Heaven Preserve Us (12 page)

Gosh, how manly. Still, I bet they managed to feed themselves
decently, however arrogant James sounded about it.

I continued. "Do you know whether Maryjake uses a pressure
canner?"

He hesitated. "I don't know. Is that the thing with the lid that
screws down?"

"Sounds right."

"Well then, she uses one. I don't get it. How is this about
Heaven House?"

"One more question. Does Maryjake can beets?" She hadn't
brought any to the exchange, but she might not have brought samples of everything she canned, especially if she did as much of it as
James implied.

"Hell, I don't know. What does this have to do with ... is this
about Heaven's death?"

"Well, sort of," I said. "He died of botulism, and they found
some nasty beets in his kitchen."

"They think the beets were Maryjake's?" He practically barked
the question.

"Nooo ... they think they were Ruth Black's."

"Then what's with all these questions about Maryjake's canning? She didn't do anything wrong."

"I never said she did. There is some question as to where the
beets came from, though, and I called to see if Maryjake could
shed some light on where else Philip might have gotten hold of a
jar. 11

"Not from us." The words were clipped. "I hate beets, always
have, ever since I was a kid. We don't eat them."

Why hadn't he just told me that in the first place? Sheesh.

"I've got to go now," he said.

"Could you have Maryjake call me when she's feeling better?"

A pause. Then, "Sure" The phone went dead.

Nice.

I had some trouble tracking down Jude Carmichael, and eventually called Ruth at Heaven House to see if she had his number.
She did. Apparently Philip's cousin, rather than living onsite as
Philip did, rented a room from an elderly man whose wife had recently died. Mr. Oxford, Ruth said his name was, and he was a friend of her Uncle Thaddeus, who had introduced the two. Mr.
Oxford made a little money by renting to Jude, and Jude provided
a bit of companionship and some muscle around the house when
needed, helping to maintain the yard, keeping the woodpile
stocked, that kind of thing.

When I called, Mr. Oxford answered and assured me in his
deep baritone that Jude would be home soon. He'd pass on the
message to call me.

That left Thaddeus Black, though I was sure Ruth had already
talked to him about the beets. I called anyway, and I was right. In
fact, he'd been home when two people from the Health Department had come by to confiscate Ruth's beets, and the rest of her
home-canned goods as well. Thaddeus could shed no light on the
origin of the errant beets but was still very upset and spent considerable time reiterating Ruth's arguments about how it couldn't
have been her preserves that caused Philip' death. I had to insist
several times that I believed him, and that indeed I was trying to
help Ruth find out what had really happened.

Finally, I managed to hang up. The phone rang immediately.
Jude had received my message. I went through the whole diatribe
about the wrong beets being blamed, or more accurately, the
wrong beet canner being blamed for his cousin's death. Did he
have any information at all about how Philip had obtained the
tainted jar?

"I can't imagine. You say Ruth doesn't use that kind of jar?"

"She said she uses another brand."
"

I bet she uses whatever she can find, like my mother used to.
You're out at a garage sale, and someone is getting rid of a box of canning jars for a dollar. You take what you can get because the
price is so right."

He could be right. Meghan and I had acquired most of our
canning jars exactly that way. The lids and seals always had to be
new, but the jars could be used over and over. People were always
getting rid of them at garage sales. However, the type of canning
jar wasn't the only argument for Ruth's innocence. In fact, it was
the least important.

I could almost see Jude shrug on the other end of the line as I
told him the type of beets the Health Department found were different from the kind Ruth grew in her garden.

"Besides, Philip died before the preserves exchange," I added.

"I don't know what to say. I wasn't even there when the Health
Department came by, and by the time Ruth reached me on my cell
and I got over to Heaven House, they were leaving. I mean, the jar
was all packed up like hazardous waste or something, so I never
saw it."

That meant Ruth was the only one who'd seen the beets in
question, and she was the only one with a vested interest in them
not being hers. Not a good position for her to argue from, I had to
admit.

I still believed her.

And the more I learned from talking to the other volunteers,
the more I realized just how darn odd the circumstances of Philip's
death were.

I'D BEEN NEGLECTING BUSINESS errands for days. I needed more
beeswax for lip balm-it was amazing how fast the stuff ran outand the printer had left a message that a fresh order of Winding
Road labels and letterhead were ready. I also had to meet with the
home economics teacher at the high school to talk about a class
she wanted me to give on traditional recipes for homemade cleaning products.

By the time I got home there was no hope of being in time to
help with dinner.

Meghan, of course, had things well in hand. An intoxicating
scent welcomed me as I opened the front door. Chicken in the
oven, something with onions, and something else ... Parmesan?
Nothing like that smell-sometimes a bit too much like old gym
socks, but absolutely lovely in concert with all the other goodness
wafting on the air.

The phone rang as I was hanging my jacket on the coat tree in
the front hall.

"I'll get it," I called and snagged the cordless off the hall table.
"Hello?"

"Hello, Sophie Mae Mae Mae." The singsong voice was instantly familiar.

Great.

"Oh, gosh, lemme guess. Is this by any chance Allen? This
wouldn't be Allen, would it? Because I was so hoping you'd call."

"Really?"

I sighed, loud enough to be heard on the other end of the line.
"No. Not really."

"Oh. Well you don't have to be so mean about it."

Honey, you have no idea. "What do you want?" I asked.

"I told you. I want to talk."

"Sorry, don't have time for a nice little convo about death right
now. And you have to stop calling here and hanging up."
"

I don't want to talk to them. I want to talk to you."

Hmm. If he was calling when I wasn't home in hopes of reaching me, then he wasn't following me around. At least not all time.
It wasn't much, but it made me feel a little better.

"You have to stop calling me here," I said, trying to keep my voice
gentle but firm. Was this guy mentally unbalanced or merely... inappropriately smitten with me? "It's bothering my housemates."

There was a long silence. "Well, when would be a good time to
call back?"

I almost laughed out loud, but stopped myself just in time. So
polite. At least he wasn't your run-of-the-mill stalker. "There isn't a
good time, Allen, not for that." I took a deep breath. "I'd still like to
help you. Are you still having thoughts about harming yourself?"

"I'm not calling the Helpline! I'm calling you!" His tone went
from zero to sixty in one-point-five seconds. "Don't talk down to
me, don't you dare. What do you know, anyway? You're just some
stupid woman in a dorky little town with nothing better to do
than hang out at some community center."

"Allen, I need you to settle down"

"Don't talk to me like that! I thought you understood!" He
hung up.

Any thought of laughter had completely disappeared. I made
my hands into fists and willed them to stop trembling. Had I done
the wrong thing? The right thing? Was he dangerous after all? I
had a sudden thought and grabbed the phone back off its cradle.
Punching in *69, I licked my lips and waited.

The number was unavailable.

Well, of course it was. A ten-year-old could cover their telephonic tracks these days. Unless I went to the police I'd probably
never find out who Allen really was. And for some reason I wasn't
quite ready to do that.

In the kitchen, the scent of dinner was even stronger. The oven
did indeed contain chicken; boneless breasts soaked in buttermilk
and Worchestershire sauce all day, then rolled in a combination of
bread crumbs and grated parmesan, sprayed with olive oil and
baked to crispy perfection. Meghan stood by the counter, mixing
together melted butter, heavy cream and more parmesan for capellini alfredo, and Erin gave the room-temperature, marinated
vegetable salad a stir at the kitchen table.

I closed the oven after inspecting the contents. "That was my
stalker."

"What?" Meghan sounded distracted.

I sank onto a kitchen chair and snagged a black olive from Erin's salad. She tried to slap my hand, but missed. I stuck my tongue
out at her, and she grinned.

"Allen again. I told him to stop calling and hanging up when
you answered because it was bugging you."

Meghan turned toward me, still stirring her Alfredo sauce. She
shot a quick glance at her daughter, now eyeing me with real interest. "You didn't."

"I did. And he asked when it might be more convenient for
him to call."

"He didn't."

"He did."

"You have a stalker?" Erin asked. "Does he talk dirty?"

I tried not to smile at the look this question engendered on
Meghan's face. "No. He's just lonely, I think."

Erin rolled her eyes. "Figures. You can't even get a spooky
stalker."

"Nice," I said. "Real nice."

They laughed, and I joined in. But as we bustled around, I felt a
little hollow inside. Could Allen really be dangerous? Surely not, I
told myself.

In fact, I told myself that several times.

The doorbell rang just as the water for the pasta was beginning to
boil. I answered it and was delighted to find Tootie Hanover leaning on her silver-headed cane. An newer model sedan was pulling
away from the curb, and she half-turned to wave at the driver.

"What a wonderful surprise!" I said. "Who brought you over?"
Usually either Meghan or I picked Tootie up from Caladia Acres
when she came over.

"Andy Maher, actually. He's taking his mother out to dinner."

I was glad to hear that. "Betsy bully him into giving you a ride?"

"He's a nice man. I like him. And you have to understand Betsy
is not the least demanding mother a Chief of Police could have."

"No kidding. Anyway, I'm glad he could drop you for a visit.
You're in time for dinner."

"I should hope so. Meghan did invite me, after all."

Oh. "I guess we've been talking about other things since I got
home. She forgot to mention it. I'm just glad you're here."

I took her coat, hung it on the hall tree and led her into the fragrant kitchen. Everyone exchanged greetings. Tootie eased into one
of the wooden ladder-backed chairs at the table. She sat and listened
to Erin chatter on about the spelling bee and Jonathan for a bit,
back straight and head held high despite the arthritis pain she battled on a daily basis. The white coil of braid atop her head gleamed
in the overhead light. She still wore the long silk forest-green sweater
over black slacks, and the elegant effect was ruined only slightly by
the swath of white hair Brodie had deposited on her pant leg as he
trotted from cook to cook, casting yearning looks with those big
brown eyes so perfectly suited for begging. A smile warmed her face
as Erin wound down, and we all took our places at the dinner table.

"How is your young man?" Tootie asked me.

"He seems to be doing better." Barr, who was in his forties,
would have loved to hear her call him my young man.