Plain Murder (18 page)

Ell glanced up. “You know, I thought I heard the truck pull in about nine thirty, ten o'clock, but obviously I was mistaken. I was in the bathroom, upchucking again, and the vampires were stalking somebody.”

“Did the police ask you about it?”

She nodded. “I told them I wasn't sure, because I wasn't. But George said that he was waiting for Willy and he never came home. George would know.” She gave Rachel another hesitant smile. “Sorry, I've got to put these best sellers out. George asked me to be sure I did it before we close.”

“No problem.” Rachel returned her smile. A pity this bright young woman hadn't gone on to college. Working in the bookstore might be fine for now, but it couldn't provide much of a future for Ell. “I'll just go up and find George and Sophie.”

“Up in his office. He'll be glad to see you.” She picked up the heavy box of books. “It's always nice to talk to you.”

“You, too.” Rachel turned toward the stairs leading to the second floor.

There was still so much stuff whirling around in her head that nothing was making any sense anymore. Why would Ell think she had heard Willy that night when, in reality, he never made it home? Had he pulled in, then left without George knowing it? Had Willy encountered someone in the yard? Was that how his truck ended up parked in town and him in a grave?

“George?” Rachel reached the top hallway and saw that George's office door stood slightly open. “It's Rachel.”

Sophie put up a furious racket, running into the hallway, yapping. She curled her lip, giving a little growl. Then the bichon frise began leaping up on Rachel's legs.

“Down, Sophie,” Rachel ordered. “Good dog.” But she never was. Sophie kept on jumping, spinning, and scratching until George came to Rachel's rescue and scooped the dog up into his arms.

“Bad doggy,” George crooned. “Naughty girl. No jumping. That isn't polite.” He slipped a piece of dog biscuit out of his shirt pocket and offered it to Sophie. She took it politely, daintily chewed, swallowed, and looked for more.

“No more treats,” George said. “You'll get fat.” His eyes twinkled as he looked at Rachel. “As my vet says, there are fat doggies and old doggies, but few fat, old doggies.”

George set Sophie on the floor, and Rachel greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “What a nice surprise,” he said, leading the way back into his office.

“Just wondering how you were making out.” George waved toward an overstuffed chair, and Rachel sat down. “Hoping you'd like to come by for supper tomorrow. If it's nice, we could eat out on the terrace.”

“You cooking?” George chuckled at his own joke and adjusted his ball cap.

“I thought we could all pitch in. I can make a salad. Hulda's coming, and Coyote.”

“Not spending Sunday with your family?”

“Church Sunday. I ran into our bishop at the farmer's market, and he invited me to services, but . . .”

George's eyes held understanding. “Not ready for that yet?”

Rachel shook her head. “Anyway, you probably know that I've been asking a few questions around town . . . just trying to sort some things out.”

“For your uncle's defense.”

“Exactly. I was out to Park Estates. Do you know Blanche?”

“I've known Blanche for years. We had a nice conversation at Willy's . . . after the funeral. Blanche is a little rough around the edges, but she's a good soul. I've been thinking about lowering her rent. I can't imagine that her husband's pension stretches very far in these times.” He sighed. “I was reluctant to make any changes to Willy's business affairs until . . . Well, I'll do my best by his tenants now. Not his way, maybe. Willy was a much better businessman than I'll ever be. But it never hurts to do a good turn when you can. Good karma, as Ell would say.”

“Exactly. But Blanche told me something that has me a little confused. She said that her neighbor Buddy had a disagreement with Willy that Friday night—that Willy was attempting to evict him for not paying his rent.”

“Really?” George looked puzzled. “I wasn't aware of that. I know Buddy had gotten a little behind, but he came by that Saturday after Willy . . . after his disappearance. Of course I didn't know Willy was missing,” he added thoughtfully, looking away. “Anyway,” he continued after a moment, “Buddy paid up in full, and he's paid regular ever since.” George glanced toward a mahogany Victorian end table where a Keurig coffee maker, a creamer, and a sugar bowl stood. “I was just going to make a cup. Would you like—”

“No, thanks, George.” Willy's money had been missing when his body was found. Wasn't it a little suspicious that Buddy didn't have the money to pay his rent Friday, but he did Saturday?

“Maybe a cookie? I've got some lovely Scottish shortbread. I order it directly from Glasgow. It's to die for.”

“No, thanks.” She smiled at him. “Really. Another time.” Cookies were her weakness, and she'd had George's shortbread before. Tons of butter. Delicious, but a pound a bite. If she ate one, she wouldn't be able to stop herself from eating a dozen.

“Look at this.” He slipped on a pair of white gloves and carefully lifted a small leather-bound volume out of a box. “
Gulliver's Travels
. Isn't it exquisite? Not a stain. No mildew. Beautiful.”

“It is. And I suppose you have a buyer waiting.”

“I do. No auctions for this little treasure. It's going straight to a good home and a temperature-controlled library. Tucson. Lovely for books there.”

“George . . . Ell and I were talking about that Friday night,” Rachel said. “You're certain Willy never came home? Maybe pulled into the yard and then left again? Because Ell thought she might have heard the truck . . . around nine thirty.”

“No, he never came home.” He carefully replaced the precious volume in the box. “Maybe Ell heard the boy next door. He has one of those souped-up cars, and I think he's taken his muffler completely off. To make it louder.” He shook his head. “No, I'm sure of it. The last time I saw him was after lunch.”

“After lunch?”

George looked up. Frowned. “I guess it was breakfast that day, wasn't it?” He closed his eyes for a moment, plucking off the white gloves. “I'm sorry. I suppose I'm becoming forgetful.” He sighed. “Willy never arrived home that night . . . He was probably already gone.”

George seemed so sad that Rachel ended up sitting down for a cup of decaf coffee with him and not one but two pieces of shortbread. Forty-five minutes later, she was walking home when her cell phone beeped in her pocket. She pulled it out.

There was a text from Evan.

Attached was a photo of the cover of a small spiral notebook. Willy's elusive journal. The phone beeped again. Another photo text. She knew what it was the moment it flashed on the screen.

A screenshot of the last page of Willy O'Day's journal.

Rachel stood on the cobblestone sidewalk and stared at the iPhone in her hand. A street lamp shone over her shoulder; it was almost dark and the town was quiet. At the top of the screen, in masculine printing, was the date, October 1, and the letters
A.T.B.R.

Accounts to be reconciled
—that's what she'd told Evan it meant . . . or might mean. She stared at the list written by Willy, probably hours before his death, and she shivered, despite the warmth of the May evening.

The words on the list made no sense. Evan had said they were in code. This wasn't exactly
code,
not like the kind spies used or anything, but the list certainly needed to be deciphered. Rachel ran her fingertips over the screen to expand it, making the words bigger, then scrolled down. She read through the list written in Willy's handwriting again:

It made no sense. The police arrested and charged her uncle with murder because of
this?
It was practically gibberish. She tucked the phone into her pocket and headed for home, but twice, on the way, she read the list again. Obviously her suggestion that “A.T.B.R.” meant “accounts to be reconciled” was wrong. What account would Willy O'Day have been settling with an Italian actress from the '50s and 60s? Rachel wasn't even sure if the film star was still alive.

Rachel reached home and crossed the wide, grassy lawn in the dark. The square fieldstone house loomed in front of her; light glowed from both sides of the door. She was glad she had thought to leave the front porch lights on. She salvaged those carriage-style lamps from a box of junk she'd bought at a yard sale. No light shone from any of the windows. Because of the cancellation, she'd be alone tonight, something that happened less and less often as her B&B became more popular.

The May air had turned chilly on the walk home, and she hurried the last few steps. She plucked a house key from under an iron boot scrape to the right of the door—another yard sale find—and let herself in. Inside the door, she looked at her phone again.
Bearded A
. . . Did that refer to Aaron? Did the police arrest him on the basis of
that?

She took the time to return the key to its place, then checked the other doors in the house to be sure they were locked and headed upstairs. Some people might have felt uncomfortable, even afraid, alone in such a big house, but not Rachel. Tonight she was almost glad she had no guests to check on. She was eager to have a good look at Willy's journal page. And have time to think. She might even print it out if she could remember how to use the printer app on her phone.

As Rachel headed up the stairs to the third floor, she didn't bother with any lights; electricity was money, and though she was beginning to turn a profit, there was no cash to be wasted. She could navigate the entire house, cellar to attic, with her eyes shut. When she'd first taken possession of the property, there had been no electricity. She'd climbed the stairs plenty of times in the dark in those early days without so much as a flashlight.

At the top of the second flight, she turned toward her door and bumped into something on the floor with the toe of her sneaker. Something soft and unexpected. She gave a startled squeak at the same time that Bishop howled and raced down the hall.

“Bishop! I'm sorry. You okay?” she called after him, her hand on her pounding heart. “What are you doing, standing in the dark like that?”

Inside her room, she flipped on the light switch. “Come on, if you're coming,” she called to the cat. “I'm closing the door.” No matter that she'd insulated the house, it still seemed drafty at night.

She removed her cell phone from her jacket pocket, tossed the jacket over a chair, and sat down on her bed. She held the phone, poised to text Evan.

Should she ask him questions? For one thing, she was curious as to how he had been able to take the photographs. She knew he was working tonight, but wasn't evidence locked up? Did he have a key to evidence storage? As happy as she was to have the photos, she hoped Evan hadn't done anything that could cost him his job.

Besides wanting to know the particulars of how he had been able to take pictures of the journal with his iPhone, she had questions about the actual journal. Did the other pages make as little sense as this one? Had George been asked to translate the list? Were they even sure the journal was Willy's? She glanced up to watch the Siamese stroll into the room and rub up against one leg of her desk.

After a moment of uncertainty, she decided that it was better to not ask Evan any questions. At least not yet. She knew this had to be a big deal to him, to take these photos of the journal and send them to her.

Got it. Thanks,
she texted him back.

She opened the list again: Stamp Collecting, Sophia Loren, Bearded A, Fencing Fred. What did they mean? Could something on this list be a reference to someone other than Uncle Aaron? Maybe one of the people she'd been looking into? Could “Bearded A” mean something other than Bearded
Aaron?

She closed her eyes and opened them again. Stared at the white dry-erase board in the corner of the room. She needed to pay her gas bill and order a new hinge for one of the bathroom doors.

She looked at the phone in her hand again and jumped up off the bed. Tucking the phone into the back pocket of her jeans, she grabbed the eraser off her desk and wiped the board clean. Then she took a teal dry-erase marker, drew a rectangle right in the center of the board, and copied the text from Willy's notebook, letter for letter.

She stepped back. Stared at the board. Then, on impulse, she wrote
Willy
O'Day across the top in the same teal marker. Next, she grabbed a blue marker and began to make a list, on the left-hand side of the board, of the people she knew Willy had seen the day of his disappearance: George, of course; Dawn, the waitress from the diner; Blanche; Alvin and Verna; Buddy. Those, she knew of. Then, she took a green marker and added Steve's name, Eli Rust's, and . . . Teresa's.

She stood back to study her handiwork.

Dawn had gone back to Florida to be with her children and mother, and the conversation Rachel had with her by phone convinced her of the waitress's innocence. Rachel crossed her name off with a red marker.

She stared at Steve's name. He said he'd been at a wedding in Williamsport the weekend Willy disappeared. She studied the board for another minute, then went to her computer and searched for
Weddings in Williamsport, October 1
.

She got lots of hits. None helpful. She sat back in her chair. Bishop jumped up on the desk and rubbed against the laptop, moving the screen back and forth. She stroked his head. “Knock it off.” She adjusted the screen.

Next, she typed in Steve Barber's name. Again, several hits, but after two false tries, she found a social network page with Steve's grinning face plastered across the top.

Rachel scowled and clicked on a bar giving details of his life, where he was born, where he graduated high school. She read that he liked to collect model trains. She clicked on his photo album and flipped through it. They were all photos of him: Steve, in a ball cap, pointing at a daffodil; Steve wearing a colorful knit cap and shoveling snow; Steve wearing a red-and-white Santa's hat; Steve in a tux, wearing a bride's tiara with a veil. There seemed to be a theme. Next, Steve in an engineer's hat, holding up a model engine. It was dated a week previous.

She scrolled back and stared at Steve in the tux. He looked inebriated. She checked the time and place tag:
Williamsport, PA, October 1, 9:05 p.m.
The wedding.

She sighed and closed her laptop. At the whiteboard, she took the marker and ran it through the middle of his name. Steve Barber didn't kill Willy.

Who was she kidding? None of these people had killed Willy.

She stared at the list in the middle of the board again. Her gaze crossed
Fencing Fred,
then went back.

Fred
. . . Fred Wright . . . He was putting the fencing for the goats in for her. Was Fred Wright “Fencing Fred”? Had Willy settled business with Fred the day he disappeared?

And what was the deal with the money Willy had been depositing in Teresa's account? The fact that the deposits had stopped and then Willy disappeared was suspicious, wasn't it?

After getting into her PJs, Rachel lay in bed for a long time, staring at the dry-erase board, going over and over in her mind all the possibilities each name or phrase in Willy's ledger could mean. When she slept that night, she dreamed of Sophia Loren and Teresa Ridley sunbathing on an Italian beach.

 

The next morning, Rachel had the house to herself. After breakfast, she made herself busy emptying the trash and recycling bins, replacing lightbulbs, and doing other menial tasks. She kept an eye on the clock, and when eleven thirty finally came, she went into the kitchen.

Taking a wicker basket from a tall shelf, she spread a blue-and-white-checkered cloth over the bottom and helped herself to several banana muffins Ada had made the previous day. She added two blueberry scones and a wrapped slice of Dutch apple cake to the basket. She snipped several blossoms from a flower arrangement on the table and tucked them around the goodies, covering the basket with a second square of the checked material.

It was such a nice day that Rachel considered walking to Teresa's, but she decided that the baked goods would fare better if she took the golf cart. The streets were quiet, but a few cars passed. Church services were letting out; people waved to her as she drove by.

Ell's mother lived on a quiet street four blocks away. Hers was a modest beige ranch with dark-brown shutters, surrounded by a neatly trimmed lawn. A small sign in the picture window read
Piano Lessons
. A heart-shaped grapevine wreath hung on the front door with the word
Welcome
spelled out in artificial red grapes.

Rachel rang the doorbell, which played “Amazing Grace” inside the house. She waited a few seconds and then pushed the button again. This time she heard footsteps.

“Coming.” Teresa opened the door. An expression of surprise was quickly replaced with pleasure. “Rachel Mast? Whatever . . . why . . .” she stammered, and then said, “Please, come in. I just walked in the door from church.”

Rachel held out the basket and whisked away the top cloth. “I hope you don't mind me stopping by unannounced, but I've been worried about you. You seemed so upset at the funeral. So I brought you some snacks.”

“You brought those for me?” Teresa backed away and held the door open. “How nice of you. I so rarely . . . I couldn't imagine who it was. I have a student coming for a lesson at one, but . . .” She still seemed surprised, but also pleased.

Rachel followed her into a living room dominated by a piano. The floors were hardwood, which Rachel loved, but the fussy faux-country furnishings and hanging baskets of artificial flowers were definitely not her thing. Studio portraits of Ell lined three of the four walls. One wall was completely covered with baby pictures progressing from newborn to toddler stage. In every photo, Ell was buttoned, sashed, and wrapped in an overabundance of ruffled bonnets, lacy dresses, and shoes more suited to a boutique display case than a baby's feet.

On the next wall was a row of school-age portraits, and in every one, Ell was garbed in ruffled frocks, frilly lace-edged socks, and Mary Janes, white or black patent leather, depending on the season. Her light-brown hair was tortured into long corkscrew curls, à la Shirley Temple. On the third wall were high school portraits, including four versions of what could only have been Ell's senior portraits. Rachel studied the photographs, finding it hard to imagine that this child was the Ell she knew.

Rachel smiled reassuringly at Teresa but couldn't help thinking that, at least in this case, there really could be too much of a good thing. Maybe the Amish custom of not allowing photographs of people wasn't such a bad idea.

“I'll put on some coffee,” Teresa said. “If you'd like to stay a few minutes.”

“As long as I'm not intruding.”

“Not at all. It was sweet of you to think of me. I know that I must have looked . . . I've known, or rather I
had
known Willy since I was a child. It was very hard to see him taken from us in such a violent manner.” She kept walking and Rachel followed her into a small kitchen with a table against one wall. The table was so small that there was only room for two chairs, and the surface was nearly taken up by a fifteen-inch glass cookie jar shaped like a red rooster with a bright blue comb.