Little Shop of Homicide (15 page)

“How did you know he was her lawyer?”

“There are only three attorneys listed in the Shadow Bend phone book. Since I assume St. Onge would have mentioned to you if he represented the vic, I went to see the other two.” Jake shrugged. “I had to flash my badge to get the information, but Oberkircher finally told me that Joelle had no next of kin listed in her will, but there’s not much money or property involved, and everything goes into a trust for her dog.”

“So, just as you and Tony suspected, she was nearly broke.” I digested that tidbit, then said, “Do you think she was only marrying Noah for his money and he discovered that and killed her?”

“The only way to find out is to talk to Dr. Underwood.”

I knew that, but I didn’t want to accept what had to be done. Facing my high school boyfriend after so many years of avoiding him would be awkward at best and very possibly downright excruciating.

Noah and I had been friends since the first time we’d been paired up for dance lessons when we were six years old. Our ancestors had been among the five founding families of Shadow Bend, and we were constantly together at town social functions. Once we became teenagers, it had seemed natural for us to become sweethearts, and once we started dating we were inseparable. Each of us became the most important person in the other’s world. Until Jake walked into my life yesterday, I had never felt that same passion toward any other man.

Jake put his hands in his jeans pockets. “What time will you be finished here?”

“The meeting ends at nine, but it’ll take me fifteen or twenty minutes to clean up and get the store ready for tomorrow.”

“I’ll pick you up at quarter after.”

“That’s not a good idea.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Explaining Shadow Benders to folks who hadn’t grown up here was always tough. “People around these parts keep to a pretty rigid schedule. ‘Early to bed and early to rise’ isn’t just an old proverb to them.”

“Fair enough.” Jake buttoned his coat. “Since the store’s only open half a day tomorrow, how about I come by to get you at noon?” He picked up his hat. “I checked, and the Underwood Medical Clinic closes at eleven thirty on Thursdays.” As he left, he said, “You need to figure out where the doc will be after he finishes there.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” I called after Jake, but he was already gone. I muttered to myself, “I’m not even sure he’s back at work. After all, his fiancée died just a few days ago.”

A
t quarter to six the sewing circle members started to arrive. The first to pull up, squealing into the prime front-of-store parking spot, was a dented old muscle car with a duct-taped front grille and a spiderweb crack on the windshield. Between the primer and the rust, it was hard to determine the vehicle’s original color.

A girl in her early twenties unfolded from the driver’s seat. With her carrot red hair and bright clothing, she was a dead ringer for a grown-up Pippi Longstocking. People often underestimated Zizi Todd, just as they did Hannah. Zizi’s appearance suggested an airhead, but in fact she was in graduate school studying to become a clinical social worker.

I greeted Zizi, but she rushed past me, calling over her shoulder as she thrust open the bathroom door in the back of the store, “Traffic was heinous and I’ve had to pee for the past hour.”

A few minutes later she joined me in the craft corner just in time for the arrival of Winnie Todd, Zizi’s mother. Winnie was the original flower child. Her long gray hair was a froth of frizzy curls down her back, and her tie-dyed T-shirt sported a peace symbol.

She’d left Shadow Bend to live in San Francisco during
the mid-sixties, but had returned, sans husband, in the late eighties to have her only child. Several of the townspeople had expressed concern that she was not only a single mother but also pregnant at forty-three.

Winnie made it clear that she had plenty of money, having inherited a sizable estate from her grandparents, and that the doctors had assured her the fetus was healthy, but her words fell on deaf ears. Which was no surprise to me. Being of sound and logical mind in Shadow Bend doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll be understood or appreciated.

I put down the tape measure I’d been holding and relieved Winnie of what looked like a mutated sewing machine, asking, “What do you have here?”

“It’s a serger so we can finish the edges of the blankets,” she explained. “Did you get the satin binding I e-mailed you about?”

“Yep.” I pointed behind me. “It’s on the cart with the bolts of fleece and the thread.”

Both Winnie and Zizi cared deeply for their fellow human beings, and together they had cofounded this sewing circle dedicated to supporting the county’s homeless shelter. Currently the group consisted of twenty women ranging in age from sixteen to eighty-three. Each member paid for her own materials and donated the finished products either directly to the shelter or to the shelter’s resale shop.

While Zizi and Winnie hugged and exchanged news of their day, I slipped into the storage room and phoned my grandmother. I hated leaving her alone for twelve hours, but at least Wednesday was the only day the store was open past six. Birdie assured me she was fine, and she seemed disappointed to hear I would be coming home right after work rather than meeting up with Jake.

By the time I returned to the craft area, most of the other seamstresses had arrived. Coats were off, fleece was being cut into two-and-a-half-yard lengths, and sewing machines were whirring.

As I moved closer to the tables, I noticed that there was an unusually high volume of whispering and clucking going on. My heart skipped a beat. Had word of Woods’s investigation of me gotten out?

Ducking behind a rack of scrapbook pages, I listened to the discussion.

Cyndi Barrow, the Country Club Cougar whom Poppy had suggested we interview, was one of several women whom I hadn’t expected to join the sewing circle, yet she had shown up for the first meeting and faithfully attended all the subsequent ones. She finished touching up her lipstick and said, “I really wasn’t at all surprised to hear that someone had killed her.”

Zizi paused in midcut, her shears half open. “Why is that?”

Cyndi tucked the golden tube into her purse and said, “I hate to speak ill of the dead.”

“But… ?” Winnie’s unconventional features rearranged themselves into an encouraging smile.

“Well.” Cyndi’s voice sank to a whisper and I had to abandon my cover and move closer to hear her next remark. “She was just so mean.”

“That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” Zizi frowned. “I thought you two were friends.”

“We were, but…” After a predictable show of reluctance Cyndi continued. “About a month ago a bunch of us were shopping in Kansas City, and when we came out of the restaurant where we’d had lunch a guy walked up to Joelle and said, ‘I haven’t eaten anything in four days.’ The rest of us were searching our purses for change, but she stared him straight in the eye and said, ‘God, I wish I had your willpower.’ Then she and Anya and Gwen just strolled away, laughing their heads off.”

“Okay. You’re right.” Zizi nodded. “She was a pathetic excuse for a human being.”

Apparently word of Joelle’s murder had spread, but my involvement had not. Since no one had taken any notice of me, I allowed myself a relieved sigh.

After that exchange, talk turned to the weather, how bad it had been; television, how bad it had been; and children, how bad they had been. The women took a fifteen-minute break at seven thirty, and for five dollars each, I provided coffee, tea, and a selection of cookies and pastries.

Payment was on the honor system—the women put their money in an old cigar box—so after making sure there were plenty of cups, plates, utensils, and napkins, I went back to working on the store’s books. I sat on a stool with my laptop on the smooth marble counter and lost myself in the world of Quicken.

Only a few minutes had gone by when I jerked my head up, suddenly interested in a conversation between Zizi and her mother.

“Are you coming to the lunch meeting tomorrow for the shelter committee?” Winnie took a sip from her mug, then a bite of chocolate chip cookie.

“I thought it was canceled.” Zizi licked the icing off a red velvet cupcake.

“Me, too.” Winnie frowned, spreading wrinkles across her face like ripples in a pond. “But Dr. Underwood insisted we have it. Do you know that since his fiancée’s death, he didn’t even take a day off from the clinic? He said Joelle wouldn’t want his patients to suffer on her account.”

“He’s such a good man.” Zizi had a dreamy expression on her face.

I ground my teeth. Noah had everyone fooled. His choirboy good looks were such a deceptive image. It might have been thirteen years since he dumped me, and he might be a good doctor, but I still didn’t trust him. Maybe if he’d apologized once we were adults, I would’ve been able to forgive and forget, but he hadn’t, so my hurt feelings had never healed.

Winnie smiled fondly. “Yes, he is.” Her smile turned rueful. “If his mother wasn’t such an ogre, I’d suggest you ask him out once he’s over losing his fiancée.”

At least Nadine’s true colors were evident to others, and I now knew where Noah would be tomorrow afternoon. Correction: I would know as soon as I found out the luncheon location.

At eight fifty, I announced that the sewing circle had ten minutes to finish up, and then I returned to the register to handle any final purchases the women might have. I loved ringing items up on the old brass cash register. Its distinctive ding always made me smile.

Winnie was the last to leave, and when she came over to say good-bye, I said as casually as I was able, “I heard you and Zizi talking about the shelter lunch meeting. Where’s it being held?”

“The Manor.” She smiled. “Are you thinking of joining our committee?”

“Uh.”
Crap!
I should have thought of an excuse before I asked. “Well…”

“Wait a minute.” Winnie scrunched up her face, obviously replaying the conversation she’d had with Zizi, then gave me a sharp look. “Are you hoping to run into Dr. Underwood? Everyone in town thinks you two should be together. Do you still have feelings for him?”

“No!” I shook my head so vehemently I felt my eyes cross. “But a friend of mine wants to talk to him, so when I overheard you mention his name…”

“I see.” Winnie’s expression softened. “I always thought it was a shame that things didn’t work out between you two.”

“We were too young.” I repeated the same words I’d been saying for the last thirteen years.

I loved living in a small town, but Shadow Bend had better data storage than the Internet. The memory in the collective brain of its residents was both an amazing and a cruel phenomenon. There were wonderful memories of victorious high school sports teams, lovely summer festivals, and other good times. But there were also pitiless memories of poor choices, appalling judgment, and pure bad luck. Unfortunately, once such events
were etched in the town’s memory there was no erasing them. The DELETE key didn’t exist, and fresh starts were hard to come by. Shadow Benders never forgot.

Winnie must have seen through my bland expression because she said, “You know, everyone in town is thrilled you bought the dime store since we all love it. And nothing that your parents did, and nothing that that awful Mr. Stramp did, was your fault.” She reached out and patted my hand. “Sometimes we have to accept that we can do all the right things and there’s still a terrible outcome.”

“I understand that.” I smiled at her, then shook my head. “I just wish fate wasn’t such a bitch.”

The Manor was located on a man-made lake midway between Shadow Bend and Sparkville. It attracted diners from as far away as Kansas City, catering to the affluent for both a fine-dining experience and elaborate parties. I had attended a wedding reception there many years ago, but I’d never eaten in the restaurant. My vague memory of the place warned that it was both elegant and intimidating, so I had dressed accordingly in camel wool slacks and a sea green sweater set.

As Jake turned his pickup into the long driveway, a fox ran out of the trees and paused at the edge of the pavement. He eyed the truck warily, sniffed the air, turned, and with a twitch of his tail scampered away. His fur gleamed russet red in the afternoon sun, and I twisted my neck so I could watch him out of the pickup’s rear window. I straightened in my seat only after he disappeared into the woods.

Jake handed his keys over to a valet; then we climbed one of the twin marble staircases and went through the imposing brick entrance. Stepping into the stunning lobby, I admired the Thomas Moser chairs and a sideboard displaying a collection of Murano glass. From the dining room came the sound of a harpsichord playing a Bach prelude, and it took me a moment to realize the music was live.

As Jake approached the hostess podium, I studied a pair of large gilt-framed paintings on the side wall. They may not have been original works of art, but they could have fooled me. Which said a lot, considering that as part of my previous occupation I had been required to possess a working knowledge of the value and authenticity of artwork, antiques, and the other trappings of wealth. It was an odd job qualification to insist on, but Mr. Stramp had wanted his employees to be able to judge a client’s bank account by his or her possessions.