it will be short?”

“Senator Carlisle is speaking.”

I groaned. “Call down God’s wrath on his head when you have the chance.”

“I hope you’re kidding.”

“Marginally.”

By two, Teddy had taken everything Deena had worked so hard for on the Monopoly board and Deena had vowed revenge. I was glad they hadn’t yet learned to play Risk. World dominance was more than their relationship could stand.

We drove to the new service center in my van. The city had owned this twelve-acre plot at its outskirts for at least ten years, but there had never been enough money to develop it. Then two consecutive years of crippling winter storms and the absence of well-maintained equipment to deal with them had changed the minds of voters. A levy had passed, and ground had been broken. Now we had an expansive garage to house and service our snowplows, pickups, and leaf blowers, and our very own storage dome.

The Emerald Springs powers-that-be had taken the levy as a mandate and expanded the facility so it would also house the jail and police department. One acre had been set aside for a playground and jogging track with exercise stations, to be joined by a swimming pool and small recreation center, if the voters ponied up again in the future.

The expansion, of course, had come with a price, and apparently this was where Frank Carlisle had come into the picture. My theory was that someone, perhaps our esteemed mayor, had convinced the senator that his help procuring state money for the project would be looked on favorably by local voters. Since Carlisle only won his last election by a nose and was not the favored candidate in Emerald Springs, I suspect the promise of support was too good to refuse.

I told myself leaving Frank Carlisle and Brownie Kefauver behind was one good reason to move. If we didn’t move, I predicted many dedicated hours of struggling to get one or both men voted out of office.

I considered staying at the playground so I would miss the entertainment, but in the end, it was clear the girls would stage a rebellion if I stood on the sidelines. I put Deena in charge of her capitalist sister and found a place on the bottom row of metal bleachers that had been installed for the occasion.

Ed’s prayer was masterful. He asked that the acres be used for the good of all citizens and that all who served those citizens be strong, courageous, compassionate, and honest in their dealings. Unless there was a sudden change of heart, that left out some of the town council, the mayor, and senator. I hope they noticed.

The rest of the afternoon was not so much fun. I had hoped for quick. I got an hour of speeches. At one point, I slipped out to check on the girls, and when I returned Frank Carlisle was still regaling his slumbering captives with stories of his glory days in the legislature. I suspected a filibuster.

The ceremony ended at last. Carlisle was whisked to the sidelines by his bodyguards, Brownie cut the first slice of a Lake Erie-sized cake, and I spotted Roussos at the edge of the crowd.

Since Ed was tied up talking to several council members, I made a beeline for the detective. I was stopped in my tracks by Harry Grey.

Our church secretary looked particularly dapper today in Calvin Klein country wear. “Ed did a good job on that prayer,” he told me.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“Greg’s the architect. Didn’t you know? He made me come. Besides, know thine enemy.” He nodded toward Carlisle, who actually appeared to be autographing programs.

“I can’t believe you submitted to this torture willingly.”

“Among other things, he’s the biggest homophobe in our Senate.”

That did not surprise me. “Maybe we can get rid of him next time around.” I almost winced at my own “we.”

“The Democrats are scouring the district for a candidate for his seat. And there’s already money for a good campaign.” His eyes flicked back to Carlisle.

“I guess people feel passionately for or against.”

“You know Gelsey Falowell contributed generously to the party?”

“Really? I heard she was big on making people work for every single penny.”

“Well, maybe. But she was also big on the environment, on civil rights, on education. She gave every penny she legally could during the last election. She even went door-to-door.”

The woman was a mystery to me in every way. Just when I thought I knew how I should feel about her, I was given more evidence to consider.

When I left, Harry was heading for Carlisle to get his program signed, and maybe to engage in a little unfriendly debate.

I caught up with Roussos just as he said good-bye to a small group of cops in uniform and started away from the gathering. He did not look pleased to see me.

I had been debating exactly how much of what I had learned last night to share with him. I knew that Ed had finally divulged the connection between Jennifer and Gelsey. Roussos had not told my husband he was off the suspect list, but Ed felt the information had made a difference.

“Mrs. Wilcox.”

“Detective. Just the man I need to see.” My breath always seems to clench somewhere between my diaphragm and throat when I talk to Roussos. I’ve known a lot of charismatic men, but this one’s particular combination of, well, everything, sparks a hormonal overload. Having a husband I’m crazy about doesn’t seem to shut down the flow, although it helps enough to keep me from babbling uncontrollably.

“Don’t tell me. You’re on the trail of the murderer, and you need my help.” It wasn’t said with complete disregard for my feelings. There was a small smile that went with it.

“Well, I have some information you’ll be interested in, but maybe I’ll pass it on to somebody with better manners. How do I make an appointment with your captain?”

“You try it and we’ll put your picture up at the station.”

“You try that and I’ll come after you for harassment.”

His smile broadened a millimeter. I had the oddest feeling he actually approved of me.

I seized the moment. “I know Ed told you Jennifer was Gelsey’s daughter.”

He didn’t respond.

“And that the night he found her body he was there to tell Gelsey who Jennifer was.”

“That’s what he says.”

“Well, it’s true. He and I discussed it that evening before he went over to the church. He wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to tell her the truth if it was going to destroy her life. But in the end, there were two factors. First, that someone had killed Jennifer and left her body where Gelsey would see it that morning. And second, that Gelsey had grandchildren she might want to help in some way.”

“Your husband told me this already.”

“He had no reason to kill her. The bequest wasn’t for Ed, for Pete’s sake. It was for the church. What does it matter if she left the money to the endowment fund or she didn’t? There’s no way Ed could get his hands on it.”

“Do you know that one of your members came forward and confided that not long before she died, Mrs. Falowell said she was afraid of Ed?”

I stared at him. This just got worse and worse.

He shrugged.

“That’s plain preposterous,” I said at last. “If she was afraid of him, it was just because Ed wouldn’t do what she wanted. She couldn’t control him, and that probably scared her to death, considering what we now know about her.”

“Maybe . . .”

“This is a man who thinks swatting flies is a moral dilemma. And he doesn’t own a gun and never has. Nobody is afraid of Ed. And where is this weapon he supposedly used? What did he do, rent one and return it by midnight so he’d get his deposit back?”

“Just so you know, I really don’t think your husband murdered anybody.”

“Oh?”

“I just have to cover all my bases.”

I took a moment to calm down. When I spoke it was in a lower voice. “Then I have one more for you to cover.”

“That would be?”

“The fact that Bob Knowles is going to inherit the entire estate except for the amount Gelsey left to the church.”

“That’s one of the first things we checked.”

“Do you also know that Bob’s in financial turmoil? He told me the market played havoc with his investments and for a variety of reasons the store is costing more than he’d expected. He needed an infusion of cash and fast. Gelsey’s death equals infusion.”

This seemed to interest him a little. “He told you that?”

“I work at his store.”

“Remind
me
not to hire you.” His eyes flicked to the crowd in dismissal. “We’ll look into that.”

“Do you know anything about Gelsey’s background?”

“I know the family in Massachusetts is a fake. Lots of people invent better identities for themselves.”

I didn’t think he was as nonchalant as he was pretending. Lots of people didn’t get murdered.

I sweetened the pot. “I could tell you who she was and what she did for a living before she moved here. But maybe you’d rather just figure this out by yourself.”

“When that dimple starts twitching, Mrs. Wilcox, I know you’re trying to get my goat.”

So okay, I have a poor excuse for a dimple in one cheek, and it tends to give away a lot. Now I was afraid it was doing the shimmy.

I subdued it and narrowed my eyes. “Listen, I am not Nancy Drew. I’m tired of going to bed at night wondering exactly who’s going to end up dead tomorrow and where. So if you’ll let me tell you what I know, I’ll be on my way. Maybe it will help me sleep a little better.”

“Never let it be said I added to your insomnia.”

“She was a madam in Las Vegas.” I watched his expression change. I definitely had his attention. In a minute’s time I filled him in on what Lucy and I had uncovered and promised to bring him the documents.

That was just about long enough for Ed to find us. I lowered my voice when I saw him striding toward me. “I haven’t told anybody, not even Ed,” I said. “You’ll keep it as confidential as you can?”

His expression warmed. For a moment he looked more the man, less the Greek God. “Keep your head down and stop snooping, okay? Somebody’s killing women in Emerald Springs. I’d like that dimple to keep twitching.”

15

Fall in Ohio seems to be a well-kept secret. Last year I discovered that the change of seasons is a lot like those I remember in New England, and gawker accidents a lot less common. Emerald Springs is proud of its fine old trees, and by the weekend after Gelsey’s memorial service, they were beginning to show their colors in earnest. We would view an unfolding pageant for the rest of October and perhaps a week or two beyond.

Early Friday morning Ed left for Boston. Thursday night I realized he did not seem enthusiastic about the trip. I donned a teddy and boxers that even Crystal would blacklist and did everything I could to raise his spirits.

Clearly I had to tell the children something about their dad’s absence. By the time Deena came down for breakfast, I was ready.

“Daddy said to tell you good-bye. He’s spending the weekend in Boston. There’s a church that wants to hear him preach.”

Deena was no fool. She was old enough the last time we moved to see how the process worked. “Is he going to change churches again?”

I was casual, friendly, and, unfortunately, transparent. “Nobody’s made any decisions. He’s gathering information, and this is not something you should tell anyone else.”

“I’m not going.”

I set whole-grain pancakes in front of her and envisioned myself turning at the edge of town and waving good-bye to my daughter at the year’s end. “Oh?”

“I’m tired of you making decisions for me. You do it all the time.”

“It’s called being a mom.”

“Well, I like it here, and I’m going to stay. I have friends. Miss Barstow lets me ride whenever I want. Somebody will take me in.”

I put maple syrup on the table with a slight thunk. “I’d advise against that tone when you ask.”

“And while we’re at it, I think this dress code you and the other moms came up with is really stupid.”

“It took more negotiation than a Mideast peace agreement.”

“You shouldn’t be deciding what we can wear. That’s up to us.”

“Deena, there’s nothing in your closet on that list. Your clothes are fine.”

“It’s the principle! You’re telling us what to do. Clothing is personal. It makes a statement.”

This sounded rehearsed. I wondered how many Meanie moms and daughters were having identical discussions over breakfast. Crystal would need more highlights, a manicure, and an hour in a sensory deprivation tank to recover. Of course she’d probably have to drive to California to find a tank.

Internally I chanted my mantra. “Sometimes making a statement isn’t a good thing. The other moms and I want to make sure nobody misunderstands what you’re saying. When you and your friends are older, you’ll be able to face the consequences a little better.”

“Gosh mom . . .” She rolled her eyes. “Just think, if we move to Boston you’ll have to make a new set of friends and a new set of rules. What a waste of time.”

The mantra faded into white noise. I plopped into the seat across from her. “You and I have a lot of arguments ahead. So let’s get the rules straight right now. We will respect each other, and we won’t use sarcasm. We’ll keep our voices down. We’ll remember we’re on the same side, even though it may not always seem like it.”

“What side is that?”

“The side that wants you to grow up to be happy, well-adjusted, and able to make all your decisions without me one day.”

“One day? What day?”

“That depends on you.” I got up to make another pot of coffee. Clearly, I was going to need it.

“I know one rule I want.”

“Uh huh?”

“I want you to listen to me.”

“I plan to listen. I expect to learn a lot from you.”

“You’re just so reasonable.”

I didn’t remind her of the rule against sarcasm. I’d fight that battle with more energy another day. I would fortify myself. I was going to take up weight lifting. Surely Emerald Springs has a gym.

Deena was gone by the time Teddy stood at the front door buttoning a bright red sweater Junie had crocheted for her. “Jimmy still won’t play with me.”

I had wondered how the saga of Jimmy Betts, boy bigot, was unfolding, but I hadn’t wanted to give it undue attention.

“Won’t he?” I unbuttoned the cat-shaped button at the top, which was in the wrong hole, and lined it up correctly. Junie had used Moonpie as a model and sculpted the buttons herself.

Teddy took over, brushing my hands away. “Nobody listens to him anymore. I showed them how to balance on the top of the jungle gym without holding on, and now everybody wants to be my friend.”

I wasn’t sure which was worse, ostracism or broken bones. “Be careful on the jungle gym, sweetie. That’s a long, hard fall.”

“I feel sorry for Jimmy. He looks sad.”

I gave her a big hug. “It’s nice of you to worry about him.”

“I worry about everybody.”

I hugged her again, then forced myself to watch her go. I’m afraid my Teddy is a minister in training. I wonder if it’s too early for an intervention.

With the girls gone I got ready for work. Last Friday the only protestor at the bookstore had barely lasted an hour. At the end of her shift she had consumed the coffee I took to her, cheerfully discussed whether the Emerald High Wizards would win their homecoming game, and left for home.

Today when I arrived, there was no one on the sidewalk. Inside, Bob was alone, but whistling. He looked more relaxed and a lot happier than I had ever seen him. I suspect inheriting a fortune does that to a person.

“I ordered every book on your wish list,” he said without introduction. “Our shelves are going to be packed solid. I’m going to start staying open late on Friday and Saturday nights and scheduling entertainment. I’ll be expanding the menu to include muffins and scones, and bringing in well-known authors for book signings.”

I could live without this job so I blundered ahead. “Finances improved, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“I heard you’re the Falowell heir. News travels fast.”

He didn’t look surprised. “I waited a long time for that money.”

Maybe not long enough.

He must have noted my expression, because his smile faltered. “It was a tough way to come into it,” he said.

“Certainly tough for Gelsey.”

“She was an awful woman. I’d like to tell you I’m sorry, but I’m not. She could have loosened up the purse strings and let me have enough from the estate to get things going month ago, but she refused. Said if I was starving she wouldn’t feed me the crumbs from her plate.”

Unfortunately I could almost hear Gelsey saying it. And where had a similar sentiment gotten Marie Antoinette?

“She hated me,” he said.

“All that hostility because it wasn’t her money free and clear?”

“You seem to know a lot.”

“I seem to need to.”

Bob felt in his pocket for his cigarettes, pulled one out, but didn’t light it. There was a no smoking policy in the store. He spent a lot of time in the alley.

“I’ve never been sure why dear Aunt Gelsey had such a big problem with me. I was grown by the time she joined the family. She was a lot younger than my uncle, and I think he wanted kids, but she never produced. Considering her warm, generous nature, it’s a good thing she never had kids of her own.”

Just as well for Bob, since he was now the heir. I debated, then plowed ahead, watching him closely for a reaction. “Maybe she did.”

“Don’t you think I’d know?” He tapped the cigarette against his palm, hard, like he was stubbing it out.

“I don’t mean with your uncle,” I said. “I mean before.”

“She wasn’t married until she met Uncle Herb.”

“So?”

“What are you trying to tell me, Aggie?”

“There’s a rumor that before she married your uncle she had a child she gave up for adoption.”

Either he was a terrific actor, or he was clearly blown away. “How come I never heard it, then? Me, of all people?”

“It’s just coming to light.”

“So where’s this kid?” He paused. “I guess not much of a kid by now, huh?”

“She’s dead.”

“Double whammy?” He shook his head. “Maybe that explains something, but I don’t know what. Except that my uncle married a woman with secrets, and one who didn’t have a maternal bone in her body.”

“If the daughter was still living she could have caused you some problems.”

He seemed perplexed. “Like what?”

“Sharing the inheritance?”

He gave a humorless laugh. “No problem there. The will is ironclad. That’s what made me so angry. There was no way anybody could touch that money except me, but my aunt still wouldn’t let me have a penny before she died. She couldn’t spend it, but she didn’t want me to. Not even for a bookstore the town really needs.”

I could see why he had disliked Gelsey so much, but I wondered what he
wasn’t
saying. Maybe she had refused to help him, just to keep the upper hand. But maybe she had refused for darker reasons.

Bob was watching me, and I guess my thoughts were more or less clear.

“Hey, I was with friends in Wooster the night my aunt was killed.” Bob was scowling now. “Don’t start thinking I killed her for the money. My hands are clean. I sure didn’t like the woman, but I never hoped she’d die that way.”

I wondered. Jack had kept his key to the infamous “murder” house on the desk at his office. Bob was
at
that same office, sitting across the same desk where the key was kept, several times a week. The key mysteriously disappeared. Figure the probabilities.

I went off to shelve books. I hope Bob’s ideas to improve the store work and soon, because another day passed with only a few customers. By the time I left, I had resorted to pulling books from the shelves and dusting behind them, just for something to pass the time.

Since Ed was out of town, the girls had gone home from school with the Frankels for a sleepover. At six I was expected to join the crowd for May’s superior homemade pizza, but I was so tired from doing nothing that I needed an energy boost before I faced them. I decided to walk home the long way.

Downtown Emerald Springs quietly puts itself to bed about five. Shop bells stop tinkling and Open signs are flipped. The coffee pot at Lana’s Lunch is emptied and washed; the post office parking lot is blocked off with fluorescent orange sawhorses. Tellers at First Agricultural and Buckeye State Savings take off for less orderly worlds. Ahmed Bahram—who’s taught Ed more about Islam than three courses at Harvard Divinity—sweeps and locks his tiny corner deli with its excellent gyros and falafel and mandatory kielbasa.

Maybe Baskin-Robbins and Joe’s Spaghetti House are just beginning to yawn and stretch for the weekend onslaught, but they’re the exception here. Most of our booming restaurants are on the outskirts of town, along with our chain stores and motels.

Tonight I didn’t feel like watching Emerald Springs fold up for the night. The setting sun cast a rosy glow, and the air was pleasantly tinged with wood smoke. I followed my nose to the residential area just south of the parsonage and took my time weaving in and out of streets, admiring the late fall gardens that would soon make way for the first snow of the season.

Once this was the nicest part of town, where the old Emerald Springs families passed down substantial homes on expansive lots. Many of the houses are still beautiful and well cared for; some have been divided into apartments, and the lawns are strewn with tricycles and basketballs. Every fifth house or so has been demolished and two have been squeezed onto the lot, but it’s still a pretty neighborhood, worth enjoying for the architectural furbelows of another day.

Actually, I had chosen this particular scenic walk for another reason. Brownie Kefauver lived here, in a house that has graced this street for well over a century. Brownie and his wife Hazel have no children, but the house, a brick Colonial with paired end chimneys and arched dormer windows, could easily hold half a dozen. Regal and gracious, it stands at the end of a long drive bordered by gigantic poplars.

Today bronze-colored spider mums and flowering kale accented beautifully trimmed evergreens along the front of the house. I stopped to enjoy the effect and figure out whether I had the courage to follow the herringbone brick path to the front door. I wanted to ask Brownie how he had lost his key to the house across from mine. Asking Yvonne had been easy enough, but I wasn’t sure Brownie could even pick me out of a lineup. Why would he tell me when I was nearly a stranger?

I was trying to figure out logistics when something caught my eye. At the far corner of the house, in a grove of river birch trees, stood a birdhouse mounted on a solitary post. Even from a distance I could see that the tiny house strongly resembled Brownie’s historic Colonial.

“Keely.” I walked a little farther to get a better view from the other side of the grove. “Keely, I’ll be darned.” I wondered how Keely had gotten this commission.

The front door opened and Brownie stepped outside. He was dressed in a green jogging suit with racing stripes up the sleeves and legs, and shoes so white I was certain this was their inaugural jog. He put a foot against the brick wall beside his door and unsuccessfully tried to touch his head to his knee.

The opportunity was too good. I walked up the drive, my hand raised in greeting. “Mayor Kefauver . . .”

He looked up. For a moment I was afraid his foot was permanently attached to the brick, because he couldn’t seem to bring it back to the ground. He solved the problem by taking the leg in his hands and shaking it loose.

“Aggie Sloan-Wilcox,” I said, putting out my hand. “Ed Wilcox’s wife.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, pumping my hand. “I’m just setting off for a jog. Stress, you know. Too much of it in my job. I have to cope some way.”

I’ve heard that Hazel Kefauver is the real cause of her husband’s stress. Jack Spratt and his wife have nothing on the Kefauvers. Hazel is twice her husband’s size, a wide, muscular woman who could give Sax Dubinsky a hernia on Mudwrestling Mondays. She has a booming voice and as much hair on her forearms as her head. From gossip I know the house has been in Hazel’s family for four generations. I also know it was Hazel’s idea that her husband run for mayor when it became clear he couldn’t do anything else successfully.