A Tale of Two Biddies (12 page)

“Like mess with the guillotine on stage the other night?” I suggested.

Tiffany’s mouth twisted. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Richie was a terrible person. He must have been. How else could he have even thought to besmirch the reputation of Boyz ’n Funk?”

Believe me, I was tempted to ask if she even knew what “besmirch” meant, and maybe even challenge her to spell it. I bit my tongue.

“If that Richie was the one who risked Dino’s life with that stupid guillotine trick . . .” Tiffany’s hands curled into fists. “It makes me so mad just thinking about it. Just thinking how, all those years ago, he cast a cloud of doubt over Dino and nearly broke his spirit. I swear, if I’d known Richie Trayton Monroe was on this island when I got here . . . I swear, I would have killed him myself.”

• • •

“Obviously when Richie said someone was out to get him, he wasn’t kidding.” We stayed around Richie’s long enough to watch Tiffany drive away, then hung around a few minutes longer to make sure she didn’t double back, and now we were back in my SUV. Since I knew it was what we were all thinking anyway, I threw out the comment. “Now we can add Tiffany to our list of suspects.”

Kate was in the passenger seat and she tapped a finger against her chin. “She was on the island on Wednesday night. We know that for sure. We all saw her in the park on Monday night when Guillotine got off the ferry.”

“And Dino was on the island when Richie died, too,” Chandra said from the backseat. “And now we know there was a connection between Richie and Dino, and not a good one.”

“And Mike and Gordon both have motive, and they were here on the island, too,” I added. I wished I hadn’t. All this talk of all this many suspects gave me a headache.

“Speaking of Gordon,” Chandra called out. “Look! There he is going into his cottage.”

Luckily, I have good reflexes. Though we were already past the little green cottage that Chandra pointed to, I slammed on the brakes, did a U-turn, and cruised to a stop in front of Gordon’s. There was a giant wooden fish out front next to the mailbox and an old fishing net draped across the lintel above the front door that we’d just seen Gordon shut behind him.

“What are you going to do? Are you going to interrogate him?” Kate asked, and I didn’t know why she was whispering since we were still in the SUV and Gordon was inside the cottage.

“I’m just going to ask . . . you know.” I took my time getting out from behind the steering wheel. Since I had no idea what I was going to ask Gordon, it bought me a little time and (maybe) made me look a little less like I was flying by the seat of my pants. Though the League of Literary Ladies technically had no hierarchy—or no formal organization at all, for that matter—Chandra liked to point out time and again that I was “the brains of the operation.” Every once in a while, I felt that I actually had to act like it.

Too bad I was no closer to knowing what words were going to pop out of my mouth when I knocked on Gordon’s front door.

The curtains on the front window of the cottage were closed tight. So were the windows. At the same time I found myself thinking that was a shame since a pleasant breeze blew over the lake and Gordon was missing out on it, I saw the mini-blinds behind one curtain twitch. A moment later, Gordon opened the door just a crack and poked out his head.

“Ladies! What a surprise to see you.” The way Gordon said it, I couldn’t tell if it was a good surprise or a bad one. The way he kept the door open just a smidgen, I wondered what we’d interrupted. “You’re not going to the park for the high school band concert this evening?”

“We’re on our way there now,” I said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie since I was planning to ask Kate and Chandra if they wouldn’t mind stopping at the park on our way back to the B and B. “We saw you as we drove by and we just thought we’d stop in and say hello.”

“That’s really . . .” Gordon was not an especially small man, yet in one smooth move, he managed to slip out of the door without opening it any farther and closed it behind him. “That’s really nice of you,” he said, his smile just a little too forced. “I’m going to be heading over to the park in a couple minutes, too.”

“We could give you a ride,” Chandra offered.

“Even if you’re not ready at this moment,” Kate said. “We don’t mind waiting.”

“That’s really very generous.” Gordon raked a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. Had this been a normal conversation with just about anyone else on the island (minus that list of suspects, of course), I would have worried that we came across as three pushy women. But this wasn’t a normal conversation. And Gordon wasn’t just anyone. Like so many of the others on our suspect radar, Gordon had been wronged by Richie, and he’d been rightfully angry. Angry enough to kill? That, of course, was the question, and until I had the answer, I had every right to be suspicious of everything Gordon said and everything he did.

The fact that he looked way too nervous didn’t help.

Before he could cook up an excuse to get rid of us, I decided to head him off at the pass. “We were actually just on our way back from Richie’s,” I told him. “We’re helping Margaret and Alice clean out the place.”

Gordon shook his head. “Richie. Poor kid. A shame that sort of thing happens to anyone.”

I drew a deep breath and plunged right in. “Especially since there was no way he could have had time to pay you for the damage he did to your boat the other night.”

Gordon waved away my concern. “That’s what insurance is for.”

“But you must have been mad.” Chandra, never the one to go for subtle. “I mean, Richie was being Richie and, rest his soul, Richie could be the most annoying person on the face of the earth!”

“It wasn’t that big a deal,” Gordon assured us. “Now if you ladies will excuse me.” He stepped back toward the house and put a hand on the door but didn’t open it. “I’ve got to get dressed and get over to the park. We’re taking a first look at all the Dickens impersonators tonight, you know. See you there!”

There was no use trying to stall.

That didn’t mean I didn’t notice that Gordon never even touched the doorknob to go back inside until we were almost all the way to the SUV.

That just happened to be the same moment we saw Dickens imposter number three, Mason Burke, step out of the cottage next door.

We waved, and Burke hurried over. It looked like he was more than ready for his first appearance in front of the Bastille Day crowds that evening; his suit was freshly pressed, his plaid vest was dashing, and the gold chain on his pocket watch winked in the last of the sunlight.

“I do hope you’ll be at the park this evening,” he said. “I’m on my way there now.”

“I’ve got the car.” I pointed even though, since we were standing almost right next to it, I didn’t really need to. “If you’d like us to drive your wife to the park, we’d be happy to help.”

Burke’s expression went blank. It only lasted a nanosecond, then he shook his head and laughed. “Very kind of you. But she’s decided to stay back. She’s saving her energy—and her ankle—for the big event on Sunday.” He tipped his top hat. “Good evening, ladies.”

It wasn’t until he had sauntered up the road and I turned to get into the SUV that I realized that while we were busy talking to Mason, Gordon Hunter had slipped back into his closed-up, curtains-shut, blinds-down house.

H
ere’s the thing about checking out Dickens impersonators during intermission at a band concert—it’s not easy.

I mean with people milling all around the gazebo in the park where the impersonators were scheduled to line up.

And kids tossing Frisbees.

And folks calling to each other and laughing, and a couple college kids carrying on over near the fountain (which Hank put a stop to practically before it got started).

The fact that I’m short didn’t help, either.

I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck, and when that didn’t work, I told Chandra and Kate I’d be right back (with all the commotion, I don’t think either one of them heard me) and elbowed my way through to the front of the crowd.

I mean, really, it’s not like the folks who packed the park were hog-wild to see the Dickens impersonators, right?

Right.

Turns out the crush near the front of the gazebo had less to do with Dickens than it did with dining.

Mike’s ice cream cart was set up near one of the two entrances to the octagonal-shaped gazebo and a line snaked over to him that stretched out all the way to the public bathhouse.

Not to be outdone, the hot dog seller positioned his cart nearby, and apparently the cotton candy guy caught on, too, to the old wisdom of location, location, location. I had to squeeze by him and the eight gazillion kids lined up in front of his cart before I could even get close to the gazebo.

Why did I care so much?

Well, it was supposed to be a secret, but I suppose it’s safe now to spill the beans. See, I was one of the Dickens judges.

Yes, I know, this seems a little out of character for a B and B proprietor, but apparently Marianne Littlejohn, our town librarian, had somehow caught wind of the fact that I’d once mentioned to the League that I was a former English major. When it came to qualifications, that was good enough for Marianne, and I was drafted. As for accepting, it was that or cause something that might be too near a scene and draw too much attention to myself if I dug in my heels and refused to cooperate.

So judge I was. And though I’d already met three of the impersonators, even I didn’t know if there were more.

I found out soon enough.

Just as I got to the front of the crowd, Gordon stepped up to the microphone looking far more relaxed and far less edgy than he’d looked back at his cottage. He called Charles Dickens to the gazebo and, one by one, like a scene out of some strange movie or some even weirder dream, the Dickenses materialized out of the crowd.

Ashburn was first. Didn’t it figure. Shoes aside, his costume was perfection and his attitude, as annoying as all get-out back at the B and B, was perfect for the occasion. Gregarious and just the slightest bit impressed with himself. I’d read enough about Dickens (the real Dickens) to know he enjoyed his fame, and I had to give Ashburn credit. The smile, the wave, the slight bow toward the ladies . . . he had it all going for him.

But then, so did Drake.

He was the next one to make it to the gazebo and his mannerisms were a perfect mirror of Ashburn’s. If I was judging on looks alone—and I wasn’t, remember; there was still the big trivia contest on Sunday afternoon—I honestly wouldn’t have known which one to pick.

Then there was Mason Burke, of course, looking as dapper as he had when I’d last seen him at the cottage where he was staying over near Gordon Hunter’s. His costume was perfection. His style . . . er . . . he didn’t have the panache of either Ashburn or Drake, but hey, ask the woman who’d had to listen to them squabble these last few days. Panache isn’t everything.

As I suspected, there were a few other contestants, too. One was a woman, and I had to give her big points for pulling off the transformation. From the hair she had rolled into a tight bun and tucked under her top hat to a suit that fit her to perfection and even a silver-tipped cane, she more than passed for a Victorian gentleman.

As for the last two contestants . . . even now, I cringe thinking about them. At the same time I have to smile. Tyler and Max were college students who freely admitted to the crowd that they were there for one reason and one reason alone: extra credit in their college English class. They wore beards printed and cut from paper, and glasses (which, as far as I could remember, Dickens didn’t wear) twisted out of pipe cleaners. As for the denim shorts and T-shirts that featured a man sitting next to his severed head and the words,
Mostly, It was the Worst of Times
 . . . hey, their outfits might not be authentic, but I had to give them big points for trying.

With our first look at the contestants over, Gordon called the high school band up for the second half of the show, and I turned to head back to where I had left Kate and Chandra. Alice Defarge was right behind me.

“Enjoying the concert?” I asked her.

By this time the sun had long since set and Alice’s eyes twinkled like the dome of stars above our heads. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I was just telling Margaret . . .” Though I never caught a glimpse of her, Alice obviously knew exactly where her sister was standing in the sea of people because she looked across the park and waved. “I was just telling her that we need to do this sort of thing more often. An old-fashioned band concert. What fun!”

The band regrouped under the gazebo and Gordon walked by. “Good evening, ladies.” His expression was stony. “Nice to see you again, Bea,” he said before he dashed off.

“Again?” Alice watched him go. “You two best friends?”

I knew she was kidding so I laughed. “Hardly. But we stopped to say hello to Gordon earlier this evening on our way back from Richie’s.” I knew I didn’t need to explain. Something told me the Defarge sisters shared everything—well, maybe not critiques of their knitting skills or love lives—and I knew Margaret would have already told Alice all about how we’d offered to clean up the house. “He wasn’t very friendly.”

“Gordon, you mean? Well, of course you do.” Alice shook her shoulders. “You couldn’t be talking about Richie, could you? Then again, Richie and Gordon . . . well, I guess it’s only natural I’d think of the two of them together. I mean, after what Margaret and I . . . after what we saw the other night.”

Whatever she was talking about, it couldn’t have had anything to do with Richie’s murder. Could it? I knew it was impossible. If Alice knew anything that would help with the official investigation, she surely would have told Hank. Still, there was something about the way she said those words—
what we saw the other night
—that sent a tingle of anticipation through me.

Apparently, Alice knew it. She raised her eyebrows and nodded. “We were out for a spin in our golf cart. Sunday night. Late. You know, just to get a little fresh air and because we knew it was going to be a busy and crowded week. How Margaret and I do love the peace and quiet of the island at night! No matter.” She clutched her hands at her waist. “We just happened to go by Gordon’s and there he was with Richie. They were unloading a van in front of Gordon’s place.”

“Sunday night? That was the day Richie damaged Gordon’s boat, right?”

“Exactly what I thought.” Alice put a hand on my arm. “It was dark, and we couldn’t see clearly, at least not without stopping the golf cart and gawking. And you know me and Margaret, when it comes to our snooping, we’re way more professional than that. So we couldn’t tell exactly, but it looked as if they were unloading boxes and carrying them into Gordon’s cottage.”

“Gordon must have had to get his things off the boat, right? I mean, after it was damaged. They would have needed to clean it out and—”

“Oh yes, I suspect that’s exactly what it was.” Alice stepped back into the crowd. “Gordon was so angry at Richie for what Richie did to the boat, I bet he made poor Richie move all those boxes and never paid him a dime!”

• • •

We didn’t hang around for the rest of the band concert. It had been a long day, and I had a lot to think about. I dropped off Kate and Chandra, but the moment I pulled into the driveway of the B and B and saw Tiffany and her gang of Boyz ’n Funk worshipers across the street listening to the not-so-melodic strains of Guillotine coming out of the garage where I’d let the band set up to rehearse, I knew thinking would not be on my agenda, at least not until eleven o’clock (the official turn-off-all-loud-music-and-TV time at Bea & Bees) rolled around.

I parked the SUV and tucked my keys in my pocket. If I was looking for peace and quiet, I wouldn’t find it in my own home for at least another hour. Until then . . .

I ambled down the driveway and turned right, away from the house and from the direction of all the activity downtown. A nice, quiet walk and some time to clear my head was exactly what I needed, to a part of the island where there were no concerts, no rock bands, and far fewer weekend partiers.

A minute in, and my heartbeat ratcheted back and my breathing slowed.

Two minutes, and the tightness that I hadn’t realized had been building in my shoulders eased.

Three, and I was far enough from the house for the sounds of croaking frogs and chirping crickets to replace the racket of pounding bass and Dino’s wailing.

Life might not be perfect, but for these few minutes, it was as good as it could get, and I smiled to myself, enjoying every single moment while I let my mind work over everything I’d learned that day about Richie, Richie’s friends, and Richie’s many, many enemies.

I was somewhere between considering Mike’s motives and remembering how good the salted caramel ice cream tasted when I heard sounds behind me and spun around.

The shuffle of feet.

The snap of a twig.

Someone following me.

Except . . . I peered into the darkness . . . there wasn’t a soul on the empty road behind me.

And I was being way too jumpy for my own good.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and turned around to continue on my way. There was a cross street coming up on my right, and I could head that way, then loop around and behind the B and B and Chandra’s house, then on to another road where I could hang another right and then another, and be back home. It would take only another ten minutes or so to complete the circuit, and if I could get my blood pressure to settle down after that split second of thinking I wasn’t alone, that was ten minutes I could use to think about the investigation.

Good advice, but still, I picked up the pace a bit and soon found myself in front of a cottage where row upon row of twinkly solar lights outlined the roofline and the windows and the deck out back. Bathed in the gentle glow, I forced myself to slow down and enjoy the feel of the lake breeze against my skin. I’d lived in New York City for years, right? And I’d walked all over the city at all hours, I reminded myself. If I could do it there, I certainly could do it here on South Bass, the Eden of Lake Erie. I could. I would. I—

A hand came down on my arm and I didn’t so much scream as I let out a screech that could probably be heard by dogs ten miles away. Everything I’d learned in the self-defense classes I’d taken back in New York kicked in and I spun, pushed against the person behind me as hard as I could, and yelled, “Back off!”

Self-defense maneuvers.

A good thing.

Except they left a skinny woman I’d never seen before staggering back, her mouth open in astonishment and her eyes wide with terror.

Those eyes . . . although I’d already stepped up to get close when I shoved her, I moved even closer for a better look. Her eyes were small and dark. They were also crossed.

“Hey!” I remembered my conversation with Margaret on regatta day at the same time I grabbed the stranger’s arm before she could collapse in the street. “You’re Richie’s girlfriend!”

The winking lights flashed against a face that was pinched and too angular to ever be considered pretty. Her nose was long and thin.

“I . . . I . . .” I bet there wasn’t much color in the woman’s face to begin with, but the white LED lights only made the pallor worse. She reminded me of those pale fish that live way down deep in the ocean. “Sorry.” She blinked and hugged her arms around herself. “I didn’t wanna scare you.”

“Well, you did. And I didn’t mean to scare you, either, it’s just that—”

“I shoulda said something.” It was plenty warm out, but she chafed her hands up and down her arms. “I just didn’t know what to say and I knew I shouldn’t bother you, but I knew I had to, like, talk to you or somethin’. I was waitin’ for you back at your house and then you showed up, but then you walked away and, well . . . I shoulda said somethin’.”

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t. Not completely. My heart still jackhammered against my ribs and my brain jumped to those horrible months back in New York when a stalker made my life a living hell. “What can I do for you?”

Instinctively, I knew her shrug didn’t mean she didn’t know what she wanted. It meant she wasn’t sure how to explain.

I guess the fact that I’d come across as a paranoid—and dangerous—New Yorker didn’t help.

I offered a smile. “It’s been such a busy week already, I just wanted to get some air. You want to walk with me?”

She nodded and fell into step beside me.

“We haven’t met,” I said.

“But you called me Richie’s girlfriend.”