“Hmph.
“But I’m working on it. However, since troubles, as they say, always come in threes, I’ve discovered another problem. This one, though, is very minor compared to the other two.”
Ina Mae raised her eyebrows, waiting.
“The last time I went into my storeroom, I noticed one of the shelves is seriously buckling. I wouldn’t dream of asking Dan to take care of it for me now, what with Charlie’s accident and probably getting behind on his own work. But I’ll have to unload everything from that shelf before it breaks, which will make it difficult to get around the storeroom until the shelf is fixed.”
Ina Mae thought a minute. “You could try Randy Truitt.”
“Who’s that?”
“He does odd jobs about town. Fixed up Patsy Holcomb’s back porch after a big tree branch fell on it last summer, and she was happy with his work. If the job’s not too involved or time consuming, he’s good for it, I’d say.”
“What is he, a retiree, filling in his time?”
“No, Randy’s a young man, or relatively so. Couldn’t be more than forty, I imagine. I used to buy fresh eggs from his folks, Bill and Myrtle Truitt, when they had their farm out along Route 23. They’re gone—dead, I mean—and the farm’s gone too. Randy,” Ina Mae paused, frowning, “never seemed able to quite pull things together for himself. At least not yet. There’s always hope. If you like, I could get his number for you from Patsy.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“By the way, I heard you’re handling that young Ramirez woman’s handmade bags on consignment.”
“You did? We only arranged that yesterday.”
Ina Mae smiled as if to say Jo still had a lot to learn about how quickly news traveled in a town like Abbotsville.
“As a matter of fact,” Jo proudly added, “I sold all three bags she left with me, this morning.”
“I’m glad to hear that. For her, but not for myself. My daughter-in-law’s birthday is coming up, and I’d hoped to pick one up. Let me know when she brings more in.” Ina Mae began pulling her gloves back on. “Well, I’ll head on to the senior center. It’s quite possible I’ll run into Patsy there, in which case I’ll get Randy Truitt’s number for you. But I also intend to sign up for that next yoga session.”
The older woman briskly exited, and Jo watched, impressed once again with her level of energy—both mental and physical. In addition to all her other activities, Ina Mae was one of Jo’s most constant craft workshop members. She’d retired, but obviously never slowed down. Jo began to wonder what she would be like at that age. Then it occurred to her if she didn’t get some straight answers soon regarding the future of her craft shop, she just might, at age thirty-six, find herself retired and living on the kindness of strangers.
More customers drifted in, and many asked after Charlie, as well as how soon Carrie would be back so they could get advice on knitting projects. Around four o’clock, just as Jo had bagged up a purchase of scapbooking supplies and handed them over, Dan called.
“Jo, we’re taking off for the day here. Have to pick up things for the bathroom that came in, before the place closes. Holt just called, but I don’t know from where. He wasn’t happy to hear we were calling it a day. But he said something about coming home around six to look over what we’ve done. You might be able to catch him here, if you want to try.”
“That would work out great, Dan. There’s no workshop tonight, and I can close at six. What’s the address?”
Jo grabbed a pen and scribbled down Parker Holt’s address. “I should be able to find that. Thanks for the heads-up. And wish me luck!”
From then on, Jo watched the clock impatiently. For a day that had been fairly busy, things suddenly quieted down, and the minutes dragged like a sable brush through a half-dried blob of paint.
Ina Mae called with Randy Truitt’s contact number. “It’s for Otto’s,” she explained. “That bar and pizza place over on Borne Avenue.” Jo knew the place. She had stopped in on one of her early days in Abbotsville, for a take-out pizza, and could barely communicate over the blare of a basketball game on the television. “Apparently,” Ina Mae continued, “Otto takes messages for Randy.”
Jo remembered seeing a handful of men at Otto’s bar that day, looking glued in place, half-full glasses of beer before them as they gazed up at the television cheerlessly. Randy Truitt might have been one of them. Not a totally reassuring image, but Ina Mae wouldn’t recommend an incompetent. And it was a small job.
“Thanks, Ina Mae. I’ll give him a try.”
Jo punched in the number for Otto’s and asked for Randy.
“Not here,” a not-unfriendly voice barked into her ear. Jo heard droning motor noises in the background and pictured a NASCAR race on the bar’s television, captivating—or perhaps hypnotizing—its patrons.
She left her message and wondered when she’d hear back from Randy, grimacing over how her days seemed to be turning into ongoing searches for men who uniformly kept one step beyond her. Hopefully Randy, with the promise of payment, would come within her reach.
Finally, after only one more customer stopping in—at five minutes before six, of course—Jo closed up shop. She pocketed the slip of paper with Parker Holt’s address written on it, clicked off the last light, locked the final lock, and headed for her not-so-trusty Toyota in the small lot next to her shop.
What exactly would she say to Holt? she wondered as she turned the key in her ignition and listened to the slow grind of the cold motor working hard to start. He might not be too happy to be cornered at his home. How should she begin, in order to put him in a more comfortable frame of mind and therefore more apt to answer her questions? Introduce herself first as a friend of Dan’s? No, that might put Dan in an awkward position.
The engine caught, and she let it warm a bit while she thought, then put the car in gear and headed out Main.
She should probably be open with Holt as to her purpose for coming, but nonconfrontational. Simply seeking information.
That was it. To the point and brief. And if Holt told her he had arranged with Max to buy her store’s building, and planned to tear it down so that she’d better start looking elsewhere for accommodations, so be it. She would nod and thank him for his time and leave.
And go straight home to cut her throat.
No, not quite, though the urge would definitely be there. But she shouldn’t think about that yet. First things first. And right now, she needed to concentrate on finding the house. The address Dan gave her was on Foxwell. Which, he had told her was off of Old Stagecoach Road. Ah, there it was. Okay, had Dan said take a right turn? Yes.
Jo turned and drove down Foxwell, checking the numbers on the houses, which were spread apart and set much farther back from the street than in the parts of town she was used to. Larger too. The address numbers were at the ends of their long driveways, on lighted pillars or artistically stacked rocks: 241, 239. There it was, 237. Jo stopped and looked over at the house.
It was old, but beautifully so, well maintained and full of character. Interesting, she thought, that a man who made his money erecting new, flashy, and according to some, flimsy structures, chose to live in a solid, stone-fronted, traditional home such as that. The landscaping, lit by outside lights and dusted with snow, was attractive and not overdone. No see-how-many-expensive-shrubs-I-can-afford extravagance, but tasteful, graceful arrangements separated by wide spaces of lawn.
Was this a good sign? Did it mean that Parker Holt was a man who would not ruthlessly ruin others for his own profit? Or was it, perhaps, simply a sign that he had married a woman with good taste, to whom he had given carte blanche? Jo hadn’t thought about a wife. Would Mrs. Holt answer Jo’s knock on the door and run interference for her husband just as his goalie secretary had done? Only one way to find out.
Jo drove up the driveway, which split in two near the top, one part leading to a three-car garage, partially blocked by a silver Lexus, the other to the front of the house. Jo chose the front. She parked, stepped out, and walked up the porch steps, admiring the look of the house, close-up. The front door was framed by sheer-curtained sidelights, through which she barely made out a wide, slate-floored foyer. She lifted the brass knocker and tapped it three times, then waited.
Nothing seemed to stir within the house. Jo checked the edges of the sidelights and found a door bell, which she pressed, hearing the musical chime play inside. Again, no response. Had she arrived too early and beat Parker Holt home? But someone’s car was here, possibly his, and the house was brightly lit. What should she do? She hadn’t counted on just being left at the door. She didn’t like it much, either.
Jo lifted the door knocker again and let it fall heavily on its base, several times. When this brought no response, Jo stepped back off the porch and looked up. No windows on the upper floor were lit, though most of the downstairs seemed to be. Then she caught sight of light glimmering through a basement window. Perhaps Holt was in the basement, checking on Dan and Xavier’s work. Maybe he couldn’t hear her knocks.
Jo looked over to where the silver Lexus was parked. Perhaps there was an entrance there? Maybe Holt would hear her if she banged on that one. She trotted over to that side of the house and saw it as soon as she rounded the house’s corner: a door, set next to the garage doors, with light showing through its high window. Jo ran over and knocked. Again, no response. She knocked harder, and this time the door eased open an inch, apparently not having been firmly shut. Should she go in? The cold wind whipped around the corner of the house, lifting her hair to chill her ears, urging her to go ahead. She pushed the door farther open and leaned in.
“Hello? Mr. Holt?”
No response.
“Hello?” Jo took one step in and called again. She spotted stairs over to the right, leading obviously to the basement, light coming from them. Was he down there? But it was quiet. So quiet. No sound of movement, or of Holt talking on his ever-present cell phone. Nothing. Jo felt a sudden chill, aware it wasn’t from the wind this time. Something wasn’t right.
She called out once more and moved to the head of the stairs. Then she saw him.
A man—Parker Holt?—lying head first at the bottom of the steps.
Jo froze.
No sound came from him, no movement, no intake of breath. If this was Holt, she feared he was the late Parker Holt
Jo fumbled for her cell phone.
Chapter 4
Lights flashed from emergency vehicles, giving Jo a sickening sense of déjà vu: first Mike’s horrible accident in New York, then that bizarre death scene she’d encountered in her own shop only four months ago. Apparently that last one also came to the mind of Lieutenant Morgan when he arrived at the house and spotted her sitting in her car.
“You again,” he’d said, exhaling a puff of condensing air.
Jo managed a weak smile, her concern at the moment more for Dan, whom she’d called immediately after 9-1-1. Dan had arrived, grim faced, shortly after the emergency responders and was in the basement with police at the moment. The man on the stairs, Jo had learned, was indeed Parker Holt, confirmed for her by several of the rescue personnel who recognized him.
How would this affect Dan’s remodeling business, she worried, with a homeowner dying in the work area? Had something been left so carelessly and in such a dangerous spot that it somehow caused Parker Holt’s death? Jo could hardly imagine that. Dan was extremely meticulous; she knew that for a fact. He would never overlook anything deadly, especially knowing that Holt would be poking through the area later on. So how did it happen? Jo had seen a crowbar on the floor near Holt’s body. But what that had to do with anything she couldn’t begin to guess. From the position of his body, he seemed to have fallen down the steps. But why?
Lieutenant Morgan disappeared into the house, then other, nonuniformed people arrived. A portly man wrapped in a heavy dark overcoat emerged from a black Lincoln and blustered in along with a younger man, both unchallenged by police. Was that Warren Kunkle, the mayor of Abbotsville? Jo had seen only photos of him in the
Abbotsville Gazette
, but she thought it might be. What would the mayor be here for, she wondered? But before she had time to consider, another car pulled up and a woman wearing high-heeled boots and fur-trimmed coat and hat got out. She conferred briefly with an officer, then hurried to the front door.
Jo hadn’t seen her face, but the manner in which the woman had entered the house told Jo it was her own, that this was Parker Holt’s wife. Jo’s heart instantly went out to her. She understood better than most what she would be going through on hearing the devastating news that her husband was dead. The memory of her own experience flashed once more, and Jo sucked in a deep breath, then opened her car door and got out. Better to move around, even in the cold, than sit alone with painful memories. She went up to a patrolman standing beside his car.
“I was asked to wait so Lieutenant Morgan could talk to me. Any idea how soon that might be?”
“No ma’am. They’re probably still working the scene. Did you want to wait inside the patrol car?”
“No, but thanks.”