Crops and Robbers (15 page)

“I don’t think she did either, Miriam,” I said. I looked at Bo, who was sitting in one of the blue chairs. I was the only one on the big blue couch. Miriam had placed a platter full of Bo’s “ultrafamous” snickerdoodles on the coffee table in front of me. I was only going to eat one, but I was on my third. Bo didn’t advertise his baking skills, but Miriam made sure I knew that her son knew his way not only around an onion field but also around a kitchen, particularly when it came to snickerdoodles.

“Mom, Becca would like to hear more about Joan and Nobel. What do you remember about the arsenic scandal with Nobel? I don’t remember the details, but Viola and I thought you might.”

“Oh, of course! I’d forgotten all about that. Nobel’s such a strange character that the arsenic incident doesn’t stand out from so many other things he did.”

“Like what?”

“Nobel’s always been odd, in a quiet, withdrawn way. I should say he used to be and probably still is; I haven’t spent any time around him for years. Before I tell you what I remember about him, you need to know that my relationship with Joan ended badly, so my story might be tainted. Full disclosure and all. Anyway, at Joan’s request, we cut our prices really low for association members. Really, sweetie, we cut them
low
. Joan came to me one day and said we were still charging too much and that she’d gotten a better deal somewhere else. Would we meet it? We just couldn’t. We had to say no. She didn’t like that answer and had all the restaurant owners buy from someone else.”

“I can see how that would be bad for the friendship,” I said as I reached for cookie number four.

Miriam waved her hand through the air. “Yes indeed. Here’s the bugger, though. Everyone had to pay more for their onions from the new vendor. They still do.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Miriam shrugged. “Neither did we. It still baffles us to this day. The restaurant owners who are a part of the association tell me they signed some agreement that forces them to buy the onions from the approved vendor.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t care what I signed—plus I’d never sign something like that anyway—I would buy my stuff from whomever I wanted to buy my stuff from.”

“There’s the rub. The restaurant owners love being a part of the association. Joan must be—oh sorry”—Miriam put her fingers to the bottom of her throat—“
must have been
a great leader. People loved her.”

“Someone didn’t,” Bo interjected as he leaned forward for a cookie.

“Right,” Miriam said. “Well, again you need to understand that whatever I tell you about Nobel and the arsenic might be tainted by that uncomfortable history.”

“I understand,” I said, my mouth still full of cookie. I sat on my hands to keep them from reaching for number five.

“As I said, Joan and I became friends some time ago, not ancient history like your momma and I, but history enough to have both witnessed our kids growing from teenagers to adulthood, although our kids were never friends. Bo was always working on the farm, and Nobel was always working in the kitchen. They went to different schools, Bo to Monson and Nobel to that private school in Smithfield. After high school Nobel started working full-time for his mom. Bistro isn’t open in the mornings and that’s when Nobel would experiment. That’s also where I’d go to visit with Joan. When my mother retired, she moved to Smithfield. I was there frequently to help her out. Anyway, my heavens, the smells that would come from the restaurant’s kitchen. Most of the time delicious, but sometimes something would go wrong and stink to high heaven. Joan and Nobel would shrug it off as just another learning experience.”

“That sounds reasonable,” I said.

“Sure, but it was when one of the restaurant guests, someone whose son had allegedly bullied Nobel in school, became very ill that Nobel’s ways with mixtures came into question. Darn it, now I’m wondering if I’m remembering that correctly. I’m not sure. The customer—can you remember his name, Bo?”

“No, but I remember the name being in the newspaper stories.”

“Story. There was only one. Somehow, some way, Joan stopped the presses! Oh, hang on, Becca you need to go talk to Elliot Nelson. He’s older than the dinosaurs and has been the
Monson Gazette
publisher for years. He still cranks out that silly little paper, and people still read it. He’ll either remember the details or can look them up for you.”

“Good idea. I will. Do you remember what happened to the person who was allegedly poisoned?” I said.

“I think he was fine. All the gossip fizzled when he didn’t die a tragic death—you know, something that included foaming at the mouth or bleeding from the eyes,” Miriam said as she dramatically held her hand to her forehead.

I didn’t think my visit with Miriam had given me much more insight into Nobel and the arsenic, but I was glad I’d taken the time to meet her. It was fun to get to know a friend of my parents, particularly of my mother’s. Plus, I got to enjoy Bo’s snickerdoodles.

After two more cookies and a few more laughs, they walked me to the door. Miriam pinched my arm gently and said, “Find a place on one of your walls for a portrait, sweetie. When I saw you handle that rat, a picture immediately took form in my noggin. Delightful, so delightful!”

The
Monson Gazette
, the local weekly newspaper, had been
published by Elliot Nelson since the beginning of time, that much I knew. I also knew where Elliot lived and that he produced the small tabloid-sized paper in his home. He also wrote and edited most of the paper’s content. He had a few contributors, but for the most part the paper was all Elliot.

I headed back to Monson and Elliot’s small, perfectly square, white house. The house was set back from the road, and the yard was large. The entire setup looked uncomfortable and wrong, oddly sized, but if Elliot hadn’t moved before now, he probably never would.

I parked my truck and hiked the long sidewalk to the front door. I’d never met him, but he shopped at Bailey’s sometimes—although as far as I could remember, he’d never bought anything from me.

I pulled open an old screen door and knocked on the light-colored solid wood of the main door.

An instant later, Elliot opened it. He was tall and thin with a head full of brown hair. He either dyed it or got lucky and he wasn’t going to go gray. His face was full of deep wrinkles, the kind that left no hint of what a person might have looked like before they had them. He must have been close to eighty, but I’d heard people say that his job kept him young.

“Today’s my press day. Is there something urgent you need?” he asked as he took off the readers that had been perched on the end of his round nose.

“Hi, Elliot, I’m Becca Robins. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to you about a story you ran some time ago.”

He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “My archives are at the library. Check there when they open tomorrow.”

“I know that’s where the archives are located, but I really want to talk to you, see what you remember.”

“It’s press day, Becca Robins.”

“I know. I promise I won’t take much of your time.” He was about to close the door on me when I said, “It’s about a murder.”

That got his interest. The door quit closing, and his dark eyebrows rose, which smoothed out the wrinkles on his cheeks but added more to his forehead.

“Come in. We’ll talk while I work.”

I’d realized that people are always interested in murder. They are intrigued by at least some part of it—the gruesomeness or the motives or the personalities. What drives people to commit such a crime? Murder is a good conversation starter.

I didn’t get to see much of the house because Elliot disappeared though a doorway immediately to the right of the front door. I followed him down some narrow stairs and into the basement, which was just one big room.

Because of his reputation, I expected to see one of those old-fashioned printing presses, the kind for which you had to put block letters into place and then pull a big handle to transfer ink to paper.

That wasn’t even close to Elliot’s setup.

There was an enormous futuristic thing on one side of the room that looked like a copying machine on steroids. Elliot’s desk was on the other side of the room. It was one large table that was covered in stacks of paper, a computer keyboard, and a computer monitor that was the size of some of the newer flat-screen televisions.

“Wow,” I said because I couldn’t help myself.

“You like?” he asked proudly. “I love technology. I paste up my entire paper here”—he pointed at the monitor—“and print it out there.” He pointed at the uber-printer. “I still distribute the old-fashioned way with newspaper delivery boys and girls, but other than that I’m top-of-the-line.”

I’d heard that the newspaper business was suffering. That was not the impression I got from Elliot’s office.

“Wow,” I said again.

“Target marketing,” he said. “I keep my news local and small-town. I don’t make a millionaire’s living, but I’ve kept my circulation up when the larger newspapers haven’t. I’ll be online soon, too, but I won’t be free.” He wagged a finger at me.

“I understand,” I said.

“Here, sit and tell me about this murder you mentioned.” Elliot unfolded a metal chair and placed it facing his.

I sat. “Well, I’d like to know more about the Nobel Ashworth story and his attempted poisoning with arsenic.”

Elliot’s eyebrows came together instead of rising this time. The wrinkles around his mouth deepened. “How is this about a . . . oh, Joan Ashworth! But Joan wasn’t killed by poisoning, she was killed in a barn with a knife. Oh, hang on.” He turned and looked at some papers on his desk. “Becca Robins. It was in your barn. Your mother was arrested.”

“That’s right,” I said, impressed at how quickly he put the pieces together.

“I still don’t understand. Why do you want to know about the alleged poisoning? There was no poison involved in Joan’s death, was there?”

“I’m looking for something that might turn the bright light of suspicion off my mother. I’m looking everywhere at everyone.” I realized there was no point in lying to Elliot. He was sharp and he was a journalist. If I lied, he might find a way to use it against me. If I told him the truth, maybe he’d help.

“I see.”

I’d pulled a bait and switch, I knew. He might get angry with my tactics and ask me to leave, but I hoped not. I was there and he could probably tell me what I wanted to know quickly. Maybe chastising me wouldn’t be worth it.

He sighed. “I’ll tell you what happened and give you a copy of the one story the paper ran regarding the incident.” He stood and went to a file cabinet next to the printer. “I don’t have it scanned into my computer yet, so a paper copy will have to do.”

“That’d be great.”

Elliot thumbed through a file and said, “There were two big misconceptions regarding the story. The biggest one was that Joan stopped me from writing more about what happened. She didn’t. She couldn’t have. No one could have. If there’s a story, I write it.”

“Then why was there only one story?”

“Just a minute and I’ll explain, but it should be evident. People were interested in making a bigger deal of it than it was, though. Here, have a look.” Elliot handed me a single piece of paper. It wasn’t a copy of the paper itself but a copy of the story as it had been written on a word processing program. I had an urge to ask to see the copy of the paper, but he’d probably tell me to go to the library again.

The story read:

The story sounded just like something from the
Monson Gazette
; it was professional yet peppered with local small-town flavor and Elliot’s attitude.

“It was a nonissue,” I said, wondering why Viola, Miriam, and Bo remembered it being such a big deal.

“Yes and no,” Elliot said. “Yes, because, well, Ralston wasn’t poisoned. I did investigate the incident further and I had some other suspicions, but I couldn’t ever confirm anything, so I couldn’t print anything. I only print the truth, Ms. Robins.”

“What were the other suspicions?” I asked.

Elliot looked at me, his wrinkles moving and reshaping with his expressions.