It's a Wonderful Knife (7 page)

And we both hoped that her house would give up Liz's secrets.

A
t the crack of dawn, after Antoinette Chloe made us a breakfast of fried bologna, sourdough toast, scrambled eggs, and a couple of donuts, we headed to Liz's house in her van.

I questioned the sanity of going in the daylight in her very distinguishable van, but we both agreed that the longer we waited, the quicker Ty would be on our trail.

ACB hit a pothole, and my teeth rattled and my ribs screamed. As we passed Margie Grace's forest green cottage, I started to worry. “You know, despite our conversation last night, I don't think Margie Grace is going to be happy with my directing the pageant. With Liz gone, I'm sure Margie thought that she'd be asked.”

“You're right. Anyone who would think of throwing a phone at Liz needs to be watched. I'll keep an eye on Margie,” ACB said.

“Do you think that Margie was mad enough to kill Liz? And what about the lady who threw sheet music at her? There're probably a half dozen other wacky stage-door parents who ordered Liz to give their progeny good parts. But would they kill her over a Christmas pageant?”

ACB snorted. “I think people kill over a lot less. You'd better watch your back!”

“Or someone might thrust a knife into it?”

“Oh! I didn't mean that, Trixie. I mean . . . I . . . I really . . .”

“I was only joking. Relax.”

She chuckled. “Oh, good.”

“Antoinette Chloe, we need to go over our plan, or lack thereof. How are we going to get into Liz's house in daylight with me on crutches?”

“I thought of that already. Look in back.”

I turned around as much as my broken ribs would allow. “I don't see anything other than a dolly! You're going to roll me on a dolly?”

“Yeah. Isn't that a brilliant idea? You can stand on that little platform, and I'll tip you back and roll you in. I can even get you up the stairs that way.”

Oh my!

“I think you should park on a side street, not in front of Liz's house. Drive around the block and park,” I said.

She did, and we found the perfect parking space on a side street behind Liz's house, but not too close. It might appear that Brown's Four Corners Restaurant was making a delivery to another house.

True to her plan, ACB got out the dolly and made me stand on it. Why didn't they make those little platforms larger? “I'm going to tip you back now.”

“I'm going to die.”

“Nah, but you just might slide off.”

Instead of worrying about falling off, I tried to concentrate on the blue sky with pretty, fluffy clouds.

Oh, look! One's in the shape of a bunny.

ACB rolled me through Liz's backyard. She had a nice brick walkway, which must have reflected the sun and melted the snow, because it was clear rolling.

Poor ACB tried to yank the dolly up the stairs, which were loaded with snow and ice, but her grunts and heavy breathing told me that she just couldn't do it.

“I'll walk now, Antoinette Chloe. I don't want you to have a heart attack.”

I got up the stairs by using my crutches and the railing and pulled Liz's keys out of my coat pocket. Much to my surprise, I picked the right key and the door squeaked open.

Suddenly I didn't want to do this.

“Umm . . . I'm not so sure I think that this is a good idea anymore. Maybe we shouldn't—” I found myself whispering.

“Get your butt in there, and start snooping. The neighbors have probably called 911 already and reported that a body has been seen on a dolly with a woman pushing it wearing a stunning rose-covered muumuu with sequined flip-flops, a Christmas-themed fascinator, and exquisite seashell jewelry.”

I grinned. “You're probably right. And that gives us about five minutes before Ty rushes in and puts us in the stocks in the village square so the seagulls can peck out our eyes as the kids throw snowballs at us.”

With a quick prayer to whatever patron saint protected diner owners, I pushed the door open wider, got my crutches into place, and crutched in.

I stopped in my tracks. “Unless Liz Fellows was a
complete slob or a hoarder in training, someone beat us here.”

ACB looked around, her mouth open. “No way.”

“Way.”

“Should we clean this mess up?” she asked.

“No way. Start looking for something important and let's get out of here.”

“Trixie, it's obvious that we're the second string. Someone already beat us to the important stuff.”

“I didn't take that state fair ride on your dolly for nothing. So start looking.”

ACB moved some clothes and books and, at the same time, we noticed Liz's old-fashioned answering machine lying on a red-and-green Christmas sweater. The machine had to be put back together and the little cassette rewound, so I'm guessing that the burglars couldn't handle ancient technology and just tossed it on the floor, disemboweled.

I left ACB to get the machine working as I clomped around looking for a flash drive or something important.

Moving things out of my path with a crutch, I noticed the twisted remnants of a metal-and-glass computer desk by a bay window. Looking intently at the area around it, I didn't see a flash drive.

She didn't have a computer on the desk, and I looked on the floor under office supplies, file folders, paper, and heaps of paper clips, pens, and highlighters.

What a mess!

I went into Liz's bedroom. It was pretty, or it must have been at one time. I could see that the bedspread,
now torn from the bed and heaped on the floor, was covered with botanical-labeled flowers. Only now it looked like lawn mower clippings because someone had taken a knife to it and slashed the stuffing out of it.

Drawers were opened, the contents discarded, and everything was haphazardly tossed on the floor.

Perfume bottles, makeup, and jewelry were lying everywhere.

Liz's possessions, her special things, were discarded like yesterday's birdcage liner. This was more than sad. It was horrible.

And it obviously wasn't a professional burglary, because it seemed as though valuable pieces of jewelry weren't taken.

So what was the amateur burglar looking for?

Maybe it was the same thing that we were looking for.

A little flash drive.

“Trixie, I got the answering machine working!” ACB yelled from the other part of the house.

“Be right there.”

I crutched out and stood next to ACB. She hit play.

“You have reached Liz Fellows. I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.”

Beep. “You have three new messages and no saved messages.”

“Liz, this is Sally from Harry's Snow Removal and Lawn Care. I'm calling you at home because Darlene isn't answering at the church's main number. Anyway, the check you wrote to cover our snow removal of Sandy Harbor
Community Church's parking lot in the amount of three hundred and twenty-five dollars has bounced. The returned check fee is fifty dollars. Please write us another check—one that won't bounce (snort, chuckle)—and add that amount into the balance. Thank you.”

Beep.

“Hey, Liz! It's Lorraine from Lorraine's Hairdo It Your Way. Darlene Robinson, you know . . . Pastor Fritz's wife, owes my salon a chunk of change. Four hundred and fifty dollars, to be exact. She keeps writing checks and they keep bouncing. Half of that amount is fees. The other half is what she really owes me. I am at the end of my hair roots, so I decided to call you for help. It takes a village—I mean a hair salon—to keep Darlene's hair dry and frizzy with Brass Glow number two-one-three-one (laugh) that I can't talk her out of. I'm going to have to refuse service to her soon. Can you imagine her hair then? Can you help me out? And, by the way, your appointment is scheduled for Tuesday at five. See you then, and no Brass Glow two-one-three-one for you!”

ACB shuddered. “Lorraine uses Posey Purple four-four-two-two on me. But when my roots grow out, it's a horror. I can't imagine Darlene's hair if Lorraine bans her from Hairdo It Your Way.”

Beep.

“Liz, Pastor Fritz here. Would you mind coming in an hour early tomorrow morning? I have several very important things to discuss with you, and it's for your ears only. I don't want my wife or Roger to get wind of it. Thank you, Liz.”

Beep.

“End of messages.”

I wonder if Liz had attended her meeting with Pastor Fritz. It would have been the morning of the auditions. The same day she died.

And who was Roger?

“Antoinette Chloe, these messages show that Darlene isn't paying the bills. Their creditors must be desperate for them to ask Liz for payment. If there are two on the machine, there are probably a lot more who haven't called yet,” I said.

I needed to sit down, but where? I didn't want to touch anything since I was smack-dab in the middle of another crime scene. So I kept looking for something
—
anything
—
that would help us find Liz's killer.

What I did see was a Sandy Harbor Sheriff's car drive very slowly down Daffodil Street and pull over in front of Liz's house. I knew immediately who was driving.

“Oh crap! Double crap! Antoinette Chloe, it's Ty. I think he's coming here. He can't catch us! Let's roll!”

She looked as panicked as I felt. We both hurried to the back door. She flip-flopped as I crutched.

ACB locked the door as I hopped down the stairs as if it were an Olympic event and assumed my position on the dolly.

“Hurry, Antoinette Chloe!”

In her haste, she lost a flip-flop on the stairs, and it seemed like she was going to leave it there and go barefoot on one foot.

“What? Are you channeling Cinderella?” I said through gritted teeth. “Pick that up and let's go!”

She did, and for once I didn't nag her about wearing
boots, although boots would have made a world of sense.

“Wait!” I yelled, looking at the overstuffed mailbox on the side of the back door. “There's mail in Liz's mailbox! Grab it!”

She ran back up the stairs, pulled the mail out of the mailbox, and stuffed it into her cleavage purse. Sliding into the errant flip-flop, she hurried back down the stairs.

I took a deep breath as she tipped me back and rolled me up the brick walkway, then across a sidewalk, took a shortcut through a snowbank, and then finally we reached her van.

She opened the door and shoved my butt into the passenger's seat. I had barely sat down when she heaved the dolly through the back door, pulled herself into the driver's side, and took off down the street.

I struggled to get my seat belt on. ACB was driving like we were at the Indy 500.

“Slow down, Antoinette Chloe, before you tip us over. We made our getaway. I don't think Ty saw us.”

“That was a close call!”

“I know. You tipped me over so fast on that dolly, I think I swallowed my necklace!”

“I lost my flip-flop again somewhere!”

My mouth went dry. If Ty found the glittery, sequined rubber flip-flop with the sunflower glued to it, it would lead him right to ACB and me.

We might as well pack our toothbrushes and get ready for our cell at the Sandy Harbor Jail. At least when ACB was incarcerated before, she'd decorated
with a cabbage rose theme, and added plush lime green toilet seat covers and matching shag rugs.

ACB was one impressive decorator when it came to jail couture.

As we raced through downtown Sandy Harbor, which consisted of a half block of stores, restaurants, the Spend A Buck discount store, a Laundromat, a bar, and a hair salon, she zoomed into a parking spot in front of her restaurant, Brown's Four Corners.

“Do you have to check on your restaurant?” I asked.

“Nah. Fingers is doing a great job. I have a few dozen spare flip-flops there. I'll go in and get them. Besides, I just wanted to see if anyone is following us.”

Is this
CSI: Sandy Harbor
?
If anyone was following us, it'd be Ty, and he could find us anywhere.

“Remember, I have a dentist appointment,” I said, checking my watch. “In twenty minutes.”

“I forgot about that. I'll be quick.”

While waiting for ACB, I got my crutch and fished for my purse, which had slid under the dolly. ACB really should have strapped the dolly in, so it wouldn't turn into a projectile in case we had to stop fast.

Finally ACB rounded the corner, looking more presentable. She now wore zebra-striped flip-flops and her holiday fascinator was back in place instead of hovering over her chin.

“You've got to take this,” she said, getting into the van. She pulled Liz's mail out of her cleavage and handed it to me.

“Whew! That feels better. The points of the envelopes were poking into my boobs.”

“What else have you got stored there?” I wondered.

“The usual. My wallet, tissues, some makeup, another fascinator . . .”

“And why don't you carry a purse?” I asked.

“Too bulky.”

“I see.” But I really didn't.

ACB held up a lumpy yellow envelope that obviously contained something. “This feels like a flash drive, Trixie!” She set it down on her lap. “People send themselves important things in the mail all the time, mostly to get a date stamped on it for proof of . . . uh . . . the date and maybe location.”

“Do we dare open it?” I asked.

“And go to federal prison?”

“As opposed to state prison for breaking into Liz's house?”

“We didn't break in. We had a key,” she pointed out.

“That we stole from her purse!”

“Good point.”

The rest of Liz's mail was the usual run-of-the-mill junk, so that was a disappointment.

“Trixie, I have a brilliant idea how we can find out what's in the envelope.”