Dying for a Change (11 page)

“
How do you know?” Pat asked her.

“
I bowl there.”

“
Tina, for heaven’s sake, that’s gossip,” Pat said sternly. She looked a little sick. “Do me a favor, go to the office and get some of our brochures for Ellen. Please.”

Tina went off with obvious reluctance and Pat turned to me. “Mary told you,” she said sadly.

“
Yes. She’s worried, too. But none of this means Dottie — I can’t see her — oh, for Pete’s sake, just because she and Hank had drinks doesn’t mean she slept with him. Or murdered him.”

“
I know. What she and Hank did doesn’t concern me. But if he led her on, then jilted her, she’s the type to feel betrayed, desperate. She’s so--vulnerable.”

Dottie’s anxious face came to mind, and I nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. She’d have a hard time being dumped.” I was thinking of what I’d gone through after Brian had dumped me, what I was still going through. God knew I wasn’t tough, but I was lots tougher than Dottie.

“
It happened to her before, you know,” Pat told me, “and it took her a long time to come around.”

She didn’t have a chance to say more. Tina was back with a handful of information about The Little Playhouse group, and they insisted on showing me everything.

I left, thinking amateur theater might be more fun than I’d thought. Pat had invited me to their meeting Friday night, and I found myself considering going. I also found myself wondering how Dan would look in tights.

It was too late to go back to the office. I didn’t want to anyway, so I stopped off at the new supermarket and finally headed home.

I called Aunt Mary while I fed Jake and put away groceries. She wanted to know how Vera was doing, agreed Benjamin acted worse every day, and refused to talk about Dottie’s possible love life.

“
Are you and Dan coming for dinner tomorrow?”

“
I haven’t talked to him,” I said, “but I’ll be there, even if he’s not.”

“
Are you going to Hank’s funeral?”

“
I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought about the actual funeral. “When is it?”

“
Tomorrow, one o’clock, at St. Stephen’s. I think you should go. Everyone else will be there.”

I thought about it as I hung up. Was there any reason not to go? I thought about it as I put a chicken breast in the oven. I couldn’t think of a reason not to go as I fixed a salad, and found several in favor. So, tomorrow, one o’clock, at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church, even though I’d never really known him alive, I would be among Hank Sawyer’s mourners.

About eight o’clock, the phone rang.

“
Ellie?” The voice was familiar.

“
Hi. I wondered what happened to you.”

“
I’ve been around,” Dan said, “and I hear you have been too.”

There was something in his voice I knew I didn’t like. “What are you talking about?”

“
I hear you’ve been running around today, playing detective.” Oh, oh. His voice sounded grim.

“
I have no idea what you mean.” I let my own voice become dignified and distant.

“
Weren’t you out visiting everybody you could think of, asking all kinds of questions?”

“
I was out, yes, but if you consider a condolence call to the Sawyer’s playing detective, you’re reaching.”

“
I suppose you were representing your family.” There was a definite touch of bitterness in that sentence.

“
Yes. My mother asked me to”

“
I suppose you were shopping at the Emporium because you developed a sudden need for underwear.”

“
I think we can leave my underwear out of this discussion,” I was almost overcome a desire to laugh. Dan sounded so serious.

“
And a crazy desire to become Helen Hayes sent you off to The Little Playhouse.”

“
Pat invited me. It looks interesting. Have you ever tried it? You’d look great in tights.”

There was a long pause. “I never could win an argument with you,” he said, with a sigh. “Listen to me, Ellie. This is serious. Don’t play detective. You aren’t Kinsey Milhone, this isn’t one of your blasted books, and you could get hurt.”

“
Who would want to hurt me?” That sentence took me completely by surprise. “I just got back into town, I don’t know anyone, or anything.”

“
Ellie, you found a dead man. A murdered dead man. You missed the murderer by not very much. If whoever killed Hank thinks you saw something, or know something, that’s how you could get hurt.”

“
Oh.” I hadn’t thought of that.

“
This person doesn’t panic easily, and is probably pretty ruthless, so I want you to lay off, okay?”

I wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer. I hadn’t done anything. Yet. Instead I asked, “What do you mean, doesn’t panic. How do you know that?”

Dan sighed again. “I’m only telling you this so you won’t go off half cocked, like you used to. Most of the trouble I got into when we were kids was over some scheme you thought up.”

I started to protest, but wasn’t about to be sidetracked. “Explain about panicking, or not panicking, please.”

“
Hank was initially hit in the bedroom. He may have been standing on the tarp, or just close to it, because there’s not much blood there. What there was, got wiped up with newspaper.”

“
I didn’t see any newspaper.”

“
It was stuffed behind him in the closet. Anyway, he was hit again, and probably killed, while in the closet. That means a lot of blood. Whoever did it had blood on himself, especially on his legs and shoes. The killer took off his shoes in the closet and walked out of there in stocking feet. A pretty clear headed person to think of footprints at a time like that.”

“
Ugh.” I could feel a shudder run through my whole body. “Somehow that makes it even more awful.”

“
Exactly,” Dan seeded satisfied he’d gotten his point across. “Which is why...”

“
I heard you.”

“
I wonder.” he said. “That brings me to a question. You were in your office that Sunday afternoon, until you got the phone call to show the house. Right?”

I agreed it was, wondering what difference it made. It was after I left that was important.

“
Nicole Chambers was with you, but Tom wasn’t?”

“
Yes. Tom was out previewing houses.”

“
When did he get back?”

“
Right before the phone call. I remember because he came in shaking rain off his glasses, saying it was starting to drizzle. It didn’t really start until I got to the bridge.”

“
What did he have on?” Dan asked.

“
Have on? You mean, what was he wearing?”

“
Yes, what was he wearing?”

“
What difference does that make?”

“
Ellie, just answer me, please. It was obvious he was trying to be patient.

I had to think. Tom wore jeans and a sweatshirt to my house that evening. Had he worn them earlier? I thought so. “Jeans,” I said firmly, “and a sweatshirt. He didn’t have clients, he was only previewing.”

“
Jeans,” Dan repeated. “Not much shows up on jeans. Anything else?”

“
What else would...” I was thinking of feet, shoes, new shoes. Tom, walking into my house, showing off his truly ugly new running shoes, the ones he hadn’t waited until Monday to buy. Had he had them on when he returned to the office? I couldn’t remember. I’d been so excited and nervous about having my first client that Tom’s wardrobe hadn’t made an impression. But, surely it would have if he’d been dripping blood.

“
What, Ellie? Why did you stop?”

“
It’s nothing important,” I said, as slowly as possible. There was no way I could get out of mentioning those shoes, but I sure didn’t want to. “Only—well--Tom bought some new shoes sometime during the afternoon. He showed them to us when he and Nicole came over.”

“
Did he have them on when he returned to the office?

“
I have no idea, but I’m sure he wasn’t bloody. That I would have remembered.”

“
New shoes, my, my. What did he do with the old ones?”

“
I didn’t ask him. Dan, you can’t possibly suspect Tom Chambers!”

“
I didn’t say I did,” he said in a much too cheerful voice, “but we have to look at everything. Now, I understand we have an invitation to dinner tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up a little before six, and Ellie, just do real estate tomorrow, okay? Nothing else.”

He hung up. So did I, a little harder than was necessary. How did he know we’d been invited to dinner at Aunt Mary’s? How did he know where I’d been today? Was Tom really a suspect? It seemed like I was collecting a whole lot of questions. I stared at the silent phone and vowed I’d get answers, tomorrow night at Aunt Mary’s.

It was cold. Outside my bedroom window the sky was Wedgewood blue, and I could see light frost on the lawn and fence posts. Winter wasn’t ready to let us off the hook quite yet.

Eyes only half open, coffee in hand, I rummaged through my closet. I was to attend my first Multiple Listing Service meeting, and felt obliged to look professional, whatever that meant, and what I wore this morning was going to Hank’s funeral as well. I chose a long tweed wool skirt, a tunic sweater that belted loosely at the waist, and grabbed my winter coat. One last sip of coffee, an admonition to Jake to behave himself, and I was gone.

Once a week all the Realtors who belong to the Multiple Listing Service have a meeting. They announce their sales, tell about price changes or other information about their listings, pitch the virtues of their respective properties, get caught up on the newest laws designed to drive their clients crazy and them out of business, and finally, preview all the new properties on the market. This would be pretty easy if it were confined to houses in town, but since over half the sales made around here are either small or large ranches, it takes a lot longer and is a lot more complicated.

No one from my office had shown up. I was getting a little nervous when two old pros, friends of my parents, took pity on me and invited me to ride with them. I was delighted, as I didn’t trust my memory to take me over winding country roads without getting lost, and I needed an update on our changing agriculture. In fields where I remembered cows and calves, there were grape vines, many with wineries, most with large, new homes. Where I was sure barley once grew, horses grazed, beautiful horses with huge, impressive barns in the background. Here and there I spotted a racetrack. More new homes surveyed the pastures; smaller homes nestled close to the barns.

When I was growing up the only homes were farmhouses, utilitarian and comfortable. Aunt Martha, another of my mother’s sisters, was married to a farmer, and we spent many hours at her house, my sister, my cousins, and I, chasing chickens, trying to rope baby calves, playing hide and seek in the hay barn. The adults sat on the porch or on lawn chairs under the old elm, drinking beer and lemonade, settling the affairs of the country and their neighbors, and occasionally yelling at us to ‘stop that’. The dinners we ate came largely from my aunts’ and my mother’s gardens, and no one would have dreamed of producing a ‘store bought’ cake.

Bo Chutsky and Madelaine O’Rourke have lived here all their lives. Both have been in real estate for as long as anyone can remember. Bo says he’s retiring this year. Madelaine looks real interested when the subject comes up. Between them, they know every house, every ranch, and every family in the county. Bo’s gotten pretty heavy over the years, to the point where belts alone no longer serve; it’s suspenders all the way. He moves around a little slower, but he thinks as fast as ever. Madelaine’s flaming red hair, about as real as Lucille Ball’s, and her razor sharp tongue scare most people to death. I think she likes it that way. I hoped I’d get lucky and she’d retire before I had her on the other end of a deal.

Madelaine drove, Bo sat in the passenger seat, and I got the back. Almost immediately the conversation turned to murder.

“
Terrible thing, you finding Hank like that, Ellen.” Bo said. “You all right?”

“
I am now. It was pretty awful, though.”

Madeleine made a little clicking sound, I guessed of sympathy. “I can’t believe it happened. Hank Sawyer, of all people. Murdered. In this town.”

“
I thought Hank had a reputation for--.” I wasn’t sure how to finish.

“
Say it right out, Ellen. Hank was a woman chaser. We all knew that, but he wasn’t a pushy one.” Madeleine issued that observation firmly.

“
What?” I was startled both by her description and her candor.

Bo laughed. “She means if you told Hank to get lost, he did. He only played with willing partners. Basically, Hank was a good man, and, if you leave his little weakness aside, an honest one.”

“
Then you don’t think it was some jealous husband?” I was thinking of Tom.

“
More likely someone like Ray Yarborough. Not that I’m accusing Ray,” Madelaine said hurriedly, “but I heard Hank tell Mildred Watson he finally had the goods on Ray, and this time, he was going to make sure Ray lost his license.”

“
What did Ray do?” I leaned over the front seat a little. Ray mad me nervous and I didn’t want to miss one word of Madeleine’s assessment.