Died in the Wool (2 page)

“Tell her that … as Events Committee chairperson, you feel that her selection of roses is out of the question,” she said. Her ears were getting redder, if that was possible, and her hummingbird earrings clanked around so much that I just knew the sides of her neck were going to be bruised.

“But that would be a lie,” I said.

“Oh, like you've never lied before,” she said, and crossed her arms.

“But I don't know the first thing about roses.”

“When has your lack of knowledge ever stopped you from sticking your nose in?” she asked.

Okay, take a deep breath.
I really had no reason to get upset, since Eleanore was speaking the truth. I have lied to get information before. On more occasions than I care to confess. Usually there was somebody's life hanging in the balance—and the fact that I can actually say that I've had to lie to save somebody's life really says a lot about the sad state of my own life. I've butted my nose into things without knowing all the facts, too. But damn, she didn't have to just blurt it out like that. Somebody might be listening. “I wouldn't know if she picked bad roses or not, Eleanore.”

“
I
am telling you that she has. What, my word means nothing?”

Well, actually, no, but I wasn't going to say that.

She took a deep breath, and I held my hands up in desperation. “Eleanore, please. I'll talk to Maddie,” I said, “but I don't know what good it's going to do.”

“You just tell her that she's picked inappropriate and ugly roses.”

“No rose is ugly,” Helen said.

“Well, of course not,” Eleanore said. “I'm exaggerating to get my point across.”

“I'll talk to her,” I said. “I'm just not making any promises. Because I can't.”

“Fine,” Eleanore said. “I also wanted to let you know that I am going to buy the Kendall house. They've just put it on the market.”

I glanced at Helen. Panic had seized my friend. She began mouthing “no way” to me and shaking her head. “W-what are you going to do with it?” I asked.

“I'm going to turn it into one of those murder-mystery dinner theaters,” she said. “It's not every day you get to have dinner in the house where three people killed themselves.”

“Right,” I said. “I guess that's an incentive to eat food.”

“I'm off,” Eleanore said, and whirled around on her heel and exited through the back door.

Helen and I stared at each other. Finally, Helen swallowed and spoke. “You cannot let that woman buy the Kendall house,” she said.

“Why not? Helen, if she puts in a better bid than Rudy and I, she gets it,” I said.

“It'll be cheesy,” she said.

“No, murder-mystery dinners are fun,” I said.

“Yes, but Eleanore will make it cheesy,” she said.

“Now, she has pretty good taste when it comes to decorating the Murdoch Inn.
Midwest Living
did a small article on her bed-and-breakfast last fall when they covered the most quaint places to stay in seven states. Remember that?”

Helen stood then. “Whatever, Torie. But if Eleanore gets the Kendall house, I'm moving.”

I knew Helen was exaggerating, but only just. “I don't know, Helen. Maybe what this town needs is something goofy and fun like a murder-mystery theater. Maybe me turning the Kendall house into a shrine for the dead is the wrong thing.”

“The wrong thing? Torie, are you feeling all right? You are all
about
shrines for the dead.”

“Gee, Helen,” I said. “That makes me sound like I belong in the Norman Bates family or something.”

“Think about it,” she said. “You don't want Eleanore in charge of something like a mystery theater with nobody to curb her … enthusiasms.”

I only smiled.

“Remember the time she decided to host a bird-watching expedition? She showed up looking like a giant version of Heidi. She got bit by a snake—and lived.”

“But the snake died,” I said laughing.

“I
know
! Then one of the birders got attacked by a flock of starlings and tried to sue the mayor for allowing the bird expedition in the first place,” she said. I was laughing so hard my eyes were watering. “What about the time she had the pancake bake-off and blew up the ovens at the Knights of Columbus hall?”

“God, Elmer wouldn't speak to her for, like, six months,” I said.

“Then there was the summer that she decided to learn how to skateboard, and then thought that the whole town should have a weekly skateboard-to-work day. Tobias broke a hip, and Colin had to write all those tickets for endangering the tourists!”

I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe.

“If she is in charge of a mystery theater, somebody will get killed. Simple as that.”

“You're right, of course,” I said, “but it's not against the law to open a business in this town, unless it's a house of ill-repute.”

“Just promise me you will bid higher than she does.”

“We'll see. It may be out of my financial ball park,” I said, “but I will do all in my power to purchase the Kendall house.”

“Thank you, God,” she said, looking toward the ceiling. “See you later.”

“Right,” I said. “I'm off to see Maddie Fulton.”

Two

Maddie Fulton lives just on the outskirts of town. I had every intention of going straight to her place, but decided to make a detour to the Kendall house. I couldn't help myself. Not only am I nosy by nature, but I'm also impatient as heck. For the record, New Kassel is a fairly small town; the population is under a thousand. It's nestled on a slight cliff overlooking the Mississippi River, about forty minutes to an hour south of St. Louis, depending on whether your destination is St. Louis city or St. Louis County. Granite County is mostly rural and used to be full of small family farms. Those are slowly but surely disappearing and giving way to the newest and brightest subdivisions, with homes on lots barely bigger than the foundations of the houses themselves. Not only does it break my heart to see the loss of the family farms, but the destruction of our wildlife habitat is catastrophic.

I turned down Haggeman Road, at the far west end of town. About seven houses down was the old Kendall house. Chipped paint flaked away from the multitude of windows that covered the front of the two-story Victorian. It had been painted a light yellow about fifteen years ago—I remember it well because Sylvia, Wilma, and I were all excited that the house was getting a face-lift—and the trim and windows had been done in forest green. A large front porch wrapped nearly all the way around the house, but stopped just short of it at the side door. A swing hung from one end of the porch, and a beautiful purple-flowering vine of some sort climbed all over the other end. A rather enormous tree—possibly oak—shaded half of the house with its leaf-smothered branches.

There was a blue Honda parked in the driveway, so Evan Merchant was most likely home. I parked, got out of the car, and made my way back to the guesthouse. The guesthouse was nothing to sneeze at by most people's standards. It was a nice, cozy bungalow, probably two bedrooms, situated behind the main house and virtually invisible from the street.

I knocked on the door, and after a moment, Evan Merchant answered. He was close to fifty, fit and trim with a head full of red hair. “Hi,” I said. Just as I put my hand out to shake his, a little bitty dog ran between Evan's legs and began barking at me as if I were Ted Bundy. “Bon, shut up,” Evan said.

“I'm Torie O'Shea,” I said.

“Yes, I remember you,” he said. “Come in.”

His house was bright and airy and did not come across as a bachelor pad in the least. Well, except for the big flat-screen TV tuned to ESPN. Otherwise, as you could tell from the salmon-colored carpet and the vases sitting around full of floral arrangements, he had embraced his feminine side. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Um, well, I heard that you were putting the Kendall house up for sale,” I said.

“That's right,” he said. “You can go through my real estate agent. Hannah Sharpe, over in Wisteria.”

“So it's official,” I said.

“Oh, hell yes, it's official,” he said. He seemed pretty anxious to get rid of the house, which meant I could have a really good chance of getting it before summer was out. I didn't know Evan Merchant very well. I'd seen him occasionally in town; he usually showed up for the bluegrass festival we hold once or twice a year. As far as I could remember, he worked somewhere up in South St. Louis. Don't ask me why, but the townsfolk who drive all the way to St. Louis for work stick out in my mind. “I want to close by July first.”

Wonderful. I'd have a few months of good weather to do repairs before winter set in. Of course, I hadn't discussed any of this with my husband, Rudy, but it wouldn't hurt to have an idea of what I'd need to do if I did get the chance to buy the house.

I cleared my throat. Bon, the killer Chihuahua, spun around in circles and barked again. Evan shot the dog a look, and Bon jumped on the couch and shut up. If he could get that sort of respect out of a dog, why couldn't I get it out of my kids? If I shot Mary a look like that, she'd laugh at me. Of course, Mary is on the verge of being an Evil Teenager. I firmly believe the years between ten and fourteen are the worst. At least for the parent. And for the other siblings. Well, for any living being who has the unfortunate luck of being in the vicinity of somebody that age.

“Bon is an unusual name for a dog,” I said.

“Oh, I named him after Bon Scott. The original lead singer for AC/DC.”

“Right,” I said. “Didn't he drink himself to death?”

“Yup,” he said. “The dog sounds just like him.” Evan tilted his head to the side as he looked at the dog on the couch. Bon mirrored his movement. “Sorta looks like him, too,” he said, and laughed.

“I was actually curious about the contents of the house. I heard you were planning on having an estate sale,” I said.

“That's right,” he said. “Boy, news travels fast in this town.”

“You have no idea,” I said.

“You want a Coke? Tea? I might have some Budweiser,” he said.

“No, I'm fine,” I said, following him into the kitchen. “I'd be really interested in the quilts and anything pertaining to fabric art. I think they would make an excellent display in town. A collection of fabric and needlework from historical women of the area would be a splendid addition to the Gaheimer Collection.”

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing a beer for himself from the fridge. “I think I remember seeing some old blankets in the house.”

I handed him my card with my office, home, and cell phone numbers on it. “I would give you a very, very generous price for the whole collection of needlecrafts.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said and took a drink. “Maybe it should go to auction if you think it's worth so much.”

“Whatever you decide, I'm sure it would be fair,” I said, “but I really think it's important that the quilts go to a historical society or a museum so that they don't end up in somebody's camping gear. I can guarantee them a good home, and I'm prepared to purchase them right away if you're in need of money now.”

His eyes lit up then. Damn, I was good.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let me talk it over with my lawyers and I'll get right back to you.”

“Thank you so much,” I said.

Evan showed me to the door. As I stepped out into the brilliant sunlight and saw the back of that wonderful home, I couldn't help but ask the inevitable question. “Evan, why have you never lived in the big house?”

He turned a bit pale then, especially around the mouth. “I did live in that house once. For about a week. The damn thing is haunted.” I laughed until I realized he was serious. “Every night, I'd hear gunshots that weren't there. Crashing noises. The final straw was when I saw her…”

“Her?”

“The woman, young and so beautiful. She sat down on the edge of my bed and told me in a very polite way that I was sleeping in her bed and then asked if I would please retire to one of the other bedrooms in the house.”

I laughed even harder. “Oh, Evan. There's no such thing as ghosts. You know, every single time I've thought a house was haunted, there was always a logical explanation for it. Everybody should watch Scooby-Doo. The Scooby gang would always think they had a ghost or zombie or whatever, and then they always found out it wasn't.”

“Fine,” he said. “Bring the Scooby gang over to check it out. Because that house is haunted. My dog won't go near it. He barks at the house all the time. And there's a room … upstairs.” He shivered. “I was gonna paint it, but I got too spooked before I could get around to doing it. The good thing is that the ghosts seem to be confined to the house. They can't get out.”

“How do you know?” I asked. As if they were real.

“I see her up there in that window all the time,” he said, pointing to one of the second-floor windows. “She stares down at me. Places her hand on the glass like she wants out. But she never comes.”

Chills danced down my spine. “Okay, well, let me know about the quilt collection, and I'll be in touch with your real estate agent.”

I was halfway to my car when I remembered something else. “Evan, why didn't you just move?”

“Couldn't afford to until now. I would have lost my butt if I'd sold it in the first five years. Then, well, I got laid off, and I'd taken out a second and a third mortgage … you know,” he said.

“Yeah, I understand,” I said. “What kind of vine did I see on that gorgeous front porch?”

If it was possible, Evan Merchant's pallor got even worse. “Morning glories,” he said.

“Morning glories,” I said. “But it's after noon. I thought they only bloomed in the morning.”