Authors: Janet Bolin
“I didn’t mean it that way. I spoke in anger.” I was digging a bigger hole for myself. “I admit I shouldn’t have spoken like that, but it was just words. Besides, I was the one who called for help when he was injured.”
He jutted his chin, which he probably hoped made him look dangerous, but really only stretched his wattles. “You didn’t
mean
your words. Maybe you didn’t
mean
to kill him, either, but when you saw how badly you’d injured him, you got scared, and called 911.”
“I didn’t even know he was in my backyard. I never touched him, never hurt him, never would have!” I told myself to ratchet down the anxiety before it manifested itself in twitches or blushes. “Have you checked up on everybody around here who owns a dark pickup truck?”
“Check up, how?”
I held my hands out, palms up. “To see if any of them had grudges against Mike. Or—” I tripped over my words. “Wouldn’t Mike have fought his attacker? Maybe someone went to the emergency room with strange wounds last night. Or visited a doctor.”
“If they did, I’d hear about it.”
I wasn’t so sure. “I never saw that gas can before, or touched it. Someone brought it to my place. Why don’t you dust it and the canoe paddle for prints? The paddle came with the property, and I may have touched it, but I’m sure you’ll find someone else’s prints on it. More recent prints than mine. That’ll be your man.”
“Woman,” he jumped in. “And she . . . you . . . wore gloves. I already dusted them.”
Everyone wore gloves or mittens last night. Overcoming my panic was becoming increasingly difficult. On the other hand, Uncle Allen seemed more interested in taunting me than arresting me. I asked, “Why haven’t the state police sent teams to help you investigate?”
Uncle Allen puffed out his chest. “I haven’t asked them, and they can’t go butting into my jurisdiction. What would they know about Elderberry Bay? This case I’m solving myself. In all my years of policing this village, nothing like this has ever happened before.”
All the more reason to ask for help. “They could take some of the burden. You’ll be putting in hours of overtime.”
Somewhere among the chins and wattles, Uncle Allen had jaw muscles he could clench. His teeth made a horrible grinding noise. “I watched Mike and all the other young folks around here grow up. Whenever they had a problem, they always knew they could come to me. I was about to retire. Mike trusted me. I owe it to him to stay on until his killer is nailed.”
Maybe he believed that being denied a building permit was a motive for murder, but I knew a better one. “Who inherits Mike’s vineyard?”
Uncle Allen backed away as if hoping I wouldn’t recognize the grief in his eyes. “His parents are dead and he had no sisters or brothers or wife or children. He struggled with that vineyard all by himself, had to mortgage everything after a couple of disastrous winters killed his grapevines. The poor boy had nothing besides debts. He was about to get on his feet.”
He turned and shambled toward the door.
“When can I use my backyard again?”
Pushing my door open, he called over his shoulder, “I’ll let you know.”
Seething at Uncle Allen’s stubborn belief that I had to be a killer, I hung my embroidered
Closed
sign in the door, then called Haylee and asked her to come for a walk with me and the dogs. She came out and took Sally’s leash from me. As we strolled together through Threadville, it was apparent that her mothers had not yet begun their supper. Opal was inside Tell a Yarn, stocking her shelves—diamond-shaped niches—with yarns in spring colors. The pine shelving, walls, and ceiling gave the shop a warm glow. Next door, Edna was vacuuming. Buttons and Bows was mostly white inside, a background for Edna’s sparkling, floor-to-ceiling displays of buttons and trims. The front room of Naomi’s shop, Batty About Quilts, was an art gallery showcasing gorgeous quilts. We caught glimpses of Naomi bustling around in the brightly lit shop behind the gallery.
Although all different, the shops shared a fresh, clean style. “Did Clay renovate all of the Threadville shops?” I asked Haylee.
“Yep. He did a great job, didn’t he?”
I let Tally pull me down the hill toward the beach. “He said you told him what I wanted.”
“Did he?”
“Haylee, when you called me to come see the shop and apartment below it, they were already finished.”
“I was right, then. He did renovate it perfectly for you.”
“Yes, but—” I spluttered. “You tricked me.”
We ventured onto the sandy beach. “I wanted to do you a favor. You’d been dreaming of leaving that stressful job in Manhattan and opening your own shop where you could play with embroidery to your heart’s content, right?”
“Right.” And I did love living and working in Threadville. How could I not? Waves thundering onto the beach, adorable dogs that I would not have subjected to apartment life in Manhattan, a wonderfully warm and fun set of friends and customers, and fabrics, fabrics, fabrics. And embroidery.
“How do you like Clay?” she asked, with a teasing lilt.
“He’s very nice.”
“Is that all you can say? I practically throw you two together, and . . .”
“Um, Haylee, don’t you have first dibs on the guy?”
“Clay? I like him. Really like him. He’s a friend. But he would be perfect for you.” Sally pulled Haylee away from the breaking waves.
Tally, of course, pulled me toward them, so I had to shout. “If he’s perfect for me, why wouldn’t he be perfect for you?” Maybe she had her eye on someone else. Hauling Tally back to Haylee and Sally-Forth, I hinted, “Your mothers seem to adore Smythe Castor.”
The wind whipped her hair over her face. She pulled the hair away. “Everyone says he’s as sweet as the honey his bees make. But . . . right now, I’m only looking.”
“Me, too,” I said firmly, turning Tally toward home.
Behind me, Haylee snickered.
We all jogged up the hill. In the street between our shops, I took Sally’s leash from Haylee. “You’re right about only window shopping for now, Haylee. Until Mike’s murderer is behind bars, both of us need to be cautious about
all
of the bachelors around Elderberry Bay.”
She retorted, “You sound like my mothers. But I’ll be careful.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. I saw Uncle Allen at your place a while ago. How’s his investigation going?”
I groaned. “He’s still ignoring any evidence that doesn’t point to me as Mike’s murderer.”
“Maybe we should drive out to Mike’s place and see if Uncle Allen has put police tape around it.”
“And if he has?”
“We’ll respect it and stay out.”
“And if he hasn’t?”
9
H
AYLEE LOOKED OFF INTO THE DISTANCE. “Someone needs to keep an eye on Mike’s place.” “Maybe we should head out there now.”
She shook her head. “Too many people up and around.”
“How about midnight? Meet you at my car.”
“Done. See you then.” She crossed the street toward The Stash.
I took the dogs inside and gave them treats. Before Haylee and I involved ourselves in something we knew we shouldn’t, I would give law enforcement one more chance. I dialed the Erie detachment of the Pennsylvania State Police.
A woman with a soft voice introduced herself as Trooper Smallwood. I explained that a suspicious death had occurred in Elderberry Bay. “And we only have one policeman. He needs help solving the murder.”
Trooper Smallwood sounded very nice and caring. “If he needs help, he’ll ask us.”
I wasn’t so sure. “I don’t think he should be the only investigator.” The line became quiet. “Are you still there?” I tried not to whine.
“I’m here,” she reassured me. “And I understand your concerns. I don’t believe Elderberry Bay has requested our assistance recently. I’ll check.”
Before she could hang up, I blurted, “I called 911 last night when I found the victim. He was still alive. The dispatcher sent Unc . . . er, Officer DeGlazier. If he hadn’t been available, wouldn’t the dispatcher have contacted you? It would have been your case from the beginning.”
“It’s not that simple. I’m sorry. I know this must be very difficult for you. Frustrating. I’ll see what I can do.” She clicked off.
I was relieved at finding a sympathetic listener. Maybe she would pack a posse of investigators into a van and bring them to Elderberry Bay. Tonight.
Meanwhile, there were other people I should talk to before Haylee and I snuck off to Mike’s. I called Dr. Wrinklesides.
The woman who answered told me his evening walk-in clinic would stay open for me.
“I don’t want to keep him late. I just want to speak to him. It’s not about my health.” Well, in a way it was, if his answers could keep me out of jail.
“He stays late every night. He doesn’t do phone consultations.”
I locked up and stepped off my front porch. A couple with three children, all of them singing, climbed out of a minivan and filed into the General Store. Lights were on in Naomi’s apartment, where Opal, Edna, and Naomi were having supper. The Ironmonger had its usual lamp-lit ambience, with men talking around the potbellied stove near the back of the store. Pickup trucks, most of them black, were parked all up and down Lake Street. I walked around the corner from Lake Street to Cayuga. Calling cheerful greetings to each other, diners converged on Pier 42 and opened the door. Chatter and laughter spilled from the restaurant. The library, bakery, bank, and post office were closed for the night, and the hamburger and ice cream stands wouldn’t open again until spring.
Dr. Wrinklesides’s street, Jefferson Avenue, was mainly residential, lined with Victorian houses, Arts and Crafts–style bungalows, and newer ranch homes. Lights were on inside and drapes were not yet closed. Living rooms looked inviting with art on the walls, books on the shelves, and children nestled together in overstuffed sofas. Susannah was setting a table in what must be her home. Next door to her, a family ate supper by candlelight. I looked for Georgina in other houses on the street, but didn’t see her. Aromas of wood smoke and cooking seemed to warm the evening.
Dr. Wrinklesides’s office was in a converted ranch home. The waiting room was warm, which was nice, and full of patients, which wasn’t so nice, since they all probably had communicable diseases. A young woman behind the reception desk gave me a friendly smile. Her nametag read Dr. Eaversleigh. It was reassuring that the elderly Dr. Wrinklesides had a colleague. She looked about to say something, but a printer behind her spewed paper and squeaked, drowning out whatever she might have wanted to say.
Eejee weejee, eejee weejee, eejee weejee.
With a goodhumored shrug, she gestured toward chairs lining the waiting-room walls.
I sat down and picked up a magazine about quilting.
In the next room, Dr. Wrinklesides boomed, “Open your mouth! Wider. I want to look right through you to your shoes.” His young patient wailed.
Fluorescent tubes flickered, buzzed, and gave off a greenish light that made everyone in the waiting room look sick.
Eejee weejee, eejee weejee, eejee weejee.
I flipped a page, from Drunkard’s Path to Monkey Wrench. The foremothers who named these quilt patterns had interesting senses of whimsy.
Apparently, Dr. Wrinklesides had more than one examination room. A man yelled, “I was hurt—”
Eejee weejee, eejee weejee, eejee weejee.
Was interference from that screeching printer Dr. Wrinklesides’s version of patient-doctor confidentiality?
Uncle Allen had claimed that no one had gone to the hospital with wounds that Mike might have inflicted. What if Mike’s attacker hadn’t needed a hospital but went to Dr. Wrinklesides instead? Had the man consulting Dr. Wrinklesides been hurt fighting with Mike?
Bent over a gnarled walking stick, the injured patient limped out of the building. I didn’t catch a glimpse of his downturned face.
An aria burst from one of the examination rooms. Knowing very little about opera, and even less about Italian, I didn’t know what Dr. Wrinklesides was singing, but it brimmed with heartfelt pathos. The singing broke off. Sounding quite jolly, Dr. Wrinklesides bellowed at his next patient, “
You’re
still alive?”
Maybe Dr. Eaversleigh could be my doctor if I ever needed one. All professional competence, she ushered me into an examination room and left me alone to wait for Dr. Wrinklesides.
I heard the outer door open and the low murmur of new arrivals.
Dr. Wrinklesides bounced into my room. He looked smaller without the long coat, earflapped fedora, and enormous hand-knit muffler, but he was still a huge man, and his face was red, as if he’d suffered an extreme case of frostbite early that morning in my backyard. His white lab coat barely met over his wide middle. He flipped a folder open to reveal a blank sheet of paper. “Okay, young lady,” he yelled. “What seems to be your problem?”
I could almost hear the patients in the waiting room next door creaking forward in their seats to listen to my answer.
Where was that printer when I needed it?
I reminded Dr. Wrinklesides, “You were at my place last night—”
“Sure,” he hollered. “I remember last night. We didn’t have the best time of it, did we?”
What did the other patients think of that?
“Well,” he went on, “I suppose you expect counseling.”
“No, I—”
He didn’t seem to notice that I’d shaken my head. He thundered, “The counseling I give people like you who believe they’ve endured trauma is, ‘Time heals all hurts.’ You just wait, young lady, and you’ll discover I’m right.” He unlooped his stethoscope from his neck.
I warded him off with upraised palms. “I’m fine. I just wanted to ask you a question.”
He cupped his hand behind his ear. “What’s that?”
The last thing I wanted to do was shout the question. Hoping that printer would magically start its
eejee weejee
ing, I said loudly, “You were with . . . um . . .
that man
when he spoke last night.”
It took several repetitions for him to get the gist of that. “Uncle Allen DeGlazier?” he asked. “The cop?”