Broken Vows Mystery 01-For Better, for Murder Page 8

  Sally fixed her disapproving eye on his empty desk, strewn with papers and Dunkin’ Donuts napkins. “No.”

  “I had a break-in at the garage this morning and one of my customer’s cars was stolen. I’d like to file a claim.”

  “You’re having quite the week, aren’t you?” Sally spun in her chair and pulled a form from the file cabinet. “I can’t believe we’ve had a murder and now a car theft in our town. We’re doing everything we can to bring more tourists into town, but we seem to be attracting the wrong kind of people, too.”

  I’d been wondering if she might refer to Tim’s death, especially given her long friendship with Becky.

  Sally continued, “It must have been quite a shock for you, learning about Tim’s death after your date with him Friday night.”

  My chest tightened. “Tim and I didn’t have a date Friday night.”

  Sally studied my face for a moment then dropped her gaze to the paper on the desk. “I must have misunderstood.”

  She began reading questions from the claim form. I answered all her questions, all the while wondering where she got the idea Tim and I had a date. When she asked me to sign the claim form and told me Bernie would be in touch, I decided to ask her.

  Sally busied herself with shuffling papers around her desk and refused to look at me. “Oh, you know, some of the girls got together and were talking. I should have known better than to believe them, let alone repeat what they said. I’m sorry, Jolene.”

  I knew Chrissy Martin, Celeste’s sister, was one of Sally’s friends. The gossip gene ran rampant in that family like mental illness did in mine. I tried not to make too much of it, but Ray’s request for my pizza receipt seemed to substantiate that someone believed Tim and I had a date Friday night. Of course, now I couldn’t even ask Ray who that might be since he was angry that I hadn’t explained the money he found.

  I had a hard time focusing on the rest of my conversation with Sally, because my fears overcame me. My imagination had no trouble generating the image of Ray putting me in jail. I tried to convince myself that notion was ridiculous, in particular because I was innocent, but my head started to throb with tension. My mouth felt dry. I craved the sleep I’d lost over the last few days. I couldn’t figure out the answers to all my own questions, let alone anyone else’s.

  On my way back to the office, I moved on to the question of whether Bernie would be in touch with the forty-five thousand dollars Mr. Oliver’s car was worth on the open market. Even if he was, I somehow doubted Mr. Oliver would just accept his money and walk away gracefully. My business would take another knock with this fiasco. If I didn’t get arrested for murder, I could still go bankrupt. It was always nice to have options.

  My cell phone rang as I pulled into the parking lot behind the boutique. Once again, it wasn’t Ray. I’d spent three years trying to avoid the man. Would all my remaining days be spent wondering if he might ever speak to me again? And they say women are fickle.

  “I got your message, Jo. I stopped by the office and read the customer list. It looked complete to me, but how come you underlined Brennan Rowe and Mr. Hughes’ names?” Cory sucked in enough air to make the phone line hiss with static.

  I hadn’t realized I’d underlined anything, but they were my two leading local suspects for the murder. Mr. Hughes was angry about the zoning board decision. He was wealthy and clever enough to mastermind Tim’s murder and arrogant enough to appear in my showroom to see for himself that the job had been done. Brennan Rowe flew just under the radar in town most of the time. Could he have bribed or blackmailed Tim into voting in his favor? “Just a slip of the pen. Where are you?”

  “At the gym, working out. Want to come over?”

  “Ha, ha, ha.” Cory knew exercise and I did not go hand-in-hand. I was willing to walk, but rarely willing to work up a sweat. The last time I sweated was—oops, this was no time to be thinking about fun times with Ray.

  I entered my office and plugged in my fax machine. Once it warmed up, emitting a burnt odor from long disuse, I faxed my list to Ray’s attention at the Sheriff’s Department and resisted the urge to call and verify its receipt. Then I sat with the list in my hand, wondering if this list of a hundred or so names was the only lead in the investigation into Tim’s death. If so, I knew these people better than Ray, or at least, I thought I did. They were my customers. I could make a few phone calls and ask some questions. It would beat sitting around waiting for the next body to appear or the next car to disappear—or worse, for Ray to come slap the cuffs on me. And I knew just who to call first.

  I dialed the number and spoke to his secretary, who put me through to the big man himself seconds later.

  “Miss Asdale, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m calling to apologize for Saturday, Mr. Hughes. We’re still not sure what happened here, but I’m sorry you were involved.”

  “I wasn’t involved, Miss Asdale, nor do I intend to be.”

  That statement shut me down for a minute, but I rallied. “The victim, Tim Lapham, was the town treasurer, and he served on the zoning board, too. Were you acquainted with Tim?”

  The line was silent and I wondered if Mr. Hughes had hung up. Then he spoke. “We met when I approached the board about a zoning change and building permit for a grocery store in Wachobe. They turned me down.”

  “How disappointing.”

  “Not at all, Miss Asdale. Merely one more challenge to overcome. Challenges are what make life interesting, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Not today, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Of course. How are you planning to overcome this one, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Not at all. With Mr. Lapham’s death, the votes will change on the zoning board. All I have to do is request another hearing and vote.” He sounded rather pleased.

  I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “I wasn’t aware the individual votes were made public.”

  “They’re not, Miss Asdale.”

  Once again, he stopped me cold. I wondered if his words held a hidden message or if he was so confident, he didn’t concern himself with subterfuge. I pressed on. “Did anyone know about your ten o’clock appointment here to see the Ferrari?”

  “What an odd question, but I’ll answer it. Just my wife. I told her where I was going when I left the house.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, again, I apologize. I won’t keep you.”

  “Actually, I’m delighted you phoned me today. I’ve been thinking about calling you. I’ve decided on a car.”

  My heart filled with joy. A man of the world like Mr. Hughes wouldn’t let a dead body dissuade him from purchasing a stylish red Ferrari. “Yes?”

  “I understand a 1957 Mercedes-Benz 300SL roadster is coming up for auction. It’s tan with a green interior. I’d like you to bid on it for me.” He reeled off the name of the auction house and a vehicle identification number which matched the one written on my hot pink Post It note.

  “Ahh …” Now I really was at a loss. He wanted the same car as Brennan Rowe, who I represented on the QT.

  “I’m willing to pay you a ten thousand dollar finder’s fee.”

  Twice what Brennan Rowe had offered to pay me. Oh, this couldn’t be happening. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hughes, I can’t bid on that car for you. I’m already representing someone else interested in the roadster.”

  “Oh, well then, may the best man win.” Dial tone filled the line.

  I didn’t really care for his parting shot. Did he mean the best man between him and Brennan Rowe or the best man, meaning I as a woman would never win? Either way, I’d had enough of the two of them.

  I locked the shop and walked the two blocks to the town offices, intent on speaking with Henry Hart, the town supervisor. I didn’t have an appointment, but Henry liked me. Henry could give me the real scoop on the zoning board’s decision.

  The town office sat on the corner of North Street and Lincoln Boulevard. It was an expansive forty-thousand-square-foot, two-story
brick building that also housed the parks and recreation department, including an indoor water park. The lobby felt warm and humid and smelled of chlorine when I entered. Both the lobby and the pool were empty at this hour of the day, since school was in session.

  I asked for Henry at the desk. He appeared moments later, his hand swallowing mine as he greeted me with a broad smile on his florid face. His silver hair looked stylish with his light blue dress shirt and slightly darker tie. He’d be the consummate politician except for one little habit: he scratched his crotch while he talked, every once in a while. I don’t know if it was jock itch or if he was checking to make sure his equipment hadn’t been stolen, but I’m sure it was keeping him from moving up in local government. As town supervisor, he didn’t make many speeches or glad hand too many people. At least I didn’t see him grab his crotch until after I’d shaken his hand today.

  “Come on in and sit down. How’s your sister?” Henry always asked about Erica because Erica was the spitting image of Mom, whom he used to date in high school. Sometimes I thought if he wasn’t too old and already married, he might like to make a play for Erica.

  “She’s doing all right. She’s still in and out of the psych center.”

  I didn’t bother to mention today was an unauthorized “out” day.

  I followed him into his office. It was adorned with softball trophies and pictures of each year’s Memorial Day parade—Henry and his wife riding in the lead car, of course.

  He nodded with a grave expression. “I pray for her every night.”

  “Thank you.” I shifted in my chair. “I wanted to ask you about Mr. Hughes and Brennan Rowe. I understand they’re fighting over the same plot of land, and it’s coming up for a revote with the zoning board. Could Tim have been … swayed by either of them?”

  Henry had been a politician long enough to know he was being asked about bribes. “Of course not. Tim was by-the-book.”

  He tipped his head as he gazed at me. “I heard you and Tim had an argument yourselves about the zoning board’s suggestion that you relocate Asdale Auto Imports. I heard you got physical with him.”

  I felt myself stiffen and tried not to sound defensive. “It was not an argument. I was pointing at the street, he was pointing, and I bumped him. That’s all. It was all very innocent, not at all physical.”

  “I see.” He didn’t sound like he saw at all though. “You need to be careful about making any accusations, Jolene. You’re in a precarious position right now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Henry’s averted gaze disturbed me, but his words struck fear. “The zoning board thinks your cars are an eyesore and wants your shop relocated. Mr. Hughes thinks your property would be a prime location for his daughter’s flower shop. The majority of the board seems to agree.”

  “But … don’t I have any say in this?”

  Henry shrugged. “You’d have to go to one of the zoning meetings to say your piece.”

  I didn’t want to go to one of their meetings. I was too afraid of what they’d have to say. In my mind, I pictured myself with my arms folded across my chest and my heels dug into the ground by the end of the meeting, saying, “You can’t make me move.”

  I decided to change the subject. “What did you think when you heard Tim had been killed?”

  Henry fiddled with the letter opener on his desk. “I didn’t know what to think. He was fine man. A hard worker. I thought he was honest.”

  He sounded like he might have recently changed his mind on that last point. What happened to “by-the-book”? Had that just been a knee-jerk politician’s response? “But you don’t think he was honest anymore?”

  “I didn’t say that, Jolene.” Henry rose to his feet and held out his hand. “I have to run to a meeting.”

  I shook his hand and left the building.

  But as I walked past his window, I looked back inside to see him still sitting at his desk, looking as confused and scared as I felt.

  Henry’s words echoed in my head as I walked back to the shop to retrieve my car and drive home. Just days ago I thought I was on the road to becoming a successful businessperson in Wachobe, maybe even a respected one, something my dad failed to achieve. Now I was skidding into a crash and burn with my business undermined and my personal reputation in question. Was someone trying to ruin me or was it all just an unlucky twist of fate?

  I remembered to purchase a package of mouse traps on the way home. At least I could eliminate one of my concerns. If I actually snagged one of the varmints, I would just have to step up, or maybe suit up, to empty the trap. With one of Cory’s mechanic outfits, my rubber gardening boots, some welding gloves, and a beekeeper’s hat, I might feel confident enough to scoop up one tiny dead mouse with an iron shovel, as long as its handle was at least four feet long. There, I had a plan, and it didn’t include Ray.

  In my kitchen I tore open the package and removed the traps. After chunking up some cheese and smearing it with peanut butter, I set the traps in the corners of my kitchen, living room, and hallway and headed for my bedroom to tuck one under my four-poster bed. The sight of my bed stopped me dead in the doorway.

  The intricately hand-embroidered quilt of morning glories lay crumpled at the foot of the bed. The blue thermal blanket and white sheets with crocheted edges were balled in the center of it, and the pillows both bore the indentations of the heads that had laid there last. It took me only a few seconds to find two long blond hairs on one side of the bed, and a dark short one on the other, similar to the hair on Sam Green’s head, based on the picture I’d seen. Apparently, my bed had been a stop on Erica’s passion trail.

  Four towels lay damp and discarded on the tile floor of my bathroom. Only the heady aroma of lavender suggested Erica had supplied her own toiletries. I sank onto the side of the bathtub and wondered how much my landlord would charge me to change the locks. He prided himself on the historical value of this 1870s colonial, including the original locks. A deadbolt from Ace Hardware probably wouldn’t sit well with him, but, right now, I was ready to install two on each entrance. Erica had the uncanny ability to do the absolute wrong thing at the wrong time and the fact that she was now doing it on my mattress revolted me.

  I rose wearily, slid the mouse trap under the bed, and set to work stripping the sheets, careful not to touch anything but their corners. Perhaps I could set a trap for Erica, too. But first, I’d try leaving a sticky note on each door to the apartment, worded to convey my maternal disappointment in her behavior and threatening a move to a maximum security mental facility in another county once I got the net over her again.

  It might work. After all, she must gain comfort from my proximity. Why else would she keep coming back here again and again?

  ___

  By nine o’clock the next morning I was dressed for Tim’s funeral and waiting for Cory. My pantsuit, a gray double-breasted number, was lighter in color and weight than I wanted for this somber occasion. But it was clean, unlike my black suit, still covered in slush from the day I discovered Tim’s body. Plus the gray blended with my only pressed blouse, a black one.

  I had a plan for the day. At Tim’s funeral, I would learn more about his family and friends. If I eavesdropped on enough conversations, maybe I would get a clue as to why someone might have wanted to kill him. If I were really lucky, maybe I’d uncover a killer in their midst.

  Life should be so simple.

  If not, I would hunt down my sister before she caused any more trouble. I knew which bars she liked to frequent and where her few friends lived. If she were in town, I could find her.

  Of course, lately my plans had a way of going awry. I hoped today would be the exception.

  My jaw dropped when I opened the door for Cory. He had really outdone himself this time. He wore a black suit, a white shirt with gray cravat, a black Dickens cape that fell to his calves with a shorter collar-like cape around the shoulders, and a black felt top hat, all appropriate if he was an undertaker leading
a funeral procession with a casket on a wagon pulled by horses wearing feathered funeral headdresses to a burial plot on a hill outside Devonshire.

  Which he was not.

  I stepped aside to let him enter. “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not polite to outdo your date?”

  “You’re not my date. You’re my boss, my boring uptight boss, based on that ensemble.” He cocked his head to one side. “I don’t know, it might even say ‘lesbian’.”

  “I’ll put my mother’s pearls on. They say ‘Barbara Bush.’”

  “And here I thought you were for Hillary.” Cory flicked his cape out behind him and perched on the edge of the ottoman to wait.

  When we left the house, I put up my sticky notes but didn’t bother to lock my door. Why kid myself? Locks weren’t keeping anybody out of my life these days, even dead guys. Cory read the notes over my shoulder but didn’t ask any questions.

  The lobby of the funeral home smelled like Pledge with a hint of eau d’embalmment clinging to the sails of the model yachts featured on the tables in the entryway. It also brought back painful memories of my mother’s and father’s deaths. My mother had been laid out here. I still remembered her fire-engine-red lipstick and the delicate baby’s breath my dad had asked Mr. Young to put in her hair. It made her look more like a bride than a poor sad woman who’d taken her own life. Maybe that was why Dad requested it. I didn’t know. He chose the cremation route for himself.

  Mr. Young dipped his silver head of hair deferentially as he greeted us and directed us to the viewing room on the left. He still had a tan worthy of the height of summer, and I wondered if he’d die of skin cancer after all his time on the water. “When you’ve had a chance to pay your respects, please move across the hall where we will hold the service.”

  “Why isn’t the service at Tim’s church?” I whispered to Cory, trying to respect the hushed atmosphere. “He and Becky belonged to the same church. They still sat in the same pew every Sunday, as far as I knew.”