From Newsprint to Footprints: A River's Edge Cozy Mystery (River's Edge Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (28 page)

   I honest to God never thought anyone would think you did it. Hell, I don't know what I thought. I was frantic, and I just wanted some time.

   I'm so sorry. You're my good friend. I figured you knew I used to see Sandi, and you never told. I told her we had to break it off when I was her boss. It was really because I was afraid she'd figure it out if we were together all the time.

   Help her, okay? She'll never understand.

OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod
.

I sat on the ground, cross-legged, shaking. Mister Tibbs put a paw on my thigh and tried to crawl into my lap. I leaned forward for a second and put my chin on the top of his head. "I'm so glad you're here, Mister Tibbs."

I sat up. The only other thing on the paper was Fred's name, first name only and typed rather than signed. "Poor Sandi."

If they didn't break up until after Fred was made acting editor, he could have been at Sandi's after the first time he looked for Hal. That's how he heard I got the work with Syl. Maybe he even heard my voice mail saying Hal was angry.

I could envision Fred frightened of the man who killed Hal, knowing he might never work for a paper again if he said he'd helped bury Hal. So he planted my hoe with Hal.

More important to Fred, high school class president, would have been the fear of public humiliation. Still, Fred had as analytical a mind as any reporter. Why not go to the sheriff after Just Bill left? Fred said he was buzzed, but that would have worn off by the time he finished burying Hal in the mulch.

Even if he thought he'd be in a lot of trouble, Fred had to know how much everyone liked him. We would have stuck up for him. If he'd gone to the sheriff immediately, I couldn't imagine Gallagher would even have asked the county attorney to charge Fred. Fred was in shock, under duress, when he buried Hal.

And Sandi? How could I let her know Fred wanted me to help her when she'd never told me about Fred? For sure I didn't want to share Fred's letter, not with her or anybody.

How could I prove what Fred had said without showing the letter to anyone?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I THOUGHT IN CIRCLES as I took Mister Tibbs for a walk and finished packing my truck for the visit to Ambrose and Sharon. There was nothing I could do immediately. If I told Ambrose I was sick, he and Sharon would probably be in River's Edge by tomorrow. If I told him I wanted to look into Hal's murder more, he'd show up with the ankle bracelet or, worse, leg irons.

My phone rang when we were walking. When I saw South County Sheriff on caller ID, I groaned. "Melanie here."

Gallagher sounded annoyed. "You talked to that editor instead of me."

"I promised Ambrose I wouldn't do anything. I didn't say Sandi and I wouldn't keep trading ideas. We think about Fred all the time."

"Humph. People in law enforcement have ideas, too. Your IDI buddies have already been helpful with phone and electronic records. Problem is, no phone records link to Hal."

"Nuts, he… Wait. I think one of the times he threw his mobile phone he got a second one, one of those you buy a monthly card for. It was his backup in case he broke his good phone again."

"Did he keep it?"

"I don't know. I just remember he was mad because he couldn't get a new Sprint phone for a couple of days after he threw his against the wall. He got one of those cheap things at the truck stop by the highway."

Gallagher was irritated. "You couldn't have told me this earlier? They might have a record of the purchase."

"Oh, yeah, because I had a clue what you were looking at." I hung up. I had a good idea and he was giving me grief about it.

I HAD TO BE careful that Ambrose didn't figure out Sandi and I were texting about a link between Jefferson and Hal. When he did notice me paying more attention to my phone than I usually would, I told him Sandi was going to put flowers on our parents' graves for Memorial Day.

This was even true. Ambrose, Sharon, and I have always done this together. This year, Ambrose simply wanted me away from River's Edge. He said he hoped I could reboot my curiosity chromosome.

Late Monday afternoon, Sandi texted, "Ryan's mom's cousin said they can link Hal's burner phone to Jefferson."

I handed Ambrose my phone. "What do you think about this?"

He studied it and passed the phone to Sharon. "Sis, I'm glad it might get figured out, but can't you forget about it for even two days?"

"I want Hal's murder solved so firmly that no one could ever again think I killed him."
And if it means I have to keep throwing ideas into the mix to get that done, I'm fine with that.

All in all, it was great news, even better because Ambrose knew Sandi was the one digging. I certainly wasn't afraid of my brother's opinion. I was glad he cared about me and especially glad that he and Mister Tibbs hit it off. Sharon not so much, which meant she was Mister Tibbs' favorite person. It might have had something to do with the chicken scraps.

BY THE TIME Mister Tibbs and I were home Tuesday, Bill Jefferson had been arrested for the murder of Hal Morris. IDI arrested him in Ames and took him to Des Moines.

Jefferson's mobile phone had made many calls to Hal's disposable mobile phone. Hal likely thought he was crafty to use that phone. Sandi said that Jefferson's denial that he knew Hal was what really screwed him once the sheriff and IDI found the telephone connection between the two men.

A short stop at Hy-Vee let me know that the general view in town was puzzlement, but I was pretty sure how the two men connected.

Hal met Syl, and when he heard why Syl moved to Iowa he got some background information. Probably just basic curiosity. Maybe he had an idea for a story, and then something about the size of Syl's contract likely got Hal's dander up.

There was Hal, struggling to keep a small-town paper in the black, and in waltzes Syl with a seven-figure contract from a group in Des Moines. Certainly, Hal would have asked how Syl even knew about an Iowa bid or grant process.

If Jefferson hadn't yet started his extortion plan, Syl might have even mentioned him to Hal. Syl wouldn't have intended that Hal call Jefferson, but the chance to dig up dirt would have put Jefferson on Hal's speed dial.

When things calmed down, I'd ask Syl about that. I was irritated with him now. Surely he could have made the link between Jefferson and Hal's murder. Or maybe not. As annoying as Hal was, he was someone I knew, and I wouldn't have suspected him of anyone's murder. Perhaps Syl couldn't think of Jefferson that way.

What seemed to have begun as Hal buying coffee for a new businessman, who Hal hoped would buy advertising, led Hal to dig. Hal learned more about the Iowa insurance industry by talking to Bruce Blackner. Knowing Hal, the eventual plan would have been a snide editorial about outsiders cheating Iowa businesses out of work.

I highly doubted that Hal and Jefferson planned to meet at Syl's the night Hal was murdered. It seemed more likely that a drunk Hal had driven out there to berate Syl for canceling his help-wanted ad.

Jefferson was there, car hidden, to break in and have it out with Syl. If Hal realized Jefferson was the person who helped Syl (anyone, really) get a big contract, Hal would have been irate. When Jefferson said Hal didn't matter, Hal would have blown a gasket and charged at him. Bad move.

And all speculation, unless the sheriff had been able to identify the crowbar as the murder weapon. If it wasn't in Jefferson's trunk, then it might never be found, and Jefferson might only be convicted as Hal's murderer if he confessed. I supposed he could do a plea bargain, like on television. Still, as annoying as Hal was, I'd like his murderer in prison forever.

I was picking the last of my garden's strawberries when an unfamiliar blue Buick pulled into the driveway. I assumed it was a visitor for Mrs. Keyser until Sheriff Gallagher got out.

Damn. I'm in for it now
. At least he wasn't in uniform. That probably lessened the likelihood of more trouble for me.

He stopped about ten feet from me, glanced at my tomato plants and then Mister Tibbs. "I need you to be straight with me, Melanie. Did Fred leave a letter I don't know about?"

I stood and wiped my hands on my cutoffs. "The thing about letters these days, if they're typed on a computer and there's no handwritten signature, how can you be sure where it came from?"

"True. That means even you could have typed a letter that identified the location of a murder weapon."

Uh-oh
. "Except I didn't. If Fred had written me a letter, it might have had a lot of personal stuff not related to Hal's murder. Wouldn't you guys have searched Jefferson's car carefully anyway?"

Sheriff Gallagher sighed. "Yes, but we might not have sprayed the crowbar to see if blood had been washed off it and then checked to see if there was still enough DNA to show it was Hal's."

"That's a good thing, right?"

"I could get a search warrant."

I smiled for a second. "I'm hoping if you really planned to do that it would have been done."

"I don't like it when people withhold evidence, Melanie."

Ken Brownberg's face passed through my thoughts. "I'm not saying I did withhold anything, but if I had it would be because I thought it would embarrass Fred's parents."

His tone was sharp. "Do you have a letter from Fred or not?"

I shook my head. "If I had gotten one, I would have burned it." I nodded toward Mrs. Keyser's burn barrel.

He turned to walk to his car. Without looking at me, Gallagher said, "I'm not happy with you."

"Yes sir."

I listened to gravel crunch as his car backed out of the driveway. It was dusk, and Mister Tibbs was exploring a chipmunk hole near the shed. I whistled for him. He ran toward me, barely stopping himself from running into my knees. I bent to scratch the top of his head. Her head.
Whatever
. "You're my good buddy."

If Fred had reached out to his friends, he would still be alive. If Hal had known how to have friends, he might not have been angry all the time, might not have gone to Syl's that night, probably would not have been killed.

I still wouldn't miss Hal, but I was going to reach out to people who really needed their friends. I would start with Sandi.

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Excerpt from

Appraisal for Murder

First of the

Jolie Gentil Cozy Mystery Series

By

Elaine Orr

Author’s note:  Jolie is a real estate appraiser in the small New Jersey town of Ocean Alley. She lives with her Aunt Madge in the Cozy Corner B&B, having recently left a husband who flushed a lot of their money down the toilets that masquerade as slot machines.

I was alone in the kitchen, reading the paper, when Aunt Madge came in about six-thirty. Breakfast is not until seven, unless someone asks for an early one. “Aren’t you the early bird." She glanced at the coffee pot, which had finished brewing.

“I have paying work today. Who would have thought I’d get so excited about that?”

She smiled, “Good for the soul.” She bustled about, taking the batter she mixed the night before from the fridge and placing it in paper-lined muffin tins. I had known better than to do this for her. She has precise ideas about how much dough makes the perfect muffin.

“I meant to ask you last night if you knew how sick Mrs. Riordan is. I’m wondering what to expect when I get there.”

She didn’t answer right away, and I looked up. She was holding a spoon with dough poised over the muffin tin. “Aunt Madge?”

“Oh, yes. Ruth’s not too bad, yet. I mean,” she took a little dough out of one muffin cup and put it in another, “it’s terminal, unfortunately, but she was in church Sunday looking quite good. She’s taking chemo, but she’s on a break.”

“Why’s she taking chemo if she’s not going to make it?”

Aunt Madge shot me what novelists call a withering look. “It could buy her considerable time, months or a year, not weeks.”

“Of course.” I was appropriately chastened.

“You know her pretty well, right?”

“Yes. We’ve known each other through church, of course. Since she and her husband divorced we’ve done quite a bit together outside of church.” She smiled at me. “We’ve even gone to bingo at St. Anthony’s a couple of times.”

“Did you win?”

“Good heavens, no. It’s just money down the drain, but it’s kind of fun.” She smiled at me but her smile faded as my face must have shown I knew all about money going down the drain.

To change the subject, I took her electric kettle to the sink and dumped out yesterday’s leftover water and began to fill it. “Is this what you use to fill the hot water thermos in the dining room?”

She gestured toward the stove. “You can fill the tea kettle on the stove for that. And don’t ask me why I do it that way, I don’t know.” Miss Piggy ambled into the room from Aunt Madge’s bedroom and sniffed. “Not for you, dear,” Aunt Madge addressed her. “Would you let her out, Jolie? Mister Rogers is already out there somewhere.”

I opened the door and Miss Piggy went out, still sniffing. In a moment she had spotted Mister Rogers and leaped down the steps. From the amount of nose-to-brick sniffing going on out there, I figured the rabbits had been out the night before. “I saw Mrs. Riordan’s son on the boardwalk and talked to him for a minute a couple days ago. He seemed a bit…distracted.”

Aunt Madge glanced at me as she put the muffins in the oven. “I hear he has a lot on his mind.”

“OK, it’s not gossip unless you embellish it.”

“Well, in addition to Ruth dying, his wife left him a few weeks ago, and I hear he’s had a falling-out with some business partners.”

“Wow.” That is a lot.

“I suppose the up-side of it is that he’s able to spend some time with his mother." She set the timer for twenty minutes and continued. “Ruth also has a lot to talk to him about, and I think she wanted to do it in person.”

“About her illness?” I asked.

“About the house.” She took jars of jam from the fridge and began spooning some into small bowls. “Ruth isn’t going to sell the house, she…”

“Why am I doing an appraisal then?” Aunt Madge’s look was enough to silence me and I made a zipping gesture across my lips.

“She wants to give it to the local Arts Council to use for shows for area artists and for poetry readings and such. They can use the downstairs for that and have their offices upstairs. They’re crammed into a tiny space in the library. The appraisal is largely to establish the worth of the property for tax purposes.”

I gave a low whistle. “That’s one heck of a gift.”

“Since Michael is her only heir, she wanted to be sure he didn’t mind. She’s concerned that,” she paused as she put the jam and some butter on a tray, “he may somehow feel cheated.”

“Maybe all that’s why he seems a bit...moody.”

She waved a hand as she sat down next to me to wait for the muffins to cook. “He’s always been like that. Although, his mother says he’s mellowed a bit the last year.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t really know him at school.” I started to say he didn’t want to know me, but instead I stood and kissed her cheek. “I’m going upstairs to shower. I didn’t want to wake anyone earlier.”

I took more time than usual getting ready. Scrubbed and dressed in a light wool, tan pantsuit with a hunter green turtleneck and earrings that matched the suit, I appeared in the kitchen for Aunt Madge’s compliments. With her encouraging words in my ears, I walked out to my Toyota to drive to the Riordan’s. Why does my car look lopsided?

“Damn.” The right front tire was flat. I must have driven over a nail. It just reinforced my current opinion that anything with tires or testicles was trouble. I looked closer. The back one was equally deflated. For some reason, Joe Pedone’s face flashed to my mind. I glanced at my watch. Nothing to do but tell Aunt Madge I had a flat (and hope she didn’t notice two) and borrow her car. It was too far to walk. Double damn.

I made my way to the Riordans' large home on the north edge of town, the neighborhood of two and three-story homes built from the 1890s to early 1940s. Many of the newer ones were brick or had brick facades, not too common at the beach. The older homes are Victorian and much larger than Aunt Madge’s. Several have guest cottages behind the main house. It is easily the priciest area of Ocean Alley.

I had tried to look up prior sales for the Riordan’s home, but it was pointless. Her parents had bought it more than fifty years ago, and they left it to her. At least the appraisal when Ruth’s parents bought it (for all of $21,500) listed the size of all the rooms and showed the appraiser’s hand-drawn layout. Jennifer Stenner’s grandfather had had a steady hand. “Third-generation family business,” as their ads said.

I was about to push the doorbell to the Riordans' when Michael opened the door and said, “Don’t ring the bell.”

I almost stumbled into the house. “It’s just such a handy way to let people know you want to come in.” Probably not the reaction Harry Steele would have. I needed to remember I was working for him.

“Sorry,” he said, grudgingly. “My mother’s still asleep. Late for her, so she must need it.” His tone was protective.

“I’m glad you caught me before I rang.” I looked around the elaborate foyer, with its faux-marble floor (or maybe it was real?) and elegant crown molding. “Will you be showing me around, then?”

“No. I have some business in town. You can find your way around, can’t you?” He was pulling on a light suede jacket.

“Of course. Since I have to measure every room and closet, I’ll probably be here awhile. Will your mother mind getting up to a stranger in the house?” My mother certainly would.

“I told her you’re Madge’s niece. She’s looking forward to seeing you. If she’s not up, just go in her room.”

“Oh, I could come back…”

“No,” he said with his hand on the door, “Go on in. She has a meeting of the church’s Social Services Committee at eleven, and I doubt she has her alarm set.”

“I’ll, uh, knock first.” I said this to his back as he walked out and he didn’t reply. What a turd, I thought. Thou shalt not call clients turds. I decided I didn't care about his earlier promise to call me at Aunt Madge’s.

The house was set up in a common style for center-hall colonials. On the left was a huge living room, with a twelve-foot ceiling, more elegant crown molding, and beautiful hardwood floors. It was surprisingly stylish, with bright white paint for the molding and window trim and a deep tan on the walls. The furniture had a mix of tan and burgundy tones, and I liked it immediately. Anything wood was antique oak.

I chastised myself about admiring the furniture, which has nothing to do with a house’s value, and set about measuring the room and checking the windows.

The room to the right of the foyer was a truly formal dining room, with a stunning color scheme of bright yellow walls and naturally finished chair rail and molding. As with the living room, there were hardwood floors and very expensive area rugs, these in a light brown that accented the molding. A large oak hutch and antique ice box were along one wall, matched perfectly to an oak table. Oak seemed to be the preference for the over-sixty Ocean Alley crowd. This room was almost twenty by forty feet, and the table seated twelve. I wondered idly if Michael Riordan had children who spilled orange juice on the rugs.

The kitchen was behind the dining room and had newer windows in three adjoining sections, with the middle one somewhat wider and taller than the two side sections. They were natural wood, perhaps oak, and matched the thoroughly modern cabinetry.

I hurried my measurements a bit, anxious to get to the large family room across from the kitchen and to the upstairs. The family room was clearly where Mrs. Riordan spent most of her time, though it was still House and Garden quality. Furnishings were more modern, almost contemporary, except for what I took to be Mrs. Riordan’s favorite spot. There was a tall rocker with comfortable-looking cushions and a foot stool in front. A small table next to it held a basket of needlework and a small stack of books. Not a television in sight.

I finished the measurements and hurried up the open stairway to the top floor. I tried to imagine what the master bedroom would look like. It probably had a four poster with a canopy. I paused, counting doors. Four were wide enough to be bedroom doors, and were shut. A bathroom door stood open, and there were two smaller doors I took to be linen closets. I glanced at my watch. Ten o’clock. Surely Mrs. Riordan would want to be up by now. I would knock on her door and call out that I was Madge Richards’ niece. I hoped that would not startle her too much.

I assumed she would sleep in the master bedroom, and guessed it was the one at the end of the hall. I knocked lightly, then harder. “Mrs. Riordan? It’s Jolie, Madge’s niece, the appraiser.”

I opened the door slightly. The room was still dark, shades drawn. I pushed the door open a little more to let some light into the room. Mrs. Riordan was on the left side of her bed, with open eyes staring at the ceiling.

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