Eine Kleine Murder (17 page)

Chapter 30

Ponderoso: Ponderous; in a vigorous, impressive style (Ital.)

Again we made the sad trip to the funeral home to pick out a casket, this time Grace's. Al was in an ominous mood. It wasn't that he turned red and threatened to explode, like he'd done the time we roasted marshmallows, but he smoldered the whole way into town. He sighed heavily beside me as I drove the dirt road toward Alpha and moved his long legs restlessly on the floor mat.

I wasn't sure if I should bring up what was gnawing at me, given his frame of mind, but I did anyway. “Do you think all three of them—my grandmother, your wife, and Toombs—were killed by the same person?”

He turned his head my way, slowly, but didn't answer. His direct gaze disconcerted me.

“I know the news said Toombs was stabbed,” I said, “and they weren't stabbed, of course, they were pushed into the mud—”

He shot me such a black look I stopped short.

Okay. I won't talk about it.

But another thought suddenly occurred to me. It chilled me to the core. Toombs was stabbed, yes. And Al's knife was missing. And Al hated the man.

I stole a look at him. He stared out the passenger window, his thin shoulders sagging with the weight of Grace's death. I inched further toward the driver-side window.

That night of the marshmallow roast, and again last night, Al had hinted he might be leaving the area. Was Toombs the reason he and Grace had thought of leaving? Or, was a plan to kill Toombs and then vanish his reason?

“What do you think, Cressa?” Al whispered, overwhelmed by the selection.

“Do you know what her favorite flower was?” I ventured.

He looked across the rows of burial boxes.

“There,” he pointed, then walked over two rows. He rested his hand lightly on a metal casket lined in soft pink. “Grace loves daffodils. I mean, she loved them.” He swallowed hard and deflated, his anger smothered in the cloying atmosphere of the room.

A border of pale yellow daffodils ran around the outside rim of the coffin, and the handles were shaped like leaves. Even the interior had shiny flowers embossed on the satin lining. It was similar to the one I'd picked for Gram. Grace had been the one to point it out to me. I'd settled on a plain brass-colored one when she spotted, in the corner, a casket rimmed in violets.

“They both loved early spring flowers, didn't they, Al?” I said. “Yes, this one would be lovely.”

He didn't ask the price, just told the funeral director he'd chosen the one with daffodils.

“Yellow is a good color for her,” he told the director while he signed papers for the purchase. “The color of sunshine. She was my …” He couldn't finish the sentence.

After Al chose Grace's coffin, he suggested we stop for coffee in the diner on the highway. He was in a much better mood.

We ordered at the old-fashioned Formica counter and carried our cups to a booth with a window that overlooked the road.

“Glad that's over with,” he said. “Is there any sugar over there?”

I handed him the dish of paper packets. “I'm glad, too,” I said. “And I hope I don't have to do that again any time soon.”

“Hope I
never
have to do it again. Next one should be mine. Someone else will have to pick out
that
coffin.” He ripped open four packets and stirred them into his coffee, one by one. I watched his strong, veined hands holding his cup, clanking the spoon against it.

Are they the hands that killed Toombs? That stabbed him with his fishing knife? He could not kill Gram or Grace. I do so want to believe that. Toombs? That's another matter.

He and Daryl were the only two people in this area I trusted. But
should
I trust them? Mr. Anders, the drugstore owner, was the only person whose opinion of Daryl I'd heard.

“Do you know Daryl?” I asked, picturing his open freckled face when he'd rescued me from the cornfield.

“Daryl Johannson? Sure. He grew up in Alpha. Why?”

“Mr. Anders said something about a connection between him and a fire.”

“That cabin at the lake we talked about last night. He's the one who set the fire.” He knocked his spoon on the rim of the mug and gulped down the hot coffee.

“What?! Why would he do that?” I should have been ready for Al's statement, in light of what the druggist had told me, but I was still stunned. Al thought Daryl set a fire that killed a woman? “That was long ago. How old was Daryl then?”

“Daryl was a child, maybe ten or eleven, when his mother died of cancer. He was deeply troubled afterwards and got caught setting a few little blazes. They didn't do any harm, and he was taken to therapy. Must not've worked, though. Next thing we knew, Norah was dead.”

“But how could you possibly know it was him?” Daryl was the nicest person I'd met here, after Grace and, I supposed, Al.

“The fire chief said so. Told everyone who would listen, too. And the fire was deliberately set, he said. But Daryl wasn't convicted.”

No, not in a court. But he was convicted just the same—in everyone's minds.

“Probably because he was so young,” Al said.

“Mr. Anders says he didn't have anything to do with the fire.” Loyalty to Daryl flared up in me. Daryl didn't kill anyone, I told myself, because I like him.

“Some folks think that way. Not most.”

Our coffees were finished in silence.

We didn't talk much on the drive back. This placid lake had a long history of violence. Maybe every place did, if only you delved deep enough.

Two trips in one week to pick out caskets had worn me down. Caskets for two murdered women. It was way too much.

I sat on the daybed-couch to think, but popped right up again. Uneasy, I wandered to the doorway out to the porch and stood there for a moment.

A thin cloud darkened the sunlight and a wind shook the leaves outside. I shivered. The cloud moved on.

I couldn't decide whether or not I was secure here. The locks worked, but…

The sun shone brilliantly through the louver windows onto the wicker furniture. The warmth beckoned me, and I decided to sit on the beach and try to think things through. It would be safer.

The killer can't get me in plain sight in the middle of the day, even if he—or she—wants to.

I donned my bathing suit, grabbed my beach bag, and slammed the door on my way out. Maybe the sun would relax and calm me. I wouldn't get into the water today, perhaps never again.

After I spread my towel on the sand and settled myself, Wayne's red plaid shirt and overalls caught my eye. He was trimming bushes at the edge of the beach area, and looked about as steady on his feet as the last time I'd seen him. I wasn't close enough for a whiff, but I knew he was exhaling whiskey fumes just the same.

I put down my bottle of coconut-scented sunscreen and waved to him in greeting. He raised his shears and waggled them at me in response, then dived deeper into the brush. I lay down, closed my eyes, and tried yoga breathing.

In less than ten minutes a shadow fell across my face and I found myself peering up at Martha Toombs's pinched face. At first I didn't recognize her without her pink foam rollers. Her hair looked nice, if a bit tightly wound. I remembered she hadn't been able to finish telling me something last time I saw her because Mo had shown up.

I sat up. “Hi, Martha. Are you doing okay?”
Al didn't see how she had kept from murdering her husband all these years—but maybe she hadn't.

“There's a couple of things I need to tell you.” Her fingers played with the skirt of her housedress for a second, then she sank onto the ground beside me and ran sand through her fingers. This was the most decisiveness I'd seen from her. “You need to know. And I need to tell you. I tried before, but… It's about your grandmother.

“I want you to know,” she went on, “Mo probably stole jewelry from her.”

“Do you know where it is?
I would love to get Gram's wedding and engagement rings back.”

“I might… I need to… I'll let you know if I can get it.” She plucked at the material of her dress again and didn't continue.

“Do you have any idea who could have killed them? Or your husband? Do you think the same person killed all three?”

A dense cloud shrouded the sunlight and the temperature of the air dropped a few degrees. She shivered and looked away. “How could… ? I have no idea.” I didn't know if she was evading my questions or being her usual wishy-washy self.

“Your granddaughters told me they thought Mo was present when my grandmother died.”

The animation of a moment ago returned. “They did? What a thing for them to say. They shouldn't go around telling lies like that. Mo does have his faults. He has that… that weakness for jewelry.”

Weakness? Is that what you call it?

“He's always stolen jewelry, even when he was a little boy. I could never talk about it with my husband. He wouldn't hear a word against his son. Not ever. Not his Mo. But, Mo wasn't there when your grandmother died.” She looked away again. “I think, that is, I'm pretty sure, that the truth is… I mean, I can't prove anything, but …”

Martha sprang up and turned her back to me, staring out over the rippling water, to the place of Gram's death. The sun burst forth again, its rays picking up shards on the water and flinging them skyward.

“The night your grandmother drowned, my husband acted strangely.” Her voice fell flat. “You have to understand, he always had such great hopes for that boy, and never could stand for anybody to criticize him.” Silence again.

I couldn't sit still any longer. I rose and took a step toward her and balled my fists to keep my itching fingers from shaking her. “And that's what you wanted to tell me? That Mo stole her rings? Does this have anything to do with her death?”

She turned and faced me. Her eyes pleaded for something from me, but I didn't know what, and couldn't give it to her.

“Grace told everyone Mo stole earrings from her, too,” she said.

“And both those women are dead. But you don't think Mo did anything beyond stealing?”

“No.” She was adamant. “I don't.”

“So, I'll ask you again, do you have any idea who killed all these people?”

She reached down and scratched her leg. More silence.

“If you do, Martha, you should tell the police.”

“I know,” she said, surprising me. So she knew who killed them? Is that what she meant?

She took a deep breath. “I've thought and thought about it, and maybe, maybe I'll go to the station this afternoon. But maybe not… I only have an idea who killed Ida and Grace, but I do know who killed my husband.”

Chapter 31

Stridente: Strident; rough, harsh (Ital.)

Up on the hill, Mo came out of Martha's house and opened his car door in the driveway, a scant fifty feet away. She rushed away from me. I started after her, then saw Mo turn toward us, minus his movie-star grin. He wore the same dark frown as the last time I'd seen him.

“Martha, wait!”

Martha threw me a frightened look over her shoulder and I shrank back. Mo slammed his door shut, whirled, and went back into the house. I squinted into the afternoon sunshine, watching Martha trudge back up to her house and her pathological son, then fell back onto my towel, my head spinning from all the weird goings-on.

Did Martha tell me the truth? Or does she know Mo killed them, and she's trying to shield him?

I needed to call Neek. Luckily, the capricious Ivan decided to work.

“Cress, what's up?” she asked. For once she didn't sound breathless.

“I didn't interrupt your work?”

“Oh no. I'm on break, meditating. You haven't seen Len out there, have you?”

“No, why? Isn't he back in Chicago?”

“I've seen him a couple of times, so, yes, I think he's staying here. Maybe he's done harassing you. I hope so.”

“There's something I need to talk out with you. I had the most awful conversation with Martha Toombs.”

“Wife of the guy you found dead, right?”

“Right. She's not very broken up about his murder, but I wouldn't be either if I were her.”

“How come?”

“She's the one I told you about, the one that was scared of her husband. And the mother of Mo, the guy who attacked me.”

“Ah, makes complete sense. Who would miss a jerk like that?”

“Anyway, she just told me, at least it sounded like, she knows who Gram's killer was. In fact, she makes it sound like she knows there are two different killers. Obviously, Toombs couldn't have killed himself, but I keep wondering if he killed the two women in defense of his darling boy. She was trying to tell me something that she never finished. I wonder if that's what she was trying to say.”

There was no cloud at that moment, but cold air breathed on my skin.

And then something clicked into place, like perfect, terrible harmony.

“Oh Neek, I can just see it.” My voice caught with my vision. “It all fits. I can just see Gram confronting the Toombses about her rings with her hands on her hips and her chin up, ready for a fight.” I squeezed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth. I was so mad at Gram for confronting them. But then, she never let anyone walk over her.

Dammit all to hell, Gram! You didn't have to confront them. You could have told the police—you could have sued them—you could have done a lot of things that wouldn't have gotten you killed. Oh Gram! Did you know how much I loved you? Do you know how much I miss you?

Forlorn tears welled up, quenching my anger.

“Maybe if I'd come sooner …”

“Cressa, don't do this to yourself. It's unlikely you could have prevented her death even if you'd been there. Even if you'd never gotten angry about her buying the cabin and selling the piano, even if you'd been to visit her before this, that doesn't mean you would have been present at the very moment to prevent her death. Right?”

I knew she was right. I also knew, in spite of what Martha said, the Toombs family was involved. Somehow. She was blind to Mo's shortcomings; his kleptomania was a “weakness” to her.

A cold, hard fact hit me. “But listen, this is the worst part. If Toombs killed them, there will never be real justice for either of them. Ever. He can't be held accountable. He can never be punished. And if Gram was killed by Toombs, who cares who killed him? Not me. I don't care if his killer is never caught.”

Neek's words, accompanied by the sitar music in the background from her interrupted meditation session, began to soothe me.

I said good-bye and turned the cell off. The fact that I was now truly an orphan swept over me. Of course, I had been an orphan since my parents' early death, but I'd never felt like one, surrounded by so much love from Gram and Gramps. But now, who could I turn to? Who that had loved me my whole life? No one. I swallowed and held my tears back.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Wayne's slight, gaunt form coming out of the brush with a tied bundle of trimmings. He flung the branches into the dumpster and they landed in the empty bin with a hollow clang.

Could I assuage my guilt by finding Gram's murderer? And Grace's, of course. Was this all connected to Mo's stolen jewelry? I had to make Martha tell me who she suspected.

But I rewound the tape a notch. How could Martha know who killed her husband? Maybe it was her. Could she have killed them all? She doted on Mo at least as much as his father had. That was one of the first things I noticed about her.

My thoughts chased themselves round and round, like the squirrels skittering after each other up and down the nearby tree trunks, until I had to get up and move. I stuck my towel and lotion into my bag and trudged up the hill. Maybe I should tell the police what Martha had confided to me.

Sheila was lumbering out of the concrete-block shower building across the road from my cabin as I passed, a towel wrapped around her wet hair and the usual slim cigar hanging out of the corner of her large lips.

“Hello, Sheila,” I called. “Isn't this all a horrible mess?”

“Sure is,” she answered, waddling toward me. Her breath smelled of beer. “What a day! I hate it about Grace. Me and Wayne was pestered by that detective forever. Did they talk to you long?” She squinted in the smoke from her cigar.

I walked over to her, beside her mowing tractor. “Quite awhile. I went to the Alpha police station yesterday to report that I found him, then Chief Bailey drove me to talk to Sheriff Dobson.”

“You found the body? Those cops never said nothing about that. I'll be damned. I wondered who found it. Me and Wayne wondered. It's good to know we ain't the only ones being questioned.” She took the cigar from her mouth and tapped ashes onto the ground with a chubby finger.

“Oh no, they've been questioning everybody, as far as I can tell. It looked like they went door to door.”

“Well, I'll be goin' in now. Gotta dry my hair.” As she turned she lurched against the tractor and dislodged the red seat cushion, then staggered up the steps into her decrepit trailer, leaving the cushion to lie on the ground.