Stuck on Murder (24 page)

“Oh, just making small talk,” Brenna said. It sounded lame even to her.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Cynthia said. It wasn’t a suggestion. “Was there anything else?”

“No, no, I just wanted your approval.”

“You have it,” Cynthia said. “Grace, please show Ms. Miller out and please try to be more quiet with your cleaning. I have had a raging stress headache ever since I talked to Chief Barker this morning.”

Grace appeared abruptly as if she’d been waiting outside the door, but Brenna ignored her.

“What did the chief have to say?” Brenna asked.

“That Nate Williams is still walking around free,” Cynthia said. “I know he murdered my husband, and I’m sure he attacked Ed Johnson as well. I am going to see that man behind bars if it’s the last thing I do.”

“But . . .” Brenna began to protest, but Cynthia held up her hand for silence. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling quite ill.”

Left with no other options, Brenna was escorted to the front door by the housekeeper.

Brenna wondered how loyal Grace was to Cynthia. It seemed Cynthia could be quite demanding. She knew it was a long shot but she had to try.

“Grace, may I ask you something?” They had reached the front door and Grace looked ready to toss Brenna to the curb.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“Do you recognize the trunk in this picture?” she asked.

Grace gave her an uncertain look, but took the photo in her hand to study it.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” she said and handed the photo back.

“So, the Ripleys have never owned one like it?”

“No, ma’am.”

“One more question?” she asked.

Grace nodded.

“How did the Ripleys get along? I mean, were they happy?”

Grace looked over her shoulder as if expecting Cynthia to appear. “They seemed happy,” she said. “Until the night he was murdered.”

“Why do you say that?” Brenna asked.

Grace looked uncertain, as if afraid she’d said too much. “I really need to get back, ma’am.”

“Please, Grace,” Brenna said. “It’s important.”

Grace stared at her for moment, and Brenna met her gaze, trying to will the housekeeper to tell her anything she knew that might help.

“I don’t suppose it’s out of line to tell you what I’ve already told the police,” Grace said. “The Ripleys had a terrible fight the night he died. They even dismissed me for the night and told me to take a paid holiday. That never happens.”

“Was anyone else here?” Brenna asked.

“No one,” Grace said. “Honestly, when I first heard the mayor had been murdered, I thought it was Mrs. Ripley, but she has a solid alibi.”

“Yes, she was with Phyllis Portsmyth,” Brenna said. “Grace, do you think Mrs. Ripley killed her husband?”

“I don’t honestly kn—”

“Grace!” Cynthia called from the back of the house.

“I have to go,” the housekeeper whispered and shut the door.

Brenna drove back down Laurel Hill through the winding estates, wondering what she should do next. She was sure that the trunk in the photo was the same one that Ripley had bobbed to shore in, but if Cynthia hadn’t owned it, then who had?

The trunk was the key. She needed to know where this picture had been taken. But it wasn’t as if she could go knocking on every door in town, looking for a paneled room that was missing a trunk.

She turned a sharp corner on the hill, and all of Morse Point rolled out before her like a picnic blanket on a Sunday afternoon. This explained why the wealthy lived on Laurel Hill. The view of the small New England town was breathtaking. She could see the steeple of the Congregational Church on the green and the rim of the lake on the far side of town. Even old Mr. Cooper’s barn was visible, perched in the middle of an empty farm field out past the elementary school.

She realized with a start that in the year she had lived here, she had learned a great deal about the town and its residents. She wondered if in forty years she’d be a walking town archive like the Porter sisters.

That was it. Brenna smacked her forehead. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? The Porter sisters—they’d know where this photo was taken. She was sure of it.

Ten minutes later, she was back in the center of town and parked in front of the Porter sisters’ cottage. A bungalow built in 1929, it sat on a residential street just off the center of town. Butter yellow with a white picket fence and green shutters, it was charming.

Brenna grabbed the manila folder that held the original photo of the Ripleys and hoped she found the sisters home. She pulled the chain of the captain’s bell that hung by the front door and waited on the narrow porch.

The screen door swung wide and she stepped back as two gray heads popped out at her.

“I said I’d get it,” Marie snapped.

“Well, I didn’t hear you,” Ella said.

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Hello, ladies,” Brenna said, trying to break up the tiff. “Sorry to drop by without calling first.”

“Not at all,” Marie said. “Come in, come in.”

“Yes, do,” Ella said. “I was just finishing a batch of peanut butter cookies. I’ll fetch you some.”

“I made chocolate chip yesterday, if you’d rather,” Marie offered.

Brenna followed them down a narrow hallway past the sitting room and dining room and into the kitchen. The house was bright and airy with hardwood floors and lots of windows. Pretty area rugs were scattered here and there. The walls were painted a soothing eggshell, and photos crowded every surface as if to keep a watchful eye on the bickering siblings.

The kitchen appeared to have had its last face-lift in the 1950s. The counters were small aqua tiles with white grout, and the gas oven was a vintage O’Keefe & Merritt.

An oval chrome table with matching aqua vinyl chairs sat in the center of the room and Ella gestured for Brenna to take a seat. The smell of peanut butter was thick in the air and she felt her stomach gurgle.

A plate of peanut butter cookies was plunked in front of her with an icy glass of milk. Brenna couldn’t resist. The cookie was warm and melted in her mouth.

“Delicious,” she said. Ella beamed. Marie frowned and shoved a plate of chocolate chip cookies in front of her as well. Brenna quickly took one and pronounced it delicious as well. Marie looked mollified, but Ella looked smug. Brenna shook her head. Sixty-plus years of sibling rivalry and still going strong.

“Now what can we do for you?” Marie asked. She took a seat at the table and helped herself to a cookie. She did not touch her sister’s.

“Well, I have a picture from the inside of a house,” Brenna said. She wasn’t sure how much to tell them, so she hedged. “I believe it’s a house here in Morse Point, but I can’t be sure. As the unofficial town historians, I thought you two might recognize it.”

They both preened under the flattery. Brenna had figured that might grease the wheels. She took out the full photo of Mayor Ripley and Cynthia. She didn’t want to show them the enlargement and risk giving away the fact that she was tracking the owner of the trunk. She figured it might do the Porter sisters in to have to keep that information to themselves. She slid the picture toward them.

“Isn’t this the photo you were having reduced to fit on the collage?” Ella asked.

“Yes,” Brenna said. “Do you recognize where it was taken?”

“Why do you need to know?” Marie asked. She was leaning against her sister, trying to get as close to the photo as possible, and Ella was pushing back just as hard.

Brenna hoped they couldn’t make out the vague form of the trunk behind the mayor.

“Oh, I just wanted to gather some background on each of the photos,” she said. “To figure out how to lay them out, you know, by importance.”

It was a complete bald-faced, bare-butted lie, but she maintained eye contact without blinking, and both sisters nodded.

“Let’s see,” Ella said. “Not much to go on here.”

“That’s Cynthia’s blue number,” Marie said. “She favored that gown for the big events.”

“Like the governor’s ball,” Ella said.

“So, this isn’t local?” Brenna asked, feeling a sharp jab of disappointment.

“I couldn’t say,” Ella said with a sniff. “I’ve never been to the governor’s ball.”

“I have,” Marie trilled. “But I don’t recognize it as part of the mansion.”

“How could you recognize it?” Ella ground out. “It’s not as if you got to see every room in the mansion. You only went to one event there and that’s because you stole my date.”

“I did not,” Marie snapped.

“Did too,” Ella barked. “John Henry thought he was asking me out, and you let him think you were me.”

“I did not.”

Brenna’s head whipped back and forth between them. It was like watching a geriatric Ping-Pong match. She had a feeling this could go on all day. She didn’t have all day.

“Ladies, were there any other events that Cynthia wore this gown to?” she asked.

“The harvest ball,” Marie said. “I remember it distinctly because you took my rose-colored shawl.”

“I borrowed it,” Ella said.

“Borrowing means you ask first,” Marie snapped.

“Like you should have when you took John Henry,” Ella bit back.

Brenna sighed. She could feel a tic start in her right eye.

“Ladies, where was the harvest ball held?” she shouted over them.

They both blinked at her as if to say “duh.”

“The Portsmyth mansion, of course,” they said.

“The Portsmyths host it every November,” Marie said.

“It’s the social event of the season,” Ella added.

And just like that, it all made sense.

“Thank you,” Brenna said. “Thank you both!”

She jumped up from the table and raced back down the narrow hall to the door.

 

 

“What do you suppose that was about?” Ella asked her sister as they watched the door bang shut behind Brenna.

“Not a clue,” Marie answered with a shake of her head.

“She’s a nice girl, but a bit of busybody, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Marie agreed. “I think all that city living must make for a certain amount of nosiness.”

“Good thing we’re more cultured than that,” Ella said.

“Quite right, Sister, quite right,” Marie said. “We’ll just have to take her under our wing.”

In unison they each took one of their cookies and dunked it into their milk, nibbling the edges and working their way around its circumference like synchronized swimmers.

Chapter 22

Brenna parked in front of Vintage Papers, barely remembering to lock the Jeep in her haste. She hurtled through the front door. She had to talk to Tenley before she made her next move.

She found her friend working the counter, ringing up a purchase for Susanna Blair. Susanna’s daughter was having her sweet sixteen birthday party next month, and she had custom-ordered the invitations from them weeks ago. They were lovely, sporting glittery pink 16s in a retro font on a cream-colored background.

Both women turned to stare at her as she banged into the shop, and Brenna knew she must look like a crazy person. If they knew the half of it! She smoothed her hair with her hands and forced herself to breathe. The transaction seemed to take forever as Susanna described the cake, DJ, and party favors in great glorious detail. Just when Brenna didn’t think she could stand another word, Susanna took her package and left.

“I need to ask you a question,” she said as soon as the front door closed.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Tenley said. “Fire away.”

Brenna pulled out the envelope of pictures she’d gotten from the copy store and went to the back table.

She spread out the smaller ones to be used on the plaque and left the enlargement in the envelope.

Tenley followed her and asked, “What’s up?”

“If I killed someone, would you help me dispose of the body?” Brenna asked.

“Why? Has someone been annoying you lately?” she asked.

“Hypothetically, I mean,” Brenna said. “I’m asking as your best friend, would you help me?”

“I don’t know.” Tenley pondered the question. “Do I like the person?”

“Hmm, good question,” she said. She chewed her lower lip. Did Phyllis like Mayor Ripley? As an outsider, it was hard for her to say. “Let’s say you don’t have any feelings one way or another.”

“I don’t know,” Tenley said. “I suppose I would probably decide in the heat of the moment.”

Brenna nodded. That made sense. It was hard to know what you’d do until the situation arose.

“What’s going on, Brenna?” she asked.

“I think Cynthia murdered the mayor and I think Phyllis helped her dispose of the body,” she said.