Murder by Mushroom (9 page)

A
fter a dessert of Shaker lemon pie and a leisurely stroll around the lush grounds, the group split up. Jackie rode in the silence of Margaret’s car, jotting down thoughts from her two interviews of the day. Margaret, staring pensively ahead, refused to be drawn into conversation.

As the car approached town, they passed the turnoff to the city dump.

“Hey, look at that.” Jackie pointed toward a police car in the road, a blinker signaling its intention of turning onto Mrs. Farmer’s street. As Margaret’s car whizzed by, Jackie caught sight of the man in the passenger seat. “Wasn’t that Detective Conner?”

“I think so. I wonder if they’re going back to Alice’s house for something.”

Jackie twisted in her seat to watch the police car execute the turn and disappear down the street. “Why don’t we follow them and find out?”

“Sorry, I don’t have time. I have an appointment this afternoon.”

Jackie studied Margaret’s suddenly closed expression. Did she really have an appointment, or was that just an excuse to get rid of her?

“You know, Margaret, I know you don’t approve of my investigation—” she tried to keep the hurt out of her voice “—or think I’m capable of handling it.”

“It’s not that.” Margaret gave her a quick smile before returning her eyes to the road. “I’m sure you can find things out, maybe even some things the police wouldn’t be able to find. I just worry about all the people who might be hurt in the process.”

“I know, I know. Gossip is terrible. But I think I handled myself pretty well at lunch.”

“You did, but that’s just what I’m talking about. I don’t believe for a minute that Esther killed Alice. But your questions dredged up some painful memories for her, just like they did for Sharon this morning. Who else will be hurt before this is over?”

Jackie resolutely ignored the memory of Sharon’s furious expression and the twinge of guilt that accompanied it. She would apologize to Sharon the first chance she got, and from now on she would handle things better. Still, she couldn’t ask questions about Mrs. Farmer without dredging up unpleasant feelings. The old woman seemed to have that effect on people. “You know what they say. You have to break a few eggs—”

“—to make an omelet. I know.” Margaret smiled wryly. “I hate making omelets. They never turn out like I want them to.”

When Margaret’s Buick pulled out of the parking lot of Jackie’s apartment building, Jackie went straight to her own car. She needed to get some cat food anyway, and since she was going out, she might as well drive by Mrs. Farmer’s house. If the police were looking for new clues, she intended to be there when they found them.

A police car and a white van filled the narrow driveway. Jackie left her car parked on the street and walked across the yard. The front door opened while she was still several feet away.

“Miss Hoffner,” said Detective Conner, spearing her with a green gaze. “What brings you here on this fine afternoon?”

Jackie ignored the arrogance in his tone. “I was going to ask you the same.”

“We’re here on official business. And you? Come to do some more housecleaning?”

At that moment, three men came around the side of the house, saving Jackie from trying for an appropriately scathing response. Two wore jeans and button-down shirts, and one of them carried a sophisticated-looking camera. The other held several large plastic zipper bags, the same kind Trooper Walsh had used to cart off the contents of her kitchen. No surprise, the third man was the young state trooper himself.

Eyeing the bags, Jackie tried to make out their contents. One looked like it held a dirty paper plate. Another had a balled-up wad of something she couldn’t identify—something translucent. And the third…She gasped. A knife! A small one, like a kitchen knife. They’d found a knife in the backyard! Or maybe in the thick woods behind the yard?

“Got what we need, Detective,” one of the men told Conner as they brushed by Jackie. “We’ll run these over to Frankfort today. The lab boys should be able to ID the trace material on the knife. The rubber gloves look clean, though.”

Rubber gloves!

“I want the photos on my desk in an hour,” the detective responded. He gave Jackie one more direct stare, then retreated into the house and closed the door behind him.

As the two plainclothesmen pulled away in the van, Jackie walked toward Trooper Walsh. She gestured with her head toward the closed door.

“Is he always so condescending?”

The young man shrugged a shoulder. “He’s the best.”

“He’d have to be, to get away with that attitude.” Jackie studied him. Maybe without Detective Conner around to commandeer the conversation, she could actually get this guy talking. “So you found a knife, huh?”

His eyes slid toward the house before returning to her. “I don’t think the detective would appreciate me talking to you about the case.”

Jackie scuffed a toe in the packed dirt. Flirting had never worked out well for her, so she hesitated trying it now. But how could she get him talking?

“He wouldn’t have to know,” she suggested. “And besides, I already saw the knife. I’m just trying to figure out whether or not the killer intended to use it if the mushrooms didn’t work.”

No answer except a slight shake of his head.

“Don’t tell me there’s another victim. You didn’t find that knife in a body out back, did you?”

His eyebrows rose. “That’s quite an imagination you’ve got there, Miss Hoffner.”

She waved a hand. “Call me Jackie.”

“Jackie.”

Her name, spoken in his low voice, sent a delicious shiver coursing through her.

Okay, so maybe a
little
flirting wouldn’t hurt.

“Tell you what, Trooper—”

“Dennis.” His lips twitched into a sideways grin that made her mouth go dry.

“Tell you what, Dennis. If you tell me what you found in the backyard, I’ll promise to tell you if I find any hard evidence. Not just rumors, but actual clues.”

“You’ve heard rumors?” He stood straighter. “Anything we should know about?”

“I don’t know.” Jackie looked pointedly toward the backyard. “Maybe.”

“You know I can’t talk to you about the case.” His grin teased her, almost as if he knew what he was doing to her stomach.

A glance down the driveway, toward the back of the house, showed her the deep wooded area behind Mrs. Farmer’s backyard. Thickets of scrub bushes and trees grew freely between the house and the neighbors, providing plenty of cover for someone sneaking into the backyard from those woods. And mushrooms grew in woods, right?

She cocked her head and looked up at him disarmingly. “So that paper plate I saw, was it lying near the knife?”

Watching him carefully, she saw the grin melt a tiny bit.

“Like maybe someone had been using them both,” she went on. “Maybe slicing mushrooms, while wearing rubber gloves?”

Aha. Now the grin faded completely and his focus slid toward the house. She was on the right trail.

“You know,” she said, trying to hide her growing excitement, “you can lift fingerprints from the inside of the gloves. I saw it on
CSI
.”

The crooked grin returned. “We know.”

“But this proves that no one at the church could have done it. At least not at the potluck.” She thought of Julie McCoy, who had dished up the leftover portions of the casserole. “The killer chopped the mushrooms in the backyard, or maybe even in the woods, and then slipped into the house to plant them in the leftovers.”

No bites on that fishing expedition. Crossing his arms, he pursed his lips and gave her a stern look. “I want to talk about those rumors. If you discover something relevant to the case, you have to tell us. Withholding evidence in a murder case is a crime.”

Jackie knew he was right. On the other hand, so far she’d only heard gossip, and she really didn’t want to pass on gossip. Especially gossip about Sharon Carlson.

But he
was
the police. Besides, if she cooperated by telling him at least part of what she’d discovered, maybe she could convince him to return the favor. He was certainly a lot more likely to talk to her than Detective Conner.

“Well, it seems Mrs. Farmer has made a few enemies around the church. She apparently liked to write letters pointing out what people were doing wrong. She was well-known for them.”

“Any specific letters you’ve heard about?”

Avoiding his gaze, she answered, “There was one a while back, to the former pastor, complaining about the way his wife dressed. I heard there’ve been others, too.” She stopped. If he didn’t ask
which
others, she wasn’t going to volunteer the information. “I guess not many people at church liked her.”

“What about—”

Behind them, the door was thrown open, and the detective’s voice barked, “Walsh!”

They both turned. Jackie swallowed hard, feeling like she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t. One glance at Dennis’s face told her he felt the same.

“Yes, sir?”

“I need you in here.” Conner glared at Jackie. “If you can spare the time, that is.”

As he turned to walk toward the house, Dennis lifted his shoulders and gave her a brief smile. “See you later.”

Watching him close the door, Jackie hoped so.

At three-fifteen, Margaret pulled onto the street that ran beside the high school. She drove slowly, scanning the teenagers crowding the sidewalk until she caught sight of an arm waving her down.

“Hi, Mrs. Palmer,” said Samantha as she slid into the passenger seat. She put a bulging backpack on the floor at her feet. “Thanks for giving me a ride.”

“I’m glad to do it.” Margaret drove to the end of the street and then turned right. “Is there anyplace you need to go, or do you just want me to take you straight home?”

When Samantha called the parsonage this morning and asked if she could bum a ride home from school, Margaret suspected the teen had more on her mind than just a ride. Looking at the troubled expression on her face now, she was sure of it. The girl avoided eye contact as she absently twirled a blond lock of hair in front of her ear. It had been almost ten years since Margaret’s boys lived at home, and she had never been blessed with girls, so she didn’t have much experience reading the nonverbals.

“Or do you want to go somewhere and get a Coke?” Margaret asked.

Samantha nodded.

Margaret drove through town, the silence between them growing awkward. She racked her brain, trying to come up with something to say, something to draw the girl out, but nothing came to mind.

Lord, I can tell she needs help. Can You give me a hand, here?

On the other side of town, Margaret turned right onto U.S. 60 and then into the parking lot of the first fast-food restaurant she saw, a Wendy’s. She parked the car in the space nearest the road and turned to look at her passenger.

“Maybe I’m out in left field somewhere, but you seem worried. Is there anything I can help with?”

Sometimes people just needed an opening. That was certainly true of Samantha, because her eyes filled and her chin started to quiver.

“I have this friend,” she said as a tear slipped down first one smooth cheek and then the other.

A friend? Was this going to be one of those “friend with a problem” stories?

“Go on.”

Samantha’s breath shuddered as she inhaled. “My friend has a drinking problem. I’m pretty sure of it, but she says she doesn’t.”

Margaret struggled to keep her expression impassive. Not pregnant, which was a big relief, but an alcohol problem? Sweet little Samantha? Her grandfather would be devastated.

“What makes you think your…friend…has a problem?”

Samantha glanced sharply at her. “It really is my friend. Her name is Liz. I don’t even drink.” She paused, then looked away and added softly, “Anymore.”

Margaret didn’t detect any sign of dishonesty. She dropped her hands to her lap. “Anymore? So does that mean you have in the past?”

Samantha nodded.

“I see. And maybe you’ve even been drinking with Liz?”

Samantha closed her eyes and nodded again.

“Do you want to tell me how it started?”

The girl sat for a long moment before speaking. “We used to sneak out of the house on Friday nights. I have to sneak,” she said with a quick glance, “’cause I’m never allowed to do anything.”

A trace of teenage disgust colored her tone, reminiscent of Margaret’s own sons’ frustration over household rules stricter than their friends’. Margaret hid a smile and nodded for her to continue.

“At first it was no big deal. It was just fun. We’d walk up to the McDonald’s where some of the kids hang out, and everyone would sit around on the hoods of their cars and talk. Sometimes we’d get to go cruising down Main Street with someone who had room in their car.

“That’s when we first tried drinking. This guy had a bottle of cherry vodka, and we bought Cokes and made cherry Cokes.” She paused. “You won’t tell my parents, will you?”

Margaret caught her gaze and held it. “You’re not drinking anymore, are you?” Samantha shook her head. “Then no, I won’t. We’ll consider this a counseling session, so what you say stays between us.”

“I thought only preachers had counseling sessions.”

Margaret grinned. “Preachers’ wives have them, too, on occasion.”

The girl’s shoulders relaxed. “Thanks. Anyway, that first night I drank way too much. After I got home I barfed out my bedroom window all night. The next morning I had to take a hose out there and clean it up before anyone saw.”

“Lovely,” Margaret said drily. “And you enjoyed yourself so much that you went out the next Friday night and did it again?”

“Something like that. Anyway, once we started drinking, it seemed like everyone we met had alcohol. Beer, whiskey, vodka, wine. Every week it was something different.”

“Where do they get it?”

“Oh, it’s not hard. There are people who’ll get it for you. Anyway, one day I went to school—it was a Monday—and Liz called me over to her locker. She had a bottle of vodka in there.”