Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

He looked as if he’d argue, but then maybe remembered the pickle he might be in with the law and nodded. “No more poison.”

∞∞∞

I parked by the South Pier and took a slow stroll along the boardwalk. My muscles had loosened up a bit, but I still drew a few side-long stares. A breeze blew off the lake and brought with it the tingling scent of fresh pine.

It was the kind of day where nothing bad could happen.

Knock on wood.

Too late.

I spied Mrs Colby seated at one of the red vinyl window booths of Patty’s Pancakes. I nearly walked on by, nearly, and it wasn’t the draw of hot banana pancakes that changed my mind. Well, not only that.

I entered and waved to Agatha behind the counter. She owned the place, always had, but as she liked to say to anyone who’d listen, who’d want to eat at Agatha’s Pancakes? She could call it Poxy Pancakes and I’d still want to eat here, but maybe that’s just me.

Mrs Colby glanced up as I approached her table.

Her mouth thinned. “If you have something to say, you won’t be doing it while hiding behind those sunglasses.”

I didn’t take offense. Anything was better than the huddled, distraught version of this woman who’d accosted me yesterday. I smiled down on her. “Morning, Mrs Colby.”

“For goodness sake, girl, will you sit or do you expect me to develop a crick in my neck looking up all day?”

“Oh, sorry.” I slid into the booth opposite her. “I feel awful about telling that detective everything, Mrs Colby. I just wanted you to know.”

She pursed her lips and flapped her napkin at my sunglasses.

Seriously?

She wasn’t going to forgive me until I took them off?

I sighed and dragged them down my face.

“Oh you poor, poor dear.” Her hand went to her throat, fiddling with the string of pearls there. “I never meant for you to feel quite that awful.”

I opened my mouth to correct her.

On the other hand, I was pretty sure my confrontation with Detective Bishop had triggered my breakdown, so it was all linked fair and square.

I smiled instead and said, “Yes, well, I do feel awful, and I hope what I did won’t cause you much more trouble.”

“So do I,” she said. “Now let’s think no more of it. We’ve all made silly mistakes, dear, and the sooner the police catch Ms Daggon’s murderer, the sooner this will all go away.”

An excellent point.

I hoped Detective Bishop was right on top of that.

Mrs Colby tugged at her pearls again, shaking her head.

“Now there’s a terrible business. A murderer, in Silver Firs, who would have thought?” She leaned in across the table, so close I could see the powder caked in her wrinkles. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Though I must say, if it
had
to happen to anyone…”

She left her opinion dangling, loud and clear.

I was no hypocrite and I understood the sentiment, but I was suddenly reminded of what Detective Bishop had said.

“Why were you trying to protect Ms Daggon?” I asked her. “When the detective asked about Muffins, you claimed it was just an accident, no hard feelings.”

“Oh, well, we wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead now, would we?”

Not to the cops, at least. I’d learnt that lesson the hard way. I’d unintentionally incriminated myself along with Mrs Colby and Mrs Biggenhill.

“You seem very cozy with that detective,” Mrs Colby observed as she drew back. “If I didn’t know you were a married woman, I’d think you two were sharing pillow talk.”

I took that as my cue to remember a very urgent appointment.

It meant walking out of Patty’s Pancakes on an empty stomach, a first for me and probably never to be repeated, but worth every ounce of lost pleasure.

Bolstered by my success with Mrs Colby, I decided to pay Mrs Biggenhill a visit. If she hadn’t been questioned yet, she was no doubt on the list. I’d get my apology in early and show a little solidarity.

I grabbed a cappuccino at Cuppa-Cake and sipped on it as I walked the four blocks to her cottage on Porter Lane.

Mrs Biggenhill was something of a recluse. She could be seen out and about on occasion, but she was quiet and kept to herself. Most of what I or anyone else knew about her was third or fourth hand gossip with a generous helping of supposition thrown in.

But this was how the story went.

Ms Daggon had fancied herself and Mr Biggenhill high school sweethearts, although word on the green was that it had all been in her head, that he’d never spared her a second look. In the name of fairness, Ms Daggon tended to provoke unflattering thoughts in people, so it’s not unimaginable that they purposely remembered wrong.

Either way, Mr Biggenhill had gone off to college (and stayed gone, by all accounts, way longer than it had taken to get his diploma) and returned with a Mrs Biggenhill.

I guess that’s where the story would have ended, but a couple of years after the couple had settled in, Mr Biggenhill up and disappeared.

Poof.

No body was ever found.

No trace of the man.

After a certain amount of time had passed, it became generally accepted that maybe he didn’t want to be found. Only Ms Daggon had other ideas about his disappearance. She was convinced that the wife had done it, and it became her life mission to prove Mrs Biggenhill guilty of cold-blooded murder.

She’d hounded the poor woman, openly accused her, filed numerous complaints of suspicious behavior, that kind of thing. Apparently she’d even gotten herself arrested once for breaking into the cottage when she’d thought Mrs Biggenhill was out of town. After the arrest, she’d supposedly settled down a bit and things had gotten quiet, but no one believed for one moment that Ms Daggon had given up her quest.

Up until now, when someone else had given it up for her.

It was terrible, I suppose, to blame Ms Daggon almost as much as I blamed the murderer, but there it was. I did blame her. She’d likely brought this on herself and now a shadow hung over the soul of Silver Firs. Ms Daggon had gone off to a better place and the rest of us had to deal with the ugly mess of a killer living in our midst.

Rose Cottage was aptly named. Rambling roses covered every inch of the bungalow, leafy branches climbing up the porch posts and wrapping the walls with pretty pale pink and white flowers already in bloom.

The garden was well-tended, bordered by a white picket fence. The front door and window frames were painted a soft pink to match the roses. A pebbled path lined with flower beds led me up to the porch steps.

A shiver trickled down my spine. This place was cute as a button, and no good ever came of that. Look at Hansel and Gretel.

I was seriously considering if I should turn tail and skedaddle when the curtain shifted behind the parlor window.

Too late now.

I lifted the knocker and rapped, mangling my lower lip while I waited for Mrs Biggenhill to make her way from the window to the door.

Even well into her sixties, she was a beautiful woman with alabaster skin, her face delicately lined. She exuded casual elegance in slim-fitted charcoal pants and a cashmere cardigan.

Her snow-white hair, cut into a pixie style, feathered the brow she arched at me. “May I help you?”

“Hi, Mrs Biggenhill.” I slid my sunglasses up into my hair and jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m Maddox Storm from Oak Drive, one street back?”

Unimpressed with my credentials, she just looked at me with that quizzing brow. If she noticed my red-rimmed puffy eyes, she was either too polite or too disinterested to comment.

“I was wondering if I could have a word with you,” I said. “It’s about Detective Bishop.”

She hadn’t been smiling, but somehow her mouth managed to flatten even more.

“You’d best come in then.” She stepped aside so I could enter. “I had a voicemail from that detective, but I haven’t called back yet. I can’t imagine why the man would want to speak with me.”

Unfortunately, I could.

She closed the door behind us and ushered me into the front room. A pair of over-stuffed sofas faced each other across a low, chunky chest table. I wasn’t sure if I’d been invited in to sit, so I remained standing.

Dozens and dozens of black-and-white photos were mounted on the walls and propped on the mantle above the fireplace. They were artistic rather than family photos; a butterfly balanced on the edge of a serrated leaf, a bird taking flight, a stream bubbling over pebbles. Some were no bigger than a postcard while others were blown up to generous proportions.

I wasn’t here for small talk, but it seemed rude not to mention it. “Are you the photographer?”

“My late husband,” came her stiff reply.

My gaze snapped from the walls to her. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know he was, um…”

“Dead?” She gave a short, snappish sigh. “Neither do I, not for sure,” she said curtly. “Harold was declared officially dead ten years after his disappearance.”

I thought I was about to get booted out for my party blooper, but she crossed to the mantelpiece and picked up one of the framed photos.

“He had a brilliant eye….” she stroked the covering glass, her voice losing that sharp edge “…for an amateur, that is.”

I moved around a pedestal table to take a look at a single stalk of wheat caught forever on a breath of wind. “He was pretty good.”

“He always said it was simply a matter of patience. If you were prepared to wait for it, the magic of nature would find you.”

I noticed a streak of phosphorous green and stepped closer to examine the photo. The green smear trailed off into the frame near the bottom. It didn’t spoil the picture, just added a bit of spook. My gaze drifted to the photo hanging next to the wheat stalk, and that had the same smear near the bottom. I shifted along the wall and sure enough, each and every photo had a similar streak.

“The green glow along the bottom of the pictures,” I said. “Is that like some kind of artistic signature?”

“I never thought of it like that,” Mrs Biggenhill said softly. “I suppose in way it is, although not intentional. Harold turned the study into a dark room and had only just started his own developing. He never did get a chance to figure out what caused the green water stain before he…well, he never figured it out.”

I’d never really felt sad for Mrs Biggenhill. I’d never really spoken to her before, and her husband had gone missing before I was born.

But standing here, in what was practically a shrine to his memory, I got the sense that she still missed him dearly, every day.

She cleared her throat.

“You had something to tell me about Detective Bishop?” Still clutching the small photo, she went to perch on the arm of one of the sofas. “Do you know what he wants with me?”

I grimaced, regretting what I had to say and furious at myself for causing Mrs Biggenhill additional distress with regards to her husband’s disappearance. “He probably wants to talk about Ms Daggon.”

“The woman was a menace and now she’s gone.” Mrs Biggenhill hugged the photo to her chest, her gaze sharpening on me. “I don’t know what more there is to say about her.”

“I think he may be treating her death as suspicious.” I was fairly positive, in fact, but I was trying to pull my foot out of my mouth with this visit, not shove it in deeper.

“Ms Daggon was murdered?” The look in her eye turned thoughtful.

Not quite the reaction I’d expected. I wondered if she’d already heard. “You don’t sound very surprised.”

“I’m not,” she said. “Ms Daggon was always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. She was bound to find trouble sooner or later and now she’s dragged me into it. With our history, I suppose I’m a suspect,” she added scornfully.

“That makes two of us,” I said, not that it was much of a consolation to either of us.

∞∞∞

I popped in at The Vine on my way back through town to share my adventure with Jenna. It wasn’t every day one got invited across the threshold of Mrs Biggenhill’s cottage.

A small crowd was gathered by the long bar for the wine tasting session that was underway, led by Jenna’s dad. I waved hello to Mr Adams, who winked and grinned at me over the glass of red wine he was swirling rather vigorously.

There were plenty of familiar faces in the group, regulars who treated the sessions like a free-for-all. The wine farms supplied the samples at no cost, and let’s just say that the patrons went home ruddy-cheeked and the spit barrels remained notoriously dry after these events.

Jenna stood behind the counter, where the line was five deep waiting to be served.

“Need another hand?” I called as I winged my way around the counter to her.

“You’re a life saver,” she groaned. “Just until my mom gets here.”

I went through to the back to wash my hands and pull on a pair of serving gloves. I’d spent many summers and weekends helping out here to supplement my allowance and I knew the drill.

While I was at it, I splashed my face with water and assessed the damage in the mirror above the basin. Most of the puffiness had gone and my eyes were only slightly pink. The hole in my stomach was still there, though, a vast chasm of emptiness deep inside me that didn’t seem to be going anywhere.