A Tale of Two Biddies (7 page)

Not to be outdone, Drake stepped forward. “The privileges of the side-table included the small prerogatives of sitting next to the toast, and taking two cups of tea to other people’s one.” He shot an icy smile at Ashburn. “
Martin Chuzzlewit
,” he added.

“So what you’re telling me is that you both want tea.” The men nodded. “Then tea it is, but not for thirty minutes. Got it?”

Another couple nods.

“And no bickering upstairs,” I warned them. “I’ve got other guests, and they’re not early risers.”

“I do not suppose one of them just happens to be one of the judges of this week’s little competition?” Ashburn looked hopeful.

“From what I’ve heard, there are three judges,” I told him. “And every one of them is sworn to secrecy.”

“Secrecy, yes,” Drake mumbled. He and Ashburn started up the stairs together, stopped, and each waited for the other to move.

“Give me a break!” I moaned and turned to go into my private suite.

Which of them made it upstairs first?

What the dickens did I care?

• • •

Here’s the bad news: For the first half hour that breakfast was on the table, the dueling Dickenses kept it up, taking turns at a Dickens character alphabet contest (Arabella Allen, Major Joseph Bagstock, Sydney Carton, Dick Datchery . . .).

Here’s the good news: Even two Dickens geeks going full throttle can’t keep it up when five former rock stars racket down the stairs and proceed to discuss—with great passion and a whole bunch of expletives I hadn’t heard since the last time I rode the New York subway—how their guillotine had been tampered with the night before.

If Dino and the Boyz thought Richie had something to do with the vandalism, they never mentioned it, nor did they say anything that made me think they knew Richie was dead. But then, they’d walked out of Levi’s to sign autographs before the fireworks started, and if any of them went back inside after or put two and two together once Hank arrived, I couldn’t say. I’d been a little busy, what with the whole dead body thing and all.

I refilled the muffin plate twice.

I made three pots of coffee and offered lattes to anyone who wanted them. The rockers told me they didn’t bother drinking anything but high-test and that scalded milk and foam was for sissies. Only that’s not the word they used. Like the stalwart Englishmen they were trying so hard to be, Ashburn and Drake turned up their noses at the very mention of anything French.

By the time they all went back to their respective rooms, I felt as if I’d just gone a couple rounds with naughty and overactive toddlers. I reminded myself to breathe and kept on reminding myself when I cleaned up the dishes, washed everything, and got it all put away. By that time, my blood pressure was back down where it belonged and I rewarded myself. Since I happen to love Paris and since I don’t think there’s anything sissyish about scalded milk, I made my latte an extra large.

No sooner had I stepped out on the porch with it, though, than a car pulled in the drive. My final guest, and I sped through my mental Rolodex.

“Dan Peebles,” I reminded myself, and not for the first time, wondered why the name seemed so familiar. It didn’t take long to find out.

“Big Dan Peebles, the Used Car King of Toledo. How ya doin’?” As soon as he stepped foot on the porch, Dan Peebles pumped my arm up and down, and I finally figured out why his name rang a bell. The Used Car King of Toledo was a mainstay on local TV and radio, with ads that were always too busy, moved too fast, and hit a decibel level I’d bet not even Guillotine could achieve.

Peebles stopped pumping long enough to give an over-the-shoulder look to a woman who trailed up the steps behind him. “This here’s Didi. That’s short for—” He threw back his head and let out a laugh that rang to the rafters. “Heck, I don’t know what that’s short for, but it don’t matter, does it? She looks like a Didi.”

She did, indeed. Though Peebles was sixty if he was a day, the blonde with him was at least a decade younger than my thirty-five. She was tall, thin, and so big chested, I had no doubt that cosmetic enhancement played a major role in her young life. If she took offense to Peebles not knowing what her real name was, she didn’t show it. Then again, she was pretty busy tap, tap, tapping out a text message on a pink phone studded with rhinestones.

Peebles had a leather duffel in one hand and he dropped it on the porch floor and fished in his pocket so he could press a business card in my hand. “My number,” he said, and gave me a wink that I didn’t take at all personally. After all, that overblown wink was his signature end to each of his TV commercials. “My private number. You give me a call when you’re looking for a car and I’ll take care of you. You have my promise!” It was another line I’d heard ad nauseam on those occasions when I wasn’t fast enough to hit the mute button. “And you know what else I’ll do for you?”

I was afraid to ask.

“After we seal the deal on that terrific pre-owned car I see you driving . . .” Looking out to the street, he stuck out an arm, angled his fingers into a viewfinder, and slowly followed the path of an invisible car, his expression euphoric. “After we seal that deal, honey,” I got another wink, “we’ll get your picture up on one of Dan Peebles’s billboards. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Bigger than life! With some nice punchy line like,
Dan does it best!
Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t your friends just love to see your face staring at them from some big ol’ billboard over on the mainland?”

To me, it sounded like the definition of the seventh circle of Hell.

Fortunately, I didn’t have a chance to point it out because Professor Drake strolled out of the house.

“Hey, lookee you!” Peebles stepped back to admire Drake’s costume. “Don’t tell me, let me guess.” As if it would help him think, he snapped his fingers. “You’re dressed like that What’s-His-Name. What’s his name, honey?” he asked Didi, but he didn’t wait for an answer and something told me it didn’t matter. “That guy. The one who wrote the books. Mark Twain, that’s it!”

Drake had been basking in the attention, and now his smile fell like a bad soufflé. “Dickens,” he said, and I think he sized up Peebles pretty fast because he knew he had to add, “Charles Dickens.”

“Charles Dickens. Terrific.” Peebles put a business card into his hands. “Wouldn’t that be a great billboard!
Charles Dickens bought his car from Dan Peebles
. You remember that, Chuck.” Honestly, I wondered if the man ever got tired of winking. “You think about that the next time you need a car.”

Drake tucked the card into his pocket and looked at me. “I am going to have a turn around the island and allow some of the townsfolk to get a good look at me. After all, one of the judges might be about, and one never knows when one will have a chance to make a good impression. Furthermore, it will give your fellow citizens a chance to meet the
real
Charles Dickens.”

Peebles watched him go. “Queer guy, huh, that Chuck? ‘Furthermore’? Really? Who talks like that?”

“He’s here as part of the Bastille Day festivities,” I told Peebles because, after all, he was bound to run into Ashburn and Drake over the next few days and it was only fair to warn him. “So is one of my other guests. They’re both portraying Charles Dickens. You know, because Dickens wrote
A Tale of Two Cities
and it’s about the French Revolution.”

When all I got from Peebles was a blank look, I knew it was all right to ask, “You’re not here for the Bastille Day celebration?”

“Nah!” He grabbed his duffel and we headed into the house and I gave Peebles his room key. “Here to check out my property. Dang, I thought by this time of the year we’d be lying by the pool and keeping each other warm in the sauna room!” He pinched Didi’s behind and she let out a squeal of delight. “But the new house, it’s not finished yet. A real shame, too. Of course, it’s not nearly as terrible as what happened to the other house last fall.”

I had a bad feeling I knew where the story was going. “Your house, it’s the one that—”

“Kablam!”
His duffel hit the floor with a whack. “Yep, that was my place.” His cheeks turned an ugly shade of maroon. “Some idiot here on the island didn’t turn the gas off. Some idiot hired the idiot who was the idiot who didn’t turn off the gas. Don’t you worry, though.” He slapped a hand to my shoulder so hard, I staggered forward. “I got my revenge. Took idiot number two to court and got him for all he was worth. As for idiot number one . . . well, I’m hoping I run into the little weasel this weekend, because I’ll tell you what, I’m going to wring the guy’s neck.”

I didn’t think this was the moment to tell him that the weasel in question was Richie, and that Richie was dead.

“You’re rebuilding?” I asked instead.

Peebles nodded, and this time gave Didi a wink. “Foundation’s poured, frame is up. Me and Didi, we’re going to go out there and take another look just as soon as we get up to our room and make ourselves comfortable.” This time he didn’t bother with a wink; he poked me in the ribs with his elbow. “Comfortable, if you know what I mean.”

She giggled again and led the way up the stairs, and I realized that by now the latte I’d left on the front porch was probably cold. I stepped outside to get it just as Hank’s patrol car stopped in front of the house. He slapped his cap on his head and strolled up to the house. I went down the steps and met him in the middle of the front lawn.

“Thought you’d like to know,” he said, and believe me, I didn’t take it personally when Hank didn’t bother with small talk. He was that kind of guy. “It was a slow morning over on the mainland, autopsy’s already done. I figured since you were the one who found Richie, it’s only right you should know.”

“They found a cause of death?”

Hank rolled back on his heels. “They found it, all right. And son of a gun, it looks like ol’ Richie might not have been talking so crazy the other night when he said somebody pushed him into the lake.”

A painful ball suddenly blocked my throat. “You mean—”

Hank shook his head. “Yup. Richie Monroe was poisoned.”

“I
told you, I told you, I told you!” I forgave Chandra the jumping up and down, but only because I knew she wasn’t excited that Richie was dead, but that her theory that his death was the result of murder proved to be correct. “It’s just like Richie said the other night. He said somebody tried to kill him.”

“He did, didn’t he?” It was later that same Thursday morning I’d heard the news from Hank, and though Kate was usually at the winery long before now, she told us she’d slept in a little that day. What with the crowds that had been coming to the winery all week for tastings and tours, she was exhausted. She was on her way to Wilder Winery, but like Chandra, she’d seen Hank’s SUV and had to stop and find out what was going on. Luella had taken a fishing charter out bright and early, so now, Kate, Chandra, and I took a moment to share cups of coffee and munch fruit on the front porch. And to talk about Richie’s murder, of course.

With her eyes narrowed in thought, Kate sipped her coffee. “Does that mean Richie knew someone was out to get him?”

“He sure didn’t act like it, did he?” I spooned up the last of the raspberries in my bowl, then set it aside. “On Monday night when he fell into the lake, Richie was all about telling us how someone tried to kill him. But last night . . .”

I thought back to the mini concert at Levi’s.

“Richie was in a good mood. In fact, when I asked if he’d like to make a few extra bucks, Richie said he didn’t need it. He said he was going to have plenty of money very soon and that when he did, he was planning on leaving the island forever.” I thought all this through while I took another drink of my latte. “To me, this doesn’t sound like a man who was worried that someone was after him.”

“But someone was.” Chandra was still on that detoxing mission of hers, convinced that if she could make herself pure enough, that cleanliness would somehow flow to the entire island and get rid of the bad vibes caused by Richie’s unfortunate demise. Something told me her Japanese red glossy ganoderma tea didn’t taste any better this morning than it had the last time I’d seen her drink it. She sipped and made a face. Or maybe it was what she was thinking that caused her mouth to pucker. “Richie was right about someone trying to kill him. We should have listened.”

“We couldn’t have known,” I said, though deep in my heart, I wondered if she was right. Could we have done something to change what had happened? “He was such an odd guy,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else. “And odd guys who say odd things—”

“Don’t get listened to.” Kate, ever logical. “If you’re feeling guilty about it, Chandra—”

“I’m not,” she insisted, though the way her mouth drooped didn’t exactly convince me. “But I am feeling a little responsible.”

It was a disturbing thought, and rather than dwell on it, I got up from the wicker couch and started gathering dishes.

Besides, keeping busy was a great way to pretend I didn’t notice that Chandra sat up just a little straighter.

Like she’d been zapped by electricity.

Or she’d just had what she thought was a great idea.

“I know one way we could make things better,” she said. “We could—”

“No. We couldn’t.”

“Could what?” Kate looked at Chandra, then me. “Couldn’t what?”

I knew a lost cause when I saw one, so I flopped back down on the couch. “Chandra thinks we should investigate.”

“That’s right.” Chandra grinned. “And that must be what you’re thinking, too, Bea. That’s how you knew what I was going to say even before I said it. We’re on the same psychic wavelength. You know when that happens, when two people think the same thing at the same time, it’s a known fact that the two people involved should always do what they were thinking about. If they don’t, then they’re violating the laws of the Universe.”

The aforementioned might have explained Chandra’s three marriages, but I wasn’t buying it as far as a reason to investigate Richie’s murder.

“We’d be sticking our noses where they don’t belong,” I told her, though honestly, I wasn’t sure why I bothered.

“And getting in Hank’s way,” Kate pointed out. She finished her coffee and stood. “He’s the professional, we need to let him do what he gets paid to do.”

“Absolutely.” I stood, too, but Chandra had already beat me to the rest of the dirty cups and dishes and she went into the house ahead of me with them.

Kate grinned. “Good luck,” she said, and I knew I’d need it.

On my way past the dining room I checked on my guests. The Boyz had finished their breakfasts and were nowhere to be seen. Didi and Big Dan were looking deep into each other’s eyes and sharing the last muffin. One bite for her, one for him. Drake was back from his earlier walk, and he and Ashburn . . . well, I can’t say for sure, but it seemed to me their discussion had something to do with which Dickens character would make the most interesting one-night stand.

I shivered at the very thought.

And left them to it.

When I got to the kitchen, Chandra already had the sink filled with soapsuds and the water running to rinse the dishes. Even that wasn’t enough to drown out the sounds of her sniffling.

“Richie was such a doofus. Everybody just felt sorry for him. But Bea . . .” She turned away from the dishes long enough for me to see that her eyes were red. “Of course we thought he was a doofus. Nobody knew him well enough to think anything but. We didn’t treat him like a friend when he was alive. The least we can do is try to help him out now.”

I grabbed a dishtowel and started drying. “I’m not sure how we can,” I said, and stopped her before she could say what I knew she was going to say. “Kate’s right. Solving Richie’s murder is Hank’s job. You’ve always told me that Hank is a good cop.”

“Yeah, a good cop.” She sniffed louder this time. “And a lousy husband.”

“The good cop part is all we care about right now. That’s all that matters as far as Richie is concerned.”

Chandra reached over and turned off the water. “I went to high school with Richie. Back then, we were friends. If I don’t do anything for him now—”

I put a hand on her arm. “You’ve already done what a lot of people will never do. You care.”

A single tear rolled down Chandra’s cheek. “But caring isn’t enough. Don’t you see? Maybe we could just . . .” She shrugged and the purple and pink dragon on the front of her T-shirt jiggled. “What if we just ask around? What if we just talk to some people, just ask some questions? It won’t be like we’re actually investigating, not like we did when Peter Chan was murdered. At least this way, the people we talk to, they’ll know someone remembers Richie. His death will mean something. It won’t go unnoticed.”

As arguments went, it was a darned good one, and I told Chandra so. Of course as soon as I did, she knew she had me hooked. She finished up the dishes lickety-split and cleared the dining room for me, too, and when those dishes were all washed and everything was put away, she rubbed her hands together.

“Where should we start?” she asked me.

Being one of the island’s newest residents, I was certainly no expert, but I had a pretty good idea.

• • •

Even with what passes for traffic on an island that has something like six hundred official residents and many times that number when summer visitors are counted, we got to downtown Put-in-Bay in just a couple minutes. I parked my SUV in front of Levi’s and answered Chandra’s question even before she asked it.

“No,” I said. “I’m not going to talk to Levi.”

Her smile was sly. “He likes you. And you like him, don’t you?”

My words were clipped. But then, my teeth were gritted. “I thought the only questions we were going to ask were about Richie’s murder.”

“Oh, come on, Bea!” Warming to the subject, Chandra turned in her seat. “You know you’re attracted to the man. Why not just come out and admit it? Or better yet, invite him for dinner, open a bottle of wine, and see what happens! It might be a whole lot of fun.”

Not
might be.
Would be.

I knew that as sure as I knew my own name.

And as sure as I knew my own name, I knew I couldn’t get entangled in a relationship.

Relationships—at least the good ones—are supposed to be built on truth and trust.

And I couldn’t offer Levi either.

I shook the thought away and got down to business with a pointed look across the street at the Defarge Knitting Shop.

“Clever, Bea!” Chandra’s attention was diverted, at least for now. “Very clever. If anyone knows anything about what happened last night—”

“It will be Margaret and Alice. They’re the island busybodies. That’s what everyone says, right?”

Chandra gave me a thumbs-up. “Only . . .” We got out of the SUV and waited for a van packed with tourists to pass before we crossed the street. “You don’t think we’re going to upset them, do you? I mean, they are little old ladies and I’d hate to give them bad dreams or anything.”

I laughed. “Something tells me those little old ladies are way more savvy than any of us give them credit for,” I said, and led the way over to the shop.

The knitting shop was one of a row of storefronts that included a place with the grand name of Emporium that sold T-shirts and sweatshirts, postcards, and sunscreen. Next door to it was the space that used to be the Orient Express restaurant, where one snowy evening the other Ladies and I found Peter Chan’s body behind the front counter. The storefront had yet to be leased and it stood empty and dark, its windows like two eyes staring out at us, waiting for us to act on behalf of Richie the way we had for Peter.

I twitched away the thought and reminded myself not to let my imagination run away with me.

Questions.

We were here only to ask a few questions, to find out what Margaret and Alice might know, and then like the responsible citizens we were, if we learned anything that was even half-way interesting, we’d turn the information over to Hank.

I kept the thought firmly in mind and we closed in on the knitting shop.

In my months on the island, I’d been past the Defarge establishment plenty of times, but not being handy when it comes to things like needlework, I’d never been inside. Chandra and I walked up the two steps that led to the front door and I took a moment to glance into the display window.

Remember what I said about Margaret and Alice being savvy? Well, it showed in the bright, well put together front window where one mannequin wore a cream-colored cotton bathing suit cover-up that looked as if it had been crocheted, and another was dressed in a blue sundress and had a gossamer little knitted shawl in shades of blue, turquoise, and green around her plastic shoulders. Oh yes, this was the sort of eye-catching display that appealed to tourists, especially if they had the discretionary cash to add to their summertime wardrobes, like the ones who were on the island that day for the boating regatta.

Both mannequins were surrounded by baskets heaped with yarn in summery sherbet shades of orange, lime, and lemon, along with bolts of unfurled quilting fabric printed with everything from beach scenes to frogs to smiling yellow sunshines.

The inside of the shop was not so brightly lit. In fact, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust from summer sunshine to what I couldn’t help but think of as Dickensian gloom. Unlike the upbeat front window display, the shop was timeworn and tired-looking, from the threadbare carpet that covered most of the hardwood floor to the walls painted a muted mauve. The color might have been the height of fashion thirty years ago, but these days it looked careworn. So did the shelves to my left. Some of them contained skeins of yarn, but many of them were empty, and there was a sparse selection of quilting fabric stacked against the opposite wall.

There was a rocking chair near the front window, its mauve and gray upholstery frayed. After what I’d heard about the Defarge sisters, I wasn’t surprised to see a pair of binoculars on the floor next to it.

Alice was behind the front counter helping a man who looked a heck of a lot like Charles Dickens.

This Dickens was taller than Drake, younger than Ashburn, and though he wore the same sort of long frock coat, trousers, and vest, he hadn’t shaved his hairline like both Ashburn and Drake had to get that characteristic Dickens high forehead. Maybe he figured it didn’t matter what his hair looked like; there was a tall stovepipe hat on the counter.

“Chandra! Bea!” Alice waved us over. “Look who came to see me this morning. It’s Charles Dickens.”

“Not really.” Like he actually had to add the disclaimer, the man blushed and scratched a hand through a goatee that had been glued on a little crooked. There were more whiskers on the left side of his chin than the right. “Just one of the impersonators. You know, for this weekend’s contest,” he said, without a trace of a phony English accent. “I’ve been reading Dickens all my life. When I heard about the trivia contest, I figured it was my opportunity to brush up on everything I know. Then when I read about the impersonators . . .” His smile was as wide as the bushy mustache that also sat a little askew. “I can’t think of anything that could be more fun! Mason Burke.” He stuck out a hand and shook ours, then ran a finger around the inside of his stiff shirt collar. “You’ll have to excuse the costume. I’m trying to get used to it. You know, before Sunday. While I’m at it, maybe I’ll get used to people staring at me, too!”