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Authors: Kathryn O'Sullivan

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BOOK: Foal Play: A Mystery
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“But why was she in my house?” Myrtle asked.

“If I knew who she was I might have a better idea,” Colleen said. “I imagine her family will report her missing at some point and get confirmation from the coroner. Once that happens, though, you’ll be in danger again.”

“Which means I have to stay here,” Myrtle said, resigned.

“Exactly,” she said, glad that Myrtle was finally cooperating. “I’ll get clothes from your house for you when I pick up the Preservation Society papers for Nellie.”

“But the Society materials are mine!” Myrtle said, leaping up in a huff.

“Fine. I’ll just tell Nellie she can’t have them
because you’re still alive
!”

That shut Myrtle up. She flumped back into the chair, folded her arms, and pouted. Silence fell over the room. Colleen ran her fingers through her hair. Myrtle was so damn aggravating. She could see why someone might want to kill her. A sly smile crept over Myrtle’s face and she began giggling to herself. Wonderful, Colleen thought. Myrtle was cracking up. Now she might have to admit a presumably dead woman to the psychiatric ward. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

“The sheriff thinks you were with a man,” Myrtle said between snickers.

“So?”

“You? Please,” Myrtle said with a snort.

Colleen rolled her eyes. Really, Myrtle could be so childish. It was time to put the child to bed. “We should get you settled,” Colleen said. “There’s a bathroom with a shower down the hall so you can clean up. I’ll leave clean sweats outside the door for you. The sofa folds out. You can sleep in the living room.”

Myrtle rose and proceeded to the bathroom without a word. Colleen watched her go, surprised at her sudden obedience.

While Myrtle showered, Colleen pulled out the sofa bed and made it up with clean sheets, a fresh cotton blanket, and a fluffed down pillow. Smokey appeared from wherever she had been hiding and jumped on the bed. Colleen shooed the cat, not knowing if Myrtle was allergic or not. Smokey responded with an angry hiss and scurried under the sofa. Sparky put his chin on the blanket and sniffed the sheets.

“Great, not you, too,” Colleen said.

Unlike the Siamese, Sparky removed his head from the bed without a fuss and curled up on his dog bed in the corner. Colleen dimmed the lights to a soft, relaxing glow. Myrtle deserved a good night’s sleep after what she’d been through, if she could get one.

“That looks nice,” Myrtle said.

Colleen found Myrtle standing in the doorway, hair wet, and dressed in the sweatpants Colleen had placed outside the bathroom door. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Tired,” Myrtle said. “Whose pants are these?”

“My father’s. He left them here the last time he visited. It’s all I had that”—Colleen stopped herself before finishing the sentence—“would fit you.”

“They’ll do,” Myrtle said, padded to the sofa bed, and slid under the sheets.

“I’ll let you get some sleep,” she said and turned to go.

“Colleen?”

Colleen paused. “Yes?”

“Would you mind staying, at least until I fall asleep?”

Colleen looked at Myrtle tucked into the bed like a little girl.

“Please,” Myrtle said, eyes welling with tears. The events of the night were sinking in.

Colleen’s protective instincts kicked in. “Of course,” she said.

Smokey reemerged, jumped on the bed, and curled up next to Myrtle. “Smokey, no,” Colleen ordered, ready to pluck the cat from the bed and lock her in the mudroom.

“It’s okay,” Myrtle said and rubbed the cat’s cheek. “I like cats.”

Colleen heard Smokey purr from across the room. She shook her head. Figures, the one person the cranky cat took to was the cranky schoolteacher. Colleen scooped a magazine from the coffee table and settled into a chair where she could keep an eye on Myrtle and the front door. She flipped through the pages, searching for an article she had been meaning to finish.

“Good night, Colleen,” Myrtle said, her voice already heavy with sleep.

Myrtle’s breathing became slow and steady. Colleen rose and quietly crossed to the foyer. “Good night, Myrtle,” she said in a whisper and switched off the light.

Chapter 6

The news of
Myrtle Crepe’s death spread quickly through the Outer Banks. Currituck County was no stranger to its share of trouble but such troubles consisted mostly of drunk driving arrests, domestic disturbances, and theft of construction materials—not murder. Colleen spent the next week fielding questions from reporters about the arson investigation, fighting with Myrtle about her need to stay hidden at the house, and painfully coping with Bill’s distant, all-business attitude. With neither work nor home offering relief from the tension, Colleen was growing increasingly irritable and the guys at the station were bearing the brunt of it.

To make matters worse, today was Myrtle’s memorial service. Little Bobby had made arrangements despite the lack of a coroner’s report. The medical examiner’s office was backlogged and, since no one had reported a woman missing, it didn’t seem likely they would have a final report for weeks. Bobby had no reason to believe that the body was anyone other than his mother and didn’t see the point in waiting.

Colleen was sick to her stomach as she drove to the Corolla Chapel to pay her respects. She hated attending the service of someone she knew wasn’t really dead. It felt like bad karma. All week she had racked her brain trying to come up with a legitimate excuse for why she couldn’t be at Myrtle’s memorial ceremony, but she recognized that her absence would raise eyebrows. Everyone in Corolla who had loved
or
hated Myrtle would be there.

It was the prospect of observing and identifying potential suspects that kept Colleen driving to the chapel located a few blocks north of the Currituck Beach Lighthouse. Perhaps the killer would come to the service to admire his or her handiwork. Or better yet, maybe she would get lucky and the killer would feel a need to confess to the crime before the congregation. She understood a confession was highly unlikely, so she’d fall back on observing everyone in attendance—even those least likely to commit such a horrible crime. The sooner she figured out who the guilty party was, the sooner she could get her life back.

Earlier, Myrtle had begged to go with her to witness the memorial service, even clutching Colleen around the waist and refusing to let go as Colleen tried to leave. Myrtle had promised Colleen she would remain hidden in the SUV under a blanket. She only wanted to see how many people showed, how much people missed her. In some bizarre way, she had understood Myrtle’s curiosity. Who wouldn’t want to see what type of impact they had made on the world? It was only by promising Myrtle a blow-by-blow account of the service that Colleen had been able to get her to remain at the house. Colleen hoped someone had something nice to say about Myrtle. Otherwise, she’d have to make something up. She could certainly concoct a few nice words but, given her general irritation with her house guest, Colleen wasn’t sure she’d be that convincing.

As she pulled into the parking lot of the Corolla Chapel, a lump formed in her throat at the sight of Bill’s SUV. She made a point of parking in a space on the opposite side of the lot. She cut the engine and let out a heavy sigh. In the last week Bill had been aloof, speaking to her only when it concerned the case. Part of Bill’s behavior had to do with his being busy with the homicide investigation and press conferences; the rest had to do with Bill thinking she had a male companion. If he only knew the “companion” he thought he had heard the night of the explosion was anything but.

The sound of a motorcycle revving in the parking lot put an end to Colleen’s ruminations. She turned to see who would be rude enough to make such a racket at a memorial service and was surprised to discover Little Bobby Crepe atop a shiny new Harley. Bobby wobbled into a space, sputtered to a stop, and attempted to heave his chubby leg over the seat. The dismount was made all the more difficult because of the stiff black leather chaps he was wearing. He eventually managed to maneuver his leg over the top and teetered as he regained his balance. Colleen noted his new boots, blue jeans, black leather jacket, and helmet and watched him stand back to admire his new bike gleaming in the bright July sun. He gently brushed a speck of dust from its seat, then headed into the church. She couldn’t help but notice there was now a slight swagger to his waddle.

Colleen sat in her vehicle, stunned. Little Bobby, uniformed preservation officer, was now Big Bobby, leather-wearing biker. As the shock wore off, she wondered how she was going to tell Myrtle about this. And then it struck her: this was certainly an odd way for a grieving son to behave, especially at his mother’s memorial service. At least he’s wearing black, she thought. She recalled Bobby’s reaction the night of the explosion. Had she mistaken guilt for grief? As improbable as it seemed, Bobby Crepe became her first suspect.

Colleen exited her SUV and instantly wished she weren’t in dress uniform. The temperature was already in the mid-eighties and it was only mid-morning. She tugged uncomfortably at her jacket, partially to keep it from sticking to her skin and partially because she hated memorials and funerals. She found it incredibly difficult to witness the loss felt by those left behind and usually found her eyes welling with tears even if she didn’t know the deceased. She was not in danger of weeping today, however, since Myrtle wasn’t really dead. Instead, she’d feel like a heel watching everyone go through emotional heartbreak. As distasteful as the deception was, it was necessary in order to protect Myrtle.

She advanced toward the front door of the chapel and admired how cheerful the chapel’s white paint appeared in the morning sun. The original one-room Corolla Chapel had been built in 1885 by two carpenters after the local community had formed a congregation. For the next seventy-three years the chapel had been on a Baptist circuit or had visiting pastors. Eventually, the chapel fell into disuse and it wasn’t until 1988 that a pastor and his wife, John and Ruth Strauss, were convinced by parishioners to start year-round services. In 2002, due to the growth of the congregation and the desire to add to the building, the original chapel was moved across the street to its current location and attached to the new wing. As far as Colleen was concerned, the chapel was a must-see for anyone visiting Corolla.

Colleen entered the cool interior of the church and was instantly greeted by Richard Bailey, the oldest son of Bailey and Sons Funeral Services. “How’s it going, Rich?” she asked, taking a program.

“Got a pretty decent turnout. Reporter’s here,” he said, indicating a handsome young man standing in the right rear corner whispering to a bearded cameraman. “Bill’s on the other side,” he said and pointed to the left rear corner.

Great, Colleen thought, trapped between the press and Bill. She forced a smile and headed toward the second pew from the back near the aisle.

She quickly took a seat, hoping not to draw Bill’s or the reporter’s attention. One would want to flee from her, the other run toward her—and it wouldn’t be the way she wanted. The choir director played the piano at the front of the chapel as people trickled in. Colleen had always liked the intimacy of the chapel and especially admired the stained-glass window near the altar. She found it entirely fitting that the window of an island chapel depicted images of a flame, a pelican, and an anchor.

Colleen surveyed the room. Rich was right; it was a decent crowd. She recognized the local islanders, many of whom were former students, and nodded to a few as their eyes met. Myrtle’s former teaching colleagues were evident by their dress: dark floral skirts, sensible shoes, cardigans even in the middle of summer, and chains around their necks for their bifocals. Scattered among the locals and former colleagues were a handful of curious vacationers. Not anticipating attending a funeral while on holiday, the tourists wore colorful summer attire over their pink sunburned skin. Colleen liked the bit of color they added to the scene.

She spotted Bobby in the front pew sitting near an enormous picture of Myrtle displayed on an easel. She couldn’t help but grin at the photo of Myrtle proudly dressed in her Lighthouse Wild Horse Preservation Society uniform and sternly staring back at them. This was no airbrushed photograph for a school yearbook. This was a photo of Myrtle to her stubborn, exasperating core. Colleen could already hear Myrtle snorting her approval when Colleen told her later today. The music stopped and Pastor Fred took the pulpit.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today in memory of our dearly departed Myrtle Mae Crepe. I’d like to start with something I found in a Hallmark card that I thought was appropriate.”

Colleen rolled her eyes. A Hallmark card? Certainly the Good Book had words appropriate for the occasion. Well, she thought, he wasn’t called Flaky Fred for nothing. As Fred commenced his greeting-card eulogy, Colleen noticed Nellie lean toward Bobby in the front pew and pat his back. Based on Bobby’s behavior in the parking lot Colleen wondered if he needed any comforting.

Colleen felt a presence loom over her and discovered Pinky Salvatore standing in the aisle. “May I?” he asked, motioning to the space next to her. Colleen slid over. Normally she’d cringe at the thought of having to sit through anything, memorial service or otherwise, next to Pinky but today was different. She had promised herself that if she ran into Pinky she’d be polite, maybe even charming, in an effort to get information about his whereabouts on the night of July fourth.

Despite being in an interdenominational church, Pinky knelt and genuflected in Catholic tradition before sliding into the pew. Colleen forced a sideways smile at Pinky. Pinky smiled a perfectly white, minty-fresh smile back. Out of the corner of her eye, Colleen caught Bill observing her in jealous disapproval and her smile quickly faded. She faced forward and pulled her arms in tight so as not to have physical contact with her pewmate.

“It’s unfortunate what happened to Mrs. Crepe,” Pinky said after an awkward silence.

“Yes,” Colleen said casually but her mind was racing. Here was her opportunity to interrogate Pinky. Even if he was Myrtle’s killer and got angry at her, what could he do? He certainly wouldn’t attack her in church. “I’ve been wondering, Mr. Salvatore…” she said.

BOOK: Foal Play: A Mystery
3.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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