“Could he have taken this tem . . . uh, this sedative himself?”
“That’s something we’re checking in to. But it doesn’t seem likely, does it, that he’d take medication to slow himself down while on a job that called for a lot of energy?”
“No,” Jo admitted. “It doesn’t.”
“Mrs. McAllister, I understand you’re a widow?”
Jo’s head jerked up. “Yes, I am.”
“I’m sure the loss of your husband was a very stressful thing to go through.”
Jo nodded, frowning. What did that have to do with anything?
“Many people who have suffered a loss such as yours have trouble sleeping. Was that the case with you?”
Jo caught where he was going and was even less happy with it than she had been with his insinuation about her punch. “Yes, it
was
the case with me, Lieutenant, for a certain length of time. But no, I don’t need or take sleeping pills now, nor do I go about slipping them into the drinks of people in my employ!”
“I’m sure—”
Jo jumped up from her chair. She’d had enough. “
I’m
sure you’ve made up your mind that I’ve come to Abbotsville to set up shop and start killing off your citizens one by one. Well, Lieutenant Morgan, you’re going to have to come up with a lot of proof for that crazy idea. Good luck finding it. And if you want to talk to me anymore, you’re going to have to talk to my lawyer first!”
With that, Jo spun around and marched out of the office, the heels of her imitation leather shoes pummeling the linoleum floor. Heads bobbed up curiously as she stomped her way through the maze of desks, calling Morgan and the Abbotsville Police Department every miserable name she could think of under her breath. By the time she reached her car, however, other emotions managed to slip in, namely worry and fear. Did he really suspect she had murdered Kyle Sandborn? And if so, what was she going to do about it?
Morgan was right about one thing: being sued was the least of her concerns. She had tossed out brave words in his office, even throwing up the roadblock of a “lawyer” as if she really
had
a lawyer, as if she could really
afford
a lawyer. But she didn’t feel very brave right now, as she climbed behind her wheel, her legs suddenly rubbery and her fingers trembling as she fumbled to insert the key.
“What rubbish!” Ina Mae Kepner sat at the workshop table, a jumble of greenery, pinecones, and ribbons before her. She wasn’t referring to her materials.
“Why should that man think for an instant that you could have killed the Sandborn boy? I don’t believe you ever saw him before Saturday, did you?”
Jo smiled gratefully at the older woman who had huffed scornfully as Jo related her experience at the police station. Ina Mae had bustled in promptly at seven with two other registrants for the Christmas wreath workshop, looking every inch the retired third-grade teacher that she was. Jo half expected her to take over the class, but instead Ina Mae sat down quietly with the others and waited patiently for Jo to get herself organized. It wasn’t until Jo apologized for the third time for bungling her instructions that Ina Mae asked her what was wrong. Then the whole story came tumbling out.
“No, I certainly didn’t know him. How do I prove that, though? Besides, my not having a motive might not matter. Kyle was killed in my stockroom, with an item from my stock. Means and opportunity, isn’t that all they need?”
“Yes, you’re probably right,” Loralee Phillips, a diminutive, soft-spoken woman to Ina Mae’s right, agreed, nodding. She picked up a holly sprig and held it speculatively against her wreath. “And you certainly look strong enough to jam a knitting needle into someone, I’d have to say.”
“Loralee!” Javonne Barnett, the slim African-American woman across from Loralee, protested.
Loralee glanced up from her work with mild eyes. “I was only looking at it from the lieutenant’s point of view, Javonne. If Jo is going to defend herself, she’ll need to know exactly what from.”
“Loralee’s right,” Carrie agreed, calling out from the beginner’s knitting session she was conducting at the other end of the shop. She had obviously been listening to the conversation with one ear. She left her ladies practicing their cast-ons, to come over. “Jo needs to look out for herself. She shouldn’t just trust that the police will discover she’s innocent.”
“What do you suggest?” Jo asked. “Some subtle bribery with teddy bears for every police officer’s desk? Beadwork frames for their badges?”
“Russ Morgan’s single, isn’t he?” Javonne grinned slyly. “How about an ‘accidental’ encounter at the Brass Parrot. I’ve seen him hanging out there sometimes. Got any sexy red dresses in your closet, Jo?”
The ladies shrieked and cackled, and Jo rolled her eyes at Carrie. “Lieutenant Morgan didn’t strike me as someone who lets emotions get in the way of his work.”
“Lieutenant Morgan strikes
me
,” Ina Mae said, “as an overly busy man, with a very small staff at his disposal. He obviously needs help to look a bit farther than his nose for solutions. Perhaps you can provide it, Jo.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Loralee chimed in.
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Jo protested.
“Start by getting to know Kyle, why don’t you? Does anyone here know anything about the young man?”
“I know his regular job was working the tennis desk at the country club,” Javonne said. “My Harry recognized that picture they put in the paper. Harry plays doubles there Wednesdays when the office is closed.” Javonne’s Harry was a dentist. She had arrived for the class a few minutes late, explaining that her husband needed her help assisting with an emergency tooth repair. She had then gazed speculatively at Jo’s own smile and casually mentioned Harry’s office location and hours.
Loralee added, “Kyle was in a lot of the playhouse productions. I saw him in their last show,
Biloxi Blues.
He played the older brother, and was very good, I thought.”
“Bob Gordon wanted to talk to me about setting up a craft show at the country club,” Jo said. “If he hasn’t changed his mind, I suppose I could talk to some of the people that worked with Kyle when I go over there.”
“Oh, Bob is a great friend of ours!” Deirdre Patterson spoke up for the first time. Jo remembered her as the silk-suited woman Ina Mae had edged off that busy morning. She had been silent until now. “I could ask him to take you around if you like.” Deirdre wore a pink cashmere sweater set, and Jo feared for its life as Deirdre fumbled around with the wire and glue guns.
“Maybe it’s best if Jo does it on her own,” Carrie said. “People might open up more if their supervisor isn’t standing there listening in, don’t you think?”
The other ladies nodded. Jo was amazed to see how quickly they all assumed she would begin snooping around, searching out possible murderers. But she was just as surprised to realize how she was warming to the idea. It was, after all, much better than sitting around waiting for the handcuffs to be slapped on, and Jo had always thought of herself as a person of action. Unfortunately, her actions hadn’t always led to the best results.
Like that time in New York, when, after learning her usual delivery service was backed up, she decided to hand-deliver an order of her specialty jewelry to a town in New Jersey, and ended up lost, in a broken-down car, needing to check into a Bates-like motel on a foggy night. Mike, to say the least, had not been happy when she’d called to explain the pickle she’d got herself in, and she eventually promised him to never again jump blindly into uncharted territory. Was that, however, what she was contemplating doing?
Mike, she explained silently, somehow feeling the need, this is different. I’ll just be asking a few simple questions. It’ll be perfectly fine, I promise. One of Mike’s exasperated looks flashed into her mind, and she quickly turned back to her class.
“Now ladies,” she said, seeing them puzzling over the arrangement of their wreath decorations, “to get back to our workshop. I want you to be creative in how you place your trimmings since I think that’s half the fun of putting it all together. My suggestion, just to get you started, is to cross and attach these two curly willow branches at the base of your wreath, on a slight angle, then make and attach the bow onto it like this.” Jo demonstrated. “Then you can add your bird’s nest, the pinecones, and these other lovely items about the wreath to brighten and balance everything out. But play around with it before you glue anything in place. Rearrange until you’re happy with the design. You’ll see. Little by little it’ll all come together.”
You’ll see, Mike. It’ll be all right.
The women dug in, and Jo watched with satisfaction as their wreaths developed. She offered help here and there, and was about to compliment Loralee on her work when a wail snapped her attention to the opposite end of the worktable.
“Jo, help!” Deirdre cried. “I’ve glued my fingers together!”
Chapter 6
Jo stepped back and looked at the box she had filled with various craft items. It was the second of two. If she didn’t stop soon she’d have half her stock packed up to show to Bob Gordon at the country club.
“Charlie, I’m so glad you’re able to help out. There’s no way I could haul this stuff by myself.”
“It’s okay, Aunt Jo. I’ve got nothing better to do.”
That was the truth, Jo realized, with an inner sigh. Carrie had been confiding of late her continuing worries about her son and his apparent lack of drive. Since dropping out of baseball eighteen months ago, Charlie had done very little with his free time beyond the household chores his parents required of him. And those he had to be pushed and dragged through, according to Carrie, which only caused more tension between him and his father. Dan, once he’d accepted Charlie’s lack of interest in team sports, had tried to get him involved in some way in Dan’s home improvement business. But Charlie, while showing some budding skills in carpentry, had been such a source of aggravation with his reluctance to follow Dan’s precise directions that Carrie had insisted, for the sake of preserving what was left of their father-son relationship, that Charlie lay down his hammer.
That had left, however, large chunks of unfilled time in Charlie’s after-school hours, chunks that he had been occupying, when his parents weren’t around, with television and video games. Carrie feared his brain, which was capable in the past of generating
A
s and
B
s in school, was slowly turning to mush.
Jo, though not totally delighted with this current manifestation, was fond of Charlie and wanted to do what she could to bring back the brightness she felt sure still lurked there. His showing up to help with the store cleanup the other night, though it was at Carrie’s instigation, had at least got him moving. It gave Jo the idea to ask Carrie what she thought of paying him a modest sum to help out now and then with store-related things. Carrie was all for it, and Charlie, characteristically, neither cheered nor groused, but simply showed up. Jo decided to take that as a positive sign and put him to work helping transport her things to the club.
“Do you know much about the country club?” she asked Charlie as they drove out of the small parking lot next to the Craft Corner and onto the street.
“Uh-uh. My folks don’t belong. Too expensive. Some kids I know have part-time jobs there, though.”
“Really? That might come in handy.”
“For what?”
“After I finish with the club manager, I want to talk to people who worked with Kyle Sandborn, the guy who was killed in my shop. See what I can learn about him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If you see anyone you know, maybe you could help me out there. You think?”
“Mmm.” Charlie’s enthusiasm was underwhelming.
The rest of the drive passed in silence until Jo pulled up to the entrance of the Abbotsville Country Club, marked by an ornate sign that hung from the arch between two open, wrought-iron gates. Jo drove in, and as she progressed up the long drive, she sized up the main building. The clubhouse had been built in the antebellum style, with tall white pillars and a second-story veranda. However, the white vinyl siding gleaming in the sun signaled its age was closer to 5 than 155 years.
Pseudo-historical had sprung up a lot in southern—and northern—Maryland, with developers aiming to appeal to the growing sector of nouveau riche. Carrie told her the country club had been flooded with applications within days of its opening, its high membership costs apparently not a problem for certain segments of Abbotsville and some of its newer, high-end suburbs.
Jo parked and climbed out of the car to open her trunk. As she did so, she heard the
thunk
of tennis ball against racquet that came from the high-fenced courts to her right. Golf carts creeping along the path leading to the distant greens gave off a soft
whirr.
She pulled out one of her boxes and looked around. So this was where Kyle Sandborn had spent his days. It was certainly an agreeable spot. What, though, had made him so particularly disagreeable? Well, Jo thought, as Charlie reached for the second box and slammed the trunk closed, that was one of the things she aimed to find out. But first she had to track down Bob Gordon and convince him she could put together a proper craft show. Even snoops, after all, had bills to pay at the end of the month.
Bob Gordon didn’t need much convincing. He positively beamed at having found someone willing to organize and set up the craft show, and seemed unconcerned with exactly how she went about it. A portly man of about fifty, he looked like someone who spent more time behind his desk or in the club dining room than utilizing any of the fitness or sports activities his club offered. He barely glanced at the various items Jo had so carefully packed up, and quickly bustled her over to the terrace, which held tables for outdoor dining.
“This is where you can set up,” he said. “We can rearrange these tables any way you like, take away the chairs, bring in larger, folding tables, whatever. If the weather gets damp, we can pull down the awning or, if worse gets to worse, move it all inside.”