As we turned to leave, Mother looked back at them and made the forefinger and thumb gesture signifying, “Call me.”
Â
Monday morning, Mother and I were back in Serenity, seated in Sheriff Rudder's office in the county jail downtown.
The big lawman in the tan uniform sat at a cluttered metal desk, having called us in for what I assumed to be a more detailed debriefing, and probably a (grudging) pat on our backs for solving the murders of Barclay, Fred, and Chad, and clearing up Millie's death as accidental.
When we'd finished giving our official statements, Mother asked, “How's Brenda doing?”
“She's in the maximum security wing of a hospital in Iowa City,” the sheriff replied. “Never mind which one.”
“Not
where
, dear. I have no particular interest in visiting her.
How
is she doing?”
Rudder seemed to be working at not looking annoyed. “She's missing three fingers, Vivian. She'll never play piano again.”
“Why, did she? Play the piano?”
I said, “I think the sheriff is being droll, Mother.”
“Oh,” Mother said. To Rudder, she said, “Were they able to be sewn back on, the fingers?”
“No, Vivian. They were quite mangled.”
“That's terrible.”
“Yes, it is.”
“They'd have been useful for fingerprint analysis.”
Rudder's jaw tightened and a vein in his temple began to throb. “I appreciate you pointing that out, Vivian. I begin to wonder how we managed around here before you . . . took an interest.”
“You're welcome. Go onâdo please continue, re: Brenda's state of health.”
The sheriff shifted in his chair. “Well, she's in stable condition, but might well have died if it hadn't been for Brandy's quick action in applying a tourniquet.” He said to me, “You're to be commended.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But it was a team effort.”
“Then the woman will be able to stand trial?” Mother asked, finally revealing her true concern.
Rudder's ruddy face reddened further, and he leaned forward, his words clipped. “Do the two of you realize . . . do you even
know . . .
how badly you've compromised every one of the crime scenes?” His eyes had been on her, but then they landed on me.
“She did it,” I blurted, pointing a thumb at her.
Mother shot me a sideways glance. “So much for team effort!”
Rudder raised a hand. “
Whoever
was responsible, evidence was severely weakened.”
Pats on the back, not so much. Dressing down? Oh yes.
“Picky, picky, picky,” Mother said. “Evidence
abounds
to convict that woman! Isn't it enough that Iâ
weâ
handed you the killer? Must we
convict
her, too? Must we do
everyone's
job?” She took a deep breath and pressed fearlessly on. “Why, if we hadn't conducted our own investigation into these deaths, they would still be listed as accidental. Except, of course, for Chad.
That
one was obvious. It's unlikely he fell on a knife, after all. And, of course, Millie almost certainly accidentally overdosed herself. But Barclay and Fred . . .
puh-leeze
!”
Rudder raised his palms. “Okay, Vivian, crawl down off your high horse. All I'm saying is that the way you went about things, particularly at crime scenes, hasn't exactly made putting together our case against Brenda Starkadder an easy one.”
Mother's chin rose. “Apology accepted.”
“Uh, that wasn't anything
like
an apology, Vivian.
Your
fingerprints were found on everything from the scaffolding at the church to the wastebasket in Chad's apartment, and of course the tunnel doors. And must I mention how many laws the two of you broke conducting your unofficial investigation? Admittedly, they're misdemeanors, but they still muddy our waters.”
Mother squirmed in her chair. “Very well, I concede we may have taken a few liberties, here and thereâmind you, we're not admitting anything, I'm not under oathâand, yes, I may have been a teensy-weensy bit careless in regard to touching things.”
“Sheriff,” I said, starting to get riled, “that evil woman tried to
kill
us.”
Rudder gave me an arched eyebrow. “Did she? Or was Brenda protecting herself and the museum from burglars? You
did
technically break in.”
Mother's eyebrows rose above her big glasses. “Is
that
what she's saying?”
Rudder nodded. “That's what she's saying.”
I asked, “And you believe her?”
“No. She's guilty as sin.” The sheriff shrugged. “But the question isâwhat will a jury think?”
Mother was frowning. “It won't be helpful when she holds up that mutilated hand getting sworn in.” She leaned forward. “What about Chad's blue Mustang? Have you found it?”
“Yes. In Brenda's garage at her home. She hadn't had a chance to dispose of it yet. That's damning evidence in itself.”
“Loaded down with his things, right?” I asked, adding, “She wanted it to look like he'd left town.”
The sheriff sat back. “Brenda claims Chad
was
leaving town, and asked her to store his car and possessions so they wouldn't get stolen overnight.” He spread his hands. “Who knows what a good defense lawyer might pull off for a client this devious?”
Mother and I exchanged alarmed glances.
Then Mother asked, “I don't know what all this fuss is about. You have her confession on my cell phone recording. What more could the county attorney desire? You should have her dead to rights!”
“Reminds me,” Rudder said.
He opened a drawer, put Mother's cell phone on the desk, and pushed it toward her.
Then he said, “No confession on there, Vivian. It's all your own conjecture. Brenda says very little. Oh, I'm not saying it's not helpful hearing your speculation on how Brenda might have killed these people.”
“
Might
have?” I said. “What about the knife used on Chad?”
He didn't answer immediately. It appeared he was considering whether he should share certain information.
Then: “We did find a knife in the museum weapons room that showed traces of blood on the blade, along with Brenda's prints.”
“Matching her remaining fingers, I trust,” Mother said.
“Yes, Vivian. Matching her remaining fingers.”
“Then she'll be charged for Chad's death, at least,” I said.
“I think I can safely say yes to that. And right now, that's all you two are going to get from me.” He pushed back his chair and stood.
Clearly we'd been dismissed.
But at least Rudder did us the courtesy of walking us out of the office and buzzing us through a security door into the outer area.
In the jail's modern lobby, which might be mistaken for any airport-gate waiting area, Mother and I stood facing each other. No one else was around, other than a deputy busy behind a Plexiglas window.
Hands on hips, I chided, “I hope you've learned your lesson.”
“What lesson is that, dear?”
“About not contaminating a crime scene!”
Nodding solemnly, Mother replied, “I certainly have. In future, we will both be sure to wear latex gloves, and possibly even those cute little blue booties. We'll look online to see where to purchase them!”
Â
That night I was back at Tony's cabin. It seemed like eons ago that Mother had flounced in on us to announce we were going to Old York . . . but it had only been five days.
Outside, it was chilly and rainy, but inside Tony had a fire going, making the cabin nice and cozy. He had promised to cook his famous lasagna (famous to me), so I was looking forward to this evening.
But first, I knew I would have to endure the inevitable lecture, which occurred shortly after Sushi and I arrived.
“You know,” Tony said sternly, “you could have been killed.”
We were seated on the couch in front of the snap, crackle, popping fireplace; Sushi and Rocky lay on the rug enjoying the warmth of the flames, like an old if unlikely married couple.
“I know,” I said. “We were really stupid.”
“If that gun hadn't misfired . . .” He shook his head. “I don't even want to think about it.”
“We were lucky,” I admitted.
Funny how you can be honestly contrite yet still resent a lecture. He was right, of course he was right, but we
had
brought a very dangerous murderess to justice. Assuming we hadn't contaminated those crime scenes
too
badly . . .
Tony was saying, “I wish you could control that woman.”
Mother. But you knew that.
“I
do
try, Tony. But if I refuse her, she goes ahead without me.”
“Well, let her.”
I twisted toward him. “It doesn't work that way. Because of her bipolar disorder, I feel a responsibility to keep an eye on her.”
“And what about your responsibility to us?”
And there it was. Other men in my life had found out the hard way that my loyalty, first and foremost, was to Mother. Did Tony and I have to face that nasty reality right now?
“Look, sweetie,” I said, “our TV show will start filming in a few weeks, and that will keep Mother plenty busy.”
Tony nodded, even smiled a little. “Good to hear. What's the production schedule?”
I sighed. “Pretty hectic, since they'll be shooting all the episodes back to back. And we'll be busy with a lot of pre-production stuff. I'm not sure how much time you and I will have together for a while.”
And maybe a slight breather from each other wouldn't be the worst thing ever. Though it sounded like it.
Tony slipped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him. “Understood. Just give me a call whenever you come up for air.”
We kissed. Both Sushi and Rocky came over, nudging their noses at us.
“They're not jealous,” Tony said. “They want lasagna.”
“So does Brandy,” I laughed.
Â
Tony's Lasagna
Â
1 lb. Italian sausage
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tbl. basil
1½ tsp. salt
2 cups diced tomatoes (1-pound can)
1â
cups tomato paste (12-ounce can)
10 ounces lasagna noodles
3 cups ricotta
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese
2 tbl. parsley
2 beaten eggs
1 tsp. salt
½ tsp. pepper
1 lb. mozzarella cheese, sliced thin
Â
Brown sausage; drain. Add garlic, basil, salt, tomatoes, and tomato paste. Simmer, uncovered, 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Cook noodles in boiling water until tender; drain; rinse.
In a bowl combine ricotta, Parmesan cheese, parsley, beaten eggs, salt, and pepper.
In a 13-by-9-by-2-inch greased baking dish, spread half the noodles on the bottom; next, half the ricotta cheese mixture; half the mozarella cheese; and half the meat sauce. Repeat layers. Bake at 375 degrees for about 30 minutes. Let stand 5 minutes before cutting into squares. Serves about 8 to 10 people.
Â
Tony was in the kitchen assembling the lasagna layers in a panâthe dogs watching closely for any dropped morselsâand I was in the outer room, setting the table, when a knock came at the door.
“I'll get it,” I called. I knew it wasn't Mother, because she was with her gal pals at a meeting of her mystery book club, the Red-Hatted League. Fittingly, they were reading and discussing
Too Many Cooks,
by Rex Stout.
Still, a hit man had once come figuratively knocking here, so I checked the peephole.
It was a woman I didn't recognize.
I opened the door, keeping the screen between us.
“Yes?” I said.
About fifty, tall and slender, with dark hair, olive skin, and deep-set eyes, she was dressed tastefully, if not expensively, in a beige sweater, black tailored slacks, and patent-leather flats. The purse hanging from one shoulder was Burberry plaid.
“I need to see Anthony.”
“Tony's rather busy at the moment,” I said pleasantly. “Can I tell him what this is about?”
She said, not at all pleasantly, “No. I'll tell him myself.”
“Okay. Well, who should I say you are?”
Her chin jutted up. “
Mrs
. Anthony Cassato. His wife.”
Â
To be continued . . .
Â
A Trash ân' Treasures Tip
Â
When purchasing a foreign antique as an investment, keep in mind that it might not be desirable in your own country. Mother and I have a Bohemian cuckoo clock in our store we can't seem to give away. If you're looking for a clock of that kind, what I meant to say was, it's available at a fair price.