A Dead End (A Saints & Strangers Cozy Mystery Book 1) (8 page)

Kit chuckled. “We’re hardly the inner city.”

Romeo’s expression turned serious. “No, but you both build your same walls to keep outsiders out.”

“Not so much keep people out as keep them in their proper places,” Kit said.

“You’re all white, wealthy and descended from Pilgrims. Why bother with assigned places?”

“Oh ye of little Westdale knowledge. There’s a pecking order even among the descendants,” Kit explained. “The Allertons were considered the saints. They were the religious contingency on board the Mayflower. Their descendants look down upon the Mullins descendants because Mullins was a mere merchant. Not a saint but a stranger. All of them look down upon the Doty descendants because Edward Doty had been not only a servant, but a servant to one of the merchants.” Kit clucked her tongue. “For shame.”

Romeo chuckled. “Let me guess. You’re an Allerton descendant.”

“I confess,” she said. “I’m a saint.”

“And yet you wanted to give up your social status here in favor of playing somebody’s busty sidekick?”

Kit was both annoyed and elated by his statement. Annoyed because she was the star, not the sidekick. Elated because it meant that he’d checked out the show since their last meeting. And he thought she was busty. Was that a plus? She wasn’t sure.

“The show was called
Fool’s Gold
,” she remarked. “I played Ellie Gold. Charlie Owen played my sidekick.” Of course, now he was the star, even though they hadn’t bothered to change the name of the show.

Romeo arched an eyebrow. “Somebody’s defensive.”

“I’m not defensive,” Kit argued and heard the shrill sound of her own voice. She picked up her glass of water and chugged it in an effort to remain calm.

“Okay, relax,” Romeo said, holding up a hand. “So do you think the murder might have something to do with Ernie not knowing his place? Where was he in the pecking order?”

Kit shook her head. “He wasn’t in the Pilgrim Society. Not everyone in Westdale is a descendant.”

“I thought maybe it was a residency requirement,” Romeo joked. “Everyone else has to live in Eastdale.”

Eastdale was the neighboring town across the Lenapehoking River. In Westdale, it was known as the ‘wrong’ side of the tracks, even though it was an upper middle class town with a desirable rail connection to Philadelphia.

“Eastdale? Bite your tongue, Detective,” Kit said. “Anyway, I’d be surprised if his death had anything to do with the society. They’re more interested in murder mystery fundraisers than actual murder.”

Kit glanced down at Romeo’s empty plate and realized that he’d managed to inhale his entire meal without her noticing. She still had two small pancakes left on her plate. He had an appetite, she’d say that for him. Somehow, it made him seem more appealing.

Romeo wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin. “I think it’s commendable…what you’re doing,” he said.

“What am I doing?” she asked. “You mean helping with the investigation? That’s for purely selfish reasons, you know that.”

He inclined his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean dusting yourself off after a very public fall and coming back to Westdale. Going to college. Not everyone would have made the smart decision.”

“The jury’s still out on whether it’s a smart decision,” Kit said, “but thanks.”

Kit drove her car across the bridge to Eastdale where Ricco’s Auto Repair was located. Although the residents of Westdale owned cars that needed servicing, they wouldn’t dream of allowing an auto repair shop to operate within its precious town borders. Like the train station and Dunkin’ Donuts, auto repair shops were relegated to the other side of the Lenapehoking River.

Since Kit needed to have the car inspected within ten days of registration, she decided to nip it in the bud and do it right away. She’d ask the guy to affix the new Pennsylvania license plates as well. Two tasks, one handy man.

The mechanic’s eyes sparkled at the sight of Kit’s red Corvette Stingray pulling in to the shop. Kit was fully aware that the car was fancier than she was. A flashy car, however, was a requirement in Los Angeles. Between the valets and the paparazzi, Kit’s car needed to be at least as eye-catching as she was.

“What a beauty,” he said, punctuated by a whistle.

“Thanks. I thought about selling it when I moved back and getting something more…Westdale, but I can’t bear to part with Betsy.”

“You named a car like this Betsy?” he queried, wiping his greasy hands on a cloth. “No, no. This car is more of a Bolt or a Flash.”

“You’re giving my car superhero names,” Kit remarked. “She’s not that kind of car.”

“Well, she should be.” He eyed Kit. “You live in Westdale, you said?”

“Just moved back to start college.”

He touched the hood of the car affectionately. “It’s nice over there. I do a lot of work for Westdale folks. They’re not as snooty as everybody makes them out to be.”

“I highly doubt that.” Kit leaned against the car, wondering if he’d dig himself any deeper.

The mechanic held up his hands. “No, seriously. My favorite customer in the whole world is in Westdale. She’s batty as hell, but I have a soft spot for her. She’s named after my favorite superhero.”

“Would that be Bolt or Flash?” Kit teased.

“Thor,” he replied.

Kit balked. “Thor? Do you mean Thora Breckenridge?”

The mechanic broke into a wide grin. “You know her, huh? She’s a real hoot, right?”

“She’s my neighbor. I moved into the empty house next door.”

The mechanic clapped his hands gleefully. “So she finally managed to get rid of the jackass with the motor home?”

“You know about Ernie?” Kit asked. Thora certainly was chatty with her mechanic.

“Know about him? I almost got myself arrested because of him.”

Kit’s radar pinged wildly. “Really? What happened?” Clearly, news of Ernie’s demise hadn’t reached Eastdale or she doubted the mechanic would be so forthcoming.

“Poor Thora. She came in here one day all upset because her roses were dying. Ever since he’d parked that behemoth in his driveway, her flowers couldn’t get enough light. She’d complained to me before, but this time she actually cried.” He paused, remembering. “It was like watching my mima cry. I couldn’t handle it so I asked her if there was anything I could do.”

“And what did she say?”

“She asked if there was any way I could get rid of the motor home with my tow truck.”

Kit laughed. “She wanted you to brazenly drive up, hook up your tow truck and pull his motor home away? To where?”

The mechanic shook his head. “She wanted me to switch out the plates. You know, really get rid of it.” He cleared his throat, not wanting to acknowledge that his skills extended beyond the letter of the law.

“That was a big request.”

“I came at night. From what Thora said, most of the folks on that street are pretty old. I figured they’d all be asleep by then or too blind and deaf to hear my truck.” He gave Kit an appraising look. “That was before you moved in, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Anyways, Ernie wasn’t as old and feeble as I thought. He apparently heard the truck and came barreling out of the house, shouting obscenities at me.”

Kit covered her mouth. “Did he call the police?”

“He threatened to. I swore it was an honest mistake and that someone had called me with his address, pretending to need a tow.”

“Quick thinking,” Kit said.

The mechanic shrugged. “Not my first botched job.” He glanced quickly at Kit’s expensive car. “I mean…”

Kit patted his arm reassuringly. “I know what you mean. I trust you with Betsy.” She searched his shirt for a nametag. “What’s your name?”

“Chris.”

“I trust you, Chris. Anyone who goes to bat for an elderly woman is okay in my book.”

Chris grinned. “Gotta love Thora. She’s so crazy.”

Crazy like a fox, Kit thought and handed Chris the keys.

Kit’s thoughts were still on crafty Thora Breckenridge during dinner at Greyabbey with her mother and Huntley.

“I ran into Margaret Toulouse yesterday at the hair salon,” her mother began and Kit’s insides twisted. She knew what was coming next. “Imagine my surprise when she said that you haven’t been attending her classes.”

“I’m not attending them because I haven’t signed up for her class,” Kit said.

Margaret Toulouse was an art history professor at Westdale College. She and Heloise had attended Princeton together and Margaret had been a guest at Greyabbey on multiple occasions over the years.

Heloise appeared genuinely shocked. “But you enrolled in Westdale,” she said.

“I did.” Kit speared a piece of asparagus. “But I’m not majoring in art history. I decided to major in psychology.” She watched her mother closely for signs of heart failure.

Heloise stiffened, then reached for her water goblet. “Good God, Diane. When is Jesus arriving to turn this into wine?”

“I can bring dessert out if you’re ready,” Diane offered.

“What does dessert have to do with anything?” Heloise demanded.

Diane lowered her voice. “It’s plum gin sorbet. I found a special recipe for you.”

Gin and sorbet in one recipe? Heloise lit up like a Christmas tree. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.” She glanced sharply at Kit. “Hurry up and finish so Diane can bring out dessert.”

Never in her life had Kit been asked to hurry and finish her dinner so that dessert could be served. Heloise was a stickler for table manners. At least she had been when Kit’s father was still alive. It seemed that they had both changed since his untimely death.

Heloise said nothing further on the topic of Kit’s major. Kit knew better than to think the issue was resolved. Her mother was simply tucking the disclosure away for later derision.

“Who is the dark, swarthy man you’ve been seen around town with?” Heloise asked.

Huntley shot Kit an inquisitive look. It seemed they were both interested in the answer to her question.

“By dark and swarthy, do you mean the olive-skinned gentleman of Italian descent?”

Heloise narrowed her eyes. “I suppose I do.”

“He’s the lead detective in the murder investigation,” Kit said.

“And why are you spending time with him?” Heloise pressed.

“I’m not spending time with him in that way,” Kit said, although she wished she was. “I’m helping him with the investigation so I can go back to my house.”

“Oh,” Heloise said quietly. “Well, Crispin said his friend…” She looked to Huntley for help. “What’s his name again, darling?”

“Frederick Breedlove.”

“Mr. Breedlove is dying to meet you now that you’re back. Maybe doubles at the club with Crispin and Arabella?”

“No,” Kit objected, both on principle and the fact that the guy’s name was Breedlove. “Not until I’m settled. I just started classes and I’m making friends. I don’t want to get sidetracked.”

“Sidetracked?” Heloise echoed. “Meeting your future husband is not getting sidetracked.” She enunciated the latter part of the sentence, emphasizing her dismay.

“If you think I’m going to become Kit Breedlove, you’re more delusional than I thought.”

“Oh Katherine, don’t be so dramatic,” her mother scolded. “You get that from Grandma Josephine.”

“You’re the one who was intent on having me enroll in Westdale College,” Kit said. “Why bother if you want me to focus on snagging a husband?”

“A degree is important,” Heloise acknowledged, “but a husband is more important.”

Kit rolled her eyes. “Excuse me while I eject myself from the time machine I seem to be trapped in.”

“It’s true,” Heloise insisted. “And what on earth do you intend to do with a degree in psychology?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe become a psychologist.” She watched in awe as her mother spoon fed a dollop of plum gin sorbet to Hermès, the Giant Schnauzer. “God knows I have plenty of experience with crazy people.”

Kit made a show of weeding her front garden in the hope that Thora would emerge from her house. Just because she couldn’t live in the house didn’t mean she couldn’t care for the exterior. The house had been unloved long enough.

Kit kneeled in the hot sun, sweat dripping down her chest. She knew it would be easier to go knock on the door and ask about Chris the mechanic, but she wanted their exchange to be subtle so she could gauge Thora’s reaction. That’s what Ellie Gold would do.

In episode five, season one of
Fool’s Gold
, Ellie dealt with an elderly woman in a nursing home who the police believed had witnessed a crime. They thought that the elderly woman didn’t want to admit what she’d seen because she was afraid. It turned out that she didn’t want to admit her presence at the crime scene because she was actually the culprit. Ellie’s trick in that episode had been to gain the woman’s trust. No one in her family ever came to visit her in the nursing home and she craved human interaction so she began to look forward to Ellie’s visits, even if they were crime-related.

Kit stole a look at the quiet house next door. Maybe Thora was out, although her car was in the driveway.

Kit yanked another root from the ground and yelped when dirt from the roots flew into her eyes.

“That’s not a weed,” a shaky voice called. Kit watched as Thora ambled her way across the front lawn. “Are you trying to give an old woman a stroke pulling out your asters?”

Well, there was nothing wrong with Thora’s eyesight, that was certain.

“Those are flowers?” Kit asked, incredulous. “I thought I was being a diligent gardener.”

“What are you even doing here?” Thora asked. “Have the police finished the investigation?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Kit replied, wondering just how desperately Thora wanted to know.

Thora put a hand on her replacement hip, scrutinizing Kit’s abysmal handiwork. “How much do you know about gardening?”

Kit shielded her eyes, gazing up at Thora. “Well, we have beautiful gardens at Greyabbey.”

“And you tended to these gardens yourself?” Thora quizzed her, knowing perfectly well that the Winthrop Wilders had staff for everything.

“I watched,” Kit said, then added meekly, “sometimes.”

Thora studied the flowerbed with a critical eye. “These are daisies. You’ve heard of daisies, haven’t you? They need partial sun and plenty of water. Those are tomato plants. They shouldn’t even be in this bed. It’s an offense against nature.” She huffed in disgust. “Ernie Ludwig had no sense of decency.”