Wreath of Deception (23 page)

“Want coffee with that?” Ruthie asked.

Jo decided she’d had her fill of caffeine for a while, and chose bottled water instead. She paid, then carried her water to Rafe’s table.

“If we’re going to dine together, you’ll really have to start calling me Jo,” she said.

“Deal.”

Rafe still had his day’s growth of beard, and he wore a denim jacket over his usual dark T-shirt. Something seemed different about him, though, and it took Jo a moment to realize it was his manner, which was missing the fire she had seen at the theater.

“What’s happening with the show?” she asked.

Rafe groaned. “Nothing. Nothing at all, that’s what’s happening. The death of two of your stars tends to do that to a production.”

“I can imagine the troupe is pretty upset.”

Rafe nodded. “Of course. It’s all quite tragic, but we can’t let this mean the death of the Abbotsville Playhouse as well.”

“It could be that serious?”

“We were living on borrowed time as it was. If we can’t pull things back together . . .” Rafe took an enormous bite of his sandwich and chewed glumly.

Ruthie called out that Jo’s turkey-and-bacon was ready, and Jo hopped up to get it. As she settled back at the table, Rafe asked, “What’s with the new look?” indicating Jo’s baseball cap and bruises.

“My car and I had a little battle with a tree the other night. The tree won.”

Rafe grunted. “Bummer.”

“I’ve been having a few other problems of my own since Kyle’s murder. The police have been squinting at me with suspicious eyes because he was killed in the back room of my shop.”

“Oh yeah! I’d forgotten about that. So that was
your
shop?”

“Uh-huh. Plus I was the one who found him, and the knitting needle that killed him very likely came from my stock.”

Rafe stared at her intently, but Jo wasn’t sure if it was from concern for her or if he might in fact be planning his next play:
The Little Craft Shop of Horrors
. Would he have her character sing a little ditty? she wondered. Perhaps tap dance her way into the storeroom? What would she be declared at the end—guilty or innocent?

“Surely,” he said, “that’s not enough to incriminate you, is it? I mean,
somebody
has to find the body. And if he was killed in your shop, who more likely than you? Nor should it come as a huge surprise that he was killed with something from your store, especially if it wasn’t premeditated.”

“That was my point, exactly. Unfortunately, my strongest defense was that I’d never seen Kyle before he showed up for the clown gig. That was recently blown away by his Uncle Niles, who claims I met Kyle several times up in New York when I placed my jewelry at Niles’s shop. However, I have no memory, whatsoever, of those meetings.” Jo took a bite of her roll-up.

“Ah, Uncle Niles,” Rafe said. “I remember him from the memorial service. He struck me as an oily character.”

Jo dabbed a paper napkin at her mouth as Bert’s special sauce threatened to dribble down her chin. “That’s how I’d describe him too. We had some problems, businesswise, in the past. He may be deliberately trying to hurt me because of that.”

Rafe took a few swallows from his Coke can. “I’ll be going up to New York tomorrow. I’ve got an opportunity to pick up a few bucks doing a commercial voice-over. How about I check on Uncle Niles with a few people I know in that area? Maybe I could even stop in and talk to him myself. He wasn’t grieving too much to give me his business card during the service.”

“You’d go to that trouble?”

“Sure, why not?”

“It’s just, well, I mean, that would be great if you could. I’d really appreciate it.”

Rafe smiled. “Don’t expect too much. But I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Jo smiled back. “I’m really sorry about the playhouse. I hope you can pull it back together.”

“We’ll see. Maybe I can put the squeeze on a few major contributors.”

“Yes, I’ve heard there have been things in the past like the Thespian Ball to raise money.”

“Right. All the crème de la crème of Abbotsville show up to eat caviar and show off their new gowns for the cause.”

“But it
does
raise money, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’d rather have a root canal than suffer through those balls?”

Rafe rubbed at his face. “I’d skip the
anesthesia
to not have to go to one of them. They’re excruciating.”

“They can’t be that bad, can they? After all, everyone there is interested, to some extent, in the theater, so you get to talk about your favorite subject, don’t you?”

“They’re interested, all right. And each one wants to tell you how you should do it. Or has a relative who’s written an “absolutely wonderful” play about Millard Fillmore’s early life they want you to look at. Our beloved state senator tried to impress upon me the importance of our plays having a message—like, say, battling roadside litter or wearing bike helmets.”

Jo grinned. “Surely not that bad.”

“Nearly.”

“What is Alden Patterson like?” Jo asked. “I’ve only met his wife.”

Rafe shrugged. “Typical politician, I guess. Bright enough, ambitious, hopeful of living off the taxpayers as our governor, someday. Has all the necessary requirements, including the beautiful, adoring wife.”

Jo thought about the scrapbook Deirdre had chosen to make highlighting Alden’s career. That certainly fit in with Rafe’s impression.

Jo heard a tapping noise and looked to the front window. There stood Loralee waving happily, her ever-present outsized tote on her arm. “Hi, Jo,” she called, her voice muffled by the glass. “See you tonight?”

Jo waved back, nodding.

“There’s another one of my Thespian Ball terrors,” Rafe said, watching Loralee move on.

“That sweet lady? Why?”

“Exactly because of that sweetness. She oozes it. Puts me in danger of Type 2 diabetes every time she comes near.”

“Oh, come now,” Jo laughed.

“And she always shows up with the other one, the tall woman with gray hair.”

“Ina Mae?” Jo guessed the name right away, since she rarely saw one without the other.

He nodded. “Two odd ducks, but between them I don’t think they miss a thing going on. Let slip a four-letter word in private across the room and there one of them is, looking at you like she’s just added that to her book of “Everything that’s wrong with Rafe Rulenski.”

“Like that would really worry you?”

“Well, not normally, of course. But I can see Ms. Sweetness there, gently swaying the vote of Betty Big-bucks who can’t decide between writing a check for the playhouse or a check to the Orphans’ Fund.”

“Those wretched orphans, grabbing all that money that should properly go to the arts.”

“Then the tall one,” Rafe went on, ignoring her as he worked up steam, “she comes to the balls supposedly to support the playhouse, but she has her own agendas, like, having kids in our plays? Forget about it. Child exploitation! Plus, they might miss out on five minutes of homework time. And animals? I know she was the one who sent the animal rights people to stop us from having a live parrot on stage once. Claimed the lights were too hot for the bird. We had to get a stuffed one, and have someone wiggle it and make cawing noises every once in a while so it would look alive.” Rafe crumpled his sandwich wrappings into a tight ball.

Jo had to press her water bottle to her lips to keep from laughing over the image of the parrot-wiggler. Was he credited in the playbook as such, she wondered?
Jason Krabable
—
Parrot Shaker.
As for Ina Mae, Jo knew she volunteered at the local SPCA. And she
did
have strong opinions—about animals, children, and just about everything else.

“I can see that life as director of the Abbotsville Playhouse is not an easy one, Rafe. Here you are, trying to entertain people, and you’re expected to actually
deal
with them too.”

Rafe looked at her, still scowling from his rant, but then relaxed into a sly grin. “And I usually
can
deal with them, ultimately. That’s one of the advantages of theatrical training. When faced with imbeciles, one can look enthralled. It’s just that it’s exhausting.” Rafe rubbed his eyes and then looked back at Jo. “But I’ll twist those arms. The Abbotsville Playhouse isn’t down yet, don’t you worry.”

“Good. My friend Carrie’s son, Charlie Brenner, will be one of the many who are glad to hear that. Charlie was really intrigued by the lights and sound workings before things came to a stop.

Rafe almost looked like he knew who Jo was talking about, and nodded. Obviously he wasn’t one to keep track of the “little people.” It was another example of the invisibility Charlie had remarked on. Would Charlie be back, though, if the playhouse did get up and running? From what Carrie had said, Dan had not given an inch along that line, which did not bode well for the father-and-son relationship.

Jo glanced at her watch. “Speaking of my friend, it’s time for me to relieve her at the shop.” She gathered up her sandwich wrappings and dropped them in a nearby trash container. Rafe did the same and walked out with her. They parted on the sidewalk, Jo wishing him good luck in New York, and he accepting it.

As she walked to her car, Jo mulled over Rafe’s unique impressions of people. His statement about actors and their ability to pretend stuck with her, making her wonder. If someone had an honest face, did she easily accept everything they said as fact? Did she believe someone was innocent simply because they acted sincere?

She gave herself a shake. After all, she wasn’t born yesterday. She’d dealt with many a crafty businessman, and she was confident in her abilities to read people. There was, however, the little matter of that anonymous letter sent to Morgan.

Reaching her car, Jo noticed that the scratches in its paint seemed to glow in the bright, midday sun. As if on cue, the stitches in her scalp began to throb and a wave of nausea fluttered through her stomach. Were they reminders of the need for caution in this murderer’s pursuit?

More likely, Jo thought, they were reminders of the need to drive carefully, though she’d definitely aim for both. She put the Toyota in gear and headed for the shop, wondering when all her questions would finally have answers.

Chapter 26

“I’m here,” Jo called out as she walked through the door into an empty Jo’s Craft Corner.

“I’m here too,” Carrie’s voice sailed back from the bathroom. “Be right out.”

“Take your time.” Jo stashed her pocketbook on the shelf beneath the cash register and glanced at the receipts. Carrie had made a few sales that morning, mainly from the knitting supplies. The knitters of Abbotsville seemed to have zeroed in on the times she would be available at the shop with her expert advice. Jo also saw a message from Betsy Davis, the basket weaver scheduled for a table at the country club craft show. It gave only the woman’s phone number, with no indication of the reason for the call. Jo hoped she wasn’t backing out. At this late date it would be impossible to find a replacement.

She heard the bathroom door open and called out to Carrie, “Did Betsy say what she needed to talk with me about?”

“No, only that you could reach her until two.”

Something in Carrie’s voice didn’t sound right, and Jo looked up. Her friend’s eyes were red-rimmed.

“Carrie, what’s wrong?”

Carrie shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it all with me to work. But when things slowed down, I couldn’t help thinking about it. Charlie and Dan had a big fight last night.”

“Uh-oh. About the playhouse?”

“It was, but I doubt either of them would admit it. They’d claim it was all about the lawn, which Charlie didn’t mow like he was supposed to. He claimed that was because it was still too wet from the rain we had a couple nights ago. Dan thought that was just a crappy excuse and told him so. Then Charlie retaliated by saying Dan thought everything Charlie decided was crappy, and Dan told him not to speak to him in that tone, and, and, it just got worse after that.” Carrie teared up, and Jo reached out to give her a hug.

“They’ll both feel bad about it once they simmer down, Carrie.”

“I didn’t see any signs of that this morning. Charlie stomped off to school early, without breakfast. And Dan wouldn’t talk about it at all with me; he just glared at his fried eggs as he shoveled them into his mouth and then washed them down with hot coffee. He’ll probably have indigestion all day and blame it on Charlie.”

“Men can be so stubborn. I’m sorry you got caught in the middle.”

Carrie sighed. “That’s it. I’m in the middle, but I can’t help if neither of them will talk to me. Ah, well.” Carrie took a final bracing sniff. “I better get going. I’ve got a bunch of errands to run. If I keep busy maybe a solution to all this will pop into my head.”

“I’m sure it will all work out.” Jo watched as Carrie gathered her things and left with a wan smile. Though she’d tried to be upbeat for Carrie’s sake, Jo had a sinking feeling about this. The breach between father and son had been developing for quite a while as each pulled in their separate directions, and Jo hadn’t a clue how to help repair it.

With a sigh, she reached for the slip with Betsy Davis’s phone number and punched it in. Betsy’s answering machine picked up, belying the basket weaver’s supposed availability until two. Frustrated, Jo left her message and hung up, feeling highly annoyed. It wasn’t the uncompleted call that really bothered her, though, just as Charlie and Dan’s fight wasn’t about unmown grass. In addition to concern for the family that meant so much to her, Jo had the ongoing escalation of Russ Morgan’s insinuations weighing on her, plus the recently added suspicions of just about everyone she knew in Abbotsville.

That last part was something she was going to have to work through. It made no sense to mistrust everyone, when in actuality only one person must be lying to her. The trouble was, at this point she couldn’t say who that was. Jo began to wish that she’d never stayed to share lunch with Rafe. His negativity had managed to rub off on her, disrupting what she had hoped would be a clear-cut track to the truth. That track now appeared more like a maze through tall grass, where every new turn seemed to erase the path behind and present instead a fresh set of hidden problems up ahead.