Bones & Boxes: a Hetty Fox Cozy Mystery (Hetty Fox Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

T
he funeral was scheduled for the First Presbyterian Church in Weaverton. Hendricksville apparently wasn’t large enough to have one of its own. So people of that faith had to drive to Weaverton to worship.

Built of red brick, the church I faced that day was an imposing structure. A tall spire anchored one end. Beautiful stained glass windows decorated both the east and west sides. Ancient evergreens reached skyward to the south.

It was said to be the largest church in Weaverton, and on this day its interior held what I considered was a decent turnout for an elderly woman without a family of her own.

Rose sat up front beside Jennifer and the nephews. They huddled to themselves, looking suitably somber. Then my thoughts turned to killers, and I scanned the chapel, looking for likely suspects. 

Oberton was on hand. He sat two rows ahead of me, his back straight, his head unbowed. And he, like me, was scanning the room.

Leaning back in my seat, I wondered what else he’d learned about Carrie and her death. Did he really expect the killer to show up here?

For one mad moment, I thought I saw Andrew floating down the center aisle, but it turned out to be a  young man rushing in late who looked very much like my ghost. I plastered my hand to my chest to still my thundering heart. The last thing I wanted was for Andrew to show himself outside my house.

Soon, the minister arrived. The service began. It was tasteful and sad, as such proceedings usually are. It wasn’t until we were about to leave for the cemetery that Rose approached me.

“Jennifer has scheduled a light lunch in the church basement after the service,” she said. “She and the boys would like you to come.”

“But I didn’t know Carrie,” I protested.

“You were with me the night we found her. Plus, you helped me clean out the house. The family wants you to know how much they appreciate your work.”

“I didn’t really do that much.”

“Please?”

Reluctantly, I agreed to join them.

Then, I left the church, sat in my car, and watched the funeral procession form. But I decided not to join them on their trek to the cemetery. Instead, I drove to a nearby restaurant and picked up a coffee to go. After which, I cruised  around town, killing time.

I passed the bank at which Mrs. Whitcomb had been an officer. I wondered who’d taken over the position at her death? I tried to think of anything in the box I’d found in the closet that might provide a clue to the murder. But despite Andrew’s suggestion that I’d missed a connection, I still felt, other than the childhood friends, if a clue had been there, I would have seen it.

Then, as I neared the outer limits of town, my thoughts turned to Andrew. Was he real or had I made him up? All my life, I’d been a determined realist. I was convinced life made sense. It added up. It could be scientifically examined, catalogued, and filed away.

Andrew didn’t comfortably fit into that view of life.

I turned the car around and headed back to town.

It was possible  that I was losing touch with reality. Yet I doubted that assessment.  I still balanced my checkbook, I always knew the day and date, and I paid my bills on time. So what should I make of Andrew?

For the moment 
— and
until I knew differently
—
I’d accept him for what he said he was or at least try to. Better that than to think myself insane.

***

In short order I found myself back at the church. There were a few remaining cars in the parking lot. I added mine to the mix. Sighing, I settled back to wait for the funeral party’s return.

It didn’t take long. Rose soon pulled her car out of the string of traffic and brought it to a stop near mine. After giving a generous wave, I exited  my car, and we strode into the church together. She escorted me to a set of stairs, where we descended to the basement.

It was a vast room with linoleum floors and light gray walls. Four long tables draped with white cloths stood in a line. Folding chairs were tucked along the edges of the tables. A long wall on one side of the room, held a pass-through window with a counter running below it. There, several women were busy setting out platters of food. It all looked tasty and smelled even better. I caught the scent of chicken and broccoli and ham.

Rose and I sat at the first table we came to.

“How was the service at the cemetery?” I asked.

“Difficult. That seems to be where I always lose it.”

I patted her forearm. “You’d known Carrie a very long time.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“It was an amazing turn out.”

“Carrie was a long and loyal church member. They came out strong for her today. And years ago, she’d belonged to a couple of community groups.”

“Like what?”

“I believe I saw several members from both the Grandmother’s Club and the local knitting group. They make afghans for the nursing homes and baby blankets for the hospital.”

“Really? Who’s in charge of that?”

“I believe this year, it’s Anne Blake.”

I filed the information away for later use. I was anxious to get to know my new neighbor’s, and joining a group or two might just advance that effort.

From there our conversation drifted to our favorite mystery books while we watched the tables fill around us. An elderly couple joined us on my right. They turned out to be named Harold and Dotty Stark. They seemed nice enough and had many kind words to say for Carrie. A pair of young people sat down opposite us. Their names were Kelly Barker and Brett Cavanaugh. I asked them how they’d come to know Carrie.

“She was our neighbor,” Kelly said. “Nice lady, too.” She glanced over at Brett. “She brought us that corned beef casserole when we moved in. Remember?”

The young man nodded, apparently well pleased at the recollection. “I sure do.”

Rose interrupted. “People are beginning to fill their plates. I suggest we join them.”

She got no arguments from the rest of us, and soon we began moving past the serving counter. I helped myself to a generous spoonful of scalloped potatoes. It was a particular favorite of mine, but because of its high calorie count, it was a dish I rarely ate. Next, I scooped up a dollop of apple salad. It had large chunks of apples along with pecans and marshmallows. I suspected the dressing was whipped cream, but I tried to ignore that thought. And I finished it all off with a generous helping of blueberry pie.

Studying my tray, it looked as though Blackie would be the only one eating supper in my house that night. Fortunately, I had some leftover chicken in the refrigerator that I could set out for him.

We settled ourselves back at the table. Conversation was put on hold as we tucked into our food. A woman came by to collect trays and pour coffee.

After taking a sip of the fresh, hot coffee, I replace my cup and looked over at Kelly. “I don’t suppose you saw anyone suspicious hanging around Carrie’s place before her death?”

She shook her head. “No. I wish I had. I’d love to be the one to put the creep who killed Carrie away.”

Dotty Stark leaned toward me. “When we drove past her house one day, we saw a man in a brown suit and hat standing at her front door. Didn’t we Harold?”

“Yes. I thought it was odd, too,” he said, picking up his napkin.

“How so?”

He wiped his mouth then said, “You don’t see many people these days calling on someone in a suit. Even the minister comes calling in a pair of khakis now.”

“Do you have any idea who he was?”

“Not a bit of it. He had his back to us. We couldn’t see his face.”

“Did you tell the police about him?”

“Nah. They didn’t come by and question us. Why would they? We live blocks away from Carrie’s house. Besides, there’s nothing to say he was the killer.”

His wife spoke up, “We probably wouldn’t have seen a thing if we’d driven by at a different hour or on a different day. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Since we couldn’t identify the guy, we never bothered calling police,” her husband added.

“Could you tell if he was old or young?”

“From his build, I’d say he was mIddle aged,” Dotty said

“Can you remember what day of the week you saw him?”

“It was a Wednesday, I believe,” she said.

“That’s right,” her husband added, nodding. “I was taking you to your doctor’s appointment.”

She smiled. “Yes, I remember.”

If my math was correct, a middle aged man wearing a suit stopped by Carrie’s house the day before she died.
It wasn’t much, but it was more than I’d known five minutes ago. “Did any of you know Mrs. Whitcomb?” I asked.

“Not me,” the young girl said.

Her companion shook his head. “Me neither,” he said past a mouthful of food.

“I did,” Dotty offered.

“Did you know her well?”

“Moderately so. We served on a committee together to raise money for the homeless.”

I felt my brows grow together in puzzlement. “You have homeless people here?”

“No, we send the money to a church in Chicago. They put together the relief there.”

“There’s old Barney Pitts,” he husband said. “He’s been known to sleep on a park bench a night or two.”

“Yes, but the sheriff always gives him a cell to sleep in when the weather turns nasty.”

Harold nodded. “One of the benefits of living in a small town, I guess. We take care of our own here.” He dabbed his forehead with his napkin.

“Do you know who took over her position as a bank director after Mrs. Whitcomb died?”

“Not really.”

Getting the feeling that I was making people uncomfortable with all  my questions, I spent the next several minutes scanning the room for a man in a brown suit. I came up with three of them.

It wasn’t until after I’d emptied my plate that one of those brown suits walked over to me and shoved forth a hand. He was large with a beefy face and a sweaty palm. “I’m Tom Hubbard,” he announced. “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. I live very near your daughter. Lovely woman.”

I beamed and thanked the man. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Anyway,”  he said, jokingly. “I work at the bank, so if you ever need a loan….”

My heart rate ticked up a beat. “Which one?”

“First Federal.”

How extraordinary.
“You must have known Lillian Whitcomb then.” He nodded, and I instantly decided I needed to learn more about this man. And since they were neighbors, my daughter seemed just the person to fill me in.

“H
ey Mom, what brings you my way?”

Megan stood in the kitchen with little Jeremy in her arms. My daughter had inherited her father’s height. Combined with her lean frame and dark chestnut hair, it made her an extremely attractive woman.  And her eyes, a brilliant blue,  were now firmly fastened on mine.

I offered up a broad smile. “I’ve come to pump you for information on a neighbor.”

A puzzled expression crossed my daughter’s face. “Okay. But can I put this little guy  down for a nap first?”

“Certainly.” I reached out and rubbed Jeremy’s cheek. He smiled, giving me a glimpse of two sweet dimples and his newly hatched baby tooth.

“There’s fresh coffee,” Megan said on her way out of the room. “Help yourself.”

I removed my coat and draped it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Then, I fished a mug from the corner cupboard. I didn’t need more coffee, but there’s something comforting about sitting in a kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee to hand. Tea would do just as well. I’m basically happy as long as I have some sort of caffeine nearby.

I glanced around the pleasant room. Sunshine streamed in through three large, south-facing windows. My son-in-law and I might not always agree on life or how to live it, but there was no question about his being a good provider. The home my grandchildren were growing up in was large and comfortable and well maintained. Since it was part of what was one of  the fanciest neighborhoods in Hendricksville, I assumed Tom Hubbard lived well too.

I crossed to the table and sat. Of course, given the size of our town, the fancy neighborhood wasn’t very large. It consisted mostly of two blocks of old Victorian houses which had been refurbished, keeping their ancient charms and introducing modern comforts.

I’d only taken a few sips of coffee, before Megan returned to the room. “Yes, he’s down for a while,” she said as she crossed to the coffee maker.

“He’s a good boy.”

“No argument.” She refilled her mug. “It used to take me ages to get Hugh to take naps.”

“He’s a delightful child, too.” He was three years older than  his brother. And I had a feeling his ego was still a bit bruised with a sibling now added into his life. “Speaking of Hugh, where is he?”

“Enjoying a play date at his friend Kevin’s house.”

“That’s nice.”

Megan nodded and smiled. “I know.” She joined me at the table. “So how’s Blackie coming along?”

“Much better. He hasn’t coughed up a hairball in a week.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, what’s this about wanting information on a neighbor?”

“His name’s Tom Hubbard. Do you know him?”

“Sure. First, he lives right across from us. And second, in a town this small, most of us know each other. Why in the world are you interested in him?”

“It’s a long story and not very exciting.” I saw no benefit in telling Megan that I was out to catch a killer. I was fairly certain she wouldn’t approve.

Megan shrugged. “Okay, for what it’s worth. I know he works at First Federal Bank. His wife’s name is Alice. They have two children. One is at college, the other is a high school junior, I believe. As far as I know he doesn’t beat his dog or throw wild parties. Will that do?”

“Speaking of parties, do the neighbors seem to like him?”

“I haven’t exactly polled them to find out.” Her eyes narrowed. “Mom, what are you up to?”

“Nothing. I met him at Carrie Flynt’s funeral today. He made it a point to come over and introduce himself to me, pointing out that he was a neighbor of yours. I guess I wondered how he even knew about me?” Of course, I hadn’t concerned myself with that question until just now. But it was as good a lie as any.

“That seems a bit suspicious of you,” she answered, raising an eyebrow. “As I said, it’s a small town. It could be so simple as he saw you coming here. I mean, he lives right across the street”

“Maybe,” I said, but I remained unconvinced.

Megan paused with her coffee cup halfway to her lips. “It’s the murder, isn’t it? Mom, you’re not doing anything foolish, are you?”

“Oh good grief. I moved halfway across the state for your peace of mind. I feel like a fish out of water knowing so few people here. I thought you might be able to fill me in on the guy. There’s no need to make more out of this than it is.”

Megan sighed. “I know you. Nothing is ever that simple. Besides, you know how I worry about you.”

“I do. But I’m only in my sixties. That’s the new forty today. When I turn ninety... then you can worry about me.”

“Right, and when you turn ninety,  you’ll tell me it’s the new fifty. I know how this works.”

***

Even with a ghost hanging out there, I was glad to arrive home that day. I stuffed my coat into the closet and ran a hand through my hair in frustration. Megan had let me down with her limited information on my murder suspect. But there had to be other ways around my problem. I’d sleep on it. Dilemmas often resolved themselves when I slept.

Turning, I found myself face to face with Andrew.

“I like your daughter,” he said.

My jaw dropped. “What do you know about my daughter?”

“Hetty, please forgive me, but I dropped in while you were there. I was curious.”

“But I didn’t see you.”

“That’s because I didn’t want  you to.”

“I’m not sure I believe that. But understand this, please. I don’t want you going there again. Neither my daughter nor my grandsons need to know about you. It’s bad enough you haunt me. I don’t want you frightening them.”

“Understood.” He smiled tenderly. “She’s very much like you.”

“Oh, she’s much prettier and smarter than I ever was.”

His smile broadened. “That’s debatable.”

I seated myself in my favorite chair and picked up my knitting.

Blackie strolled into the room and hopped up on my lap. He stood upright, kneading his front paws against my chest and purring.

“Honestly,” Andrew huffed, “you allow that cat too many privileges.”

“Nonsense.” Standing on my lap as he was, Blackie and I were on a nearly nose-to-nose footing. “You’re my very best boy, aren’t you?”

He lowered his head and butted my chin, then settled himself down on my lap. I took up my knitting, pulling some yarn free from the skein.

“What are you making?” Andrew asked.

I held out the piece I was working on so Andrew could see it clearly. “This will become a sweater for my older grandson. He has a birthday in two weeks.  I’ve finished the front and back. Now, I’m working on the sleeves. Today, I learned there’s a group that knits baby blankets for a local hospital, so I’ll probably do up one or two of those next.”

“You know, I heard your conversation at the funeral today….”

My head jerked up. “You were at the funeral, too?”

“Of course. You didn’t think I’d miss it, did you?”

I frowned. “I really wish you wouldn’t wander around town. It’s bad enough  with you here.”

“You needn’t be rude.”

“Sorry, but it’s the way I feel.”

You think that Hubbard guy is the killer, don’t you?”

“Not really. But since he works at the same bank as Lillian Whitcomb did, I find him interesting, that’s all.”

“Well, if you want to know more about him, I could hang around the guy. Watch him. See what he’s up to.”

“Please don’t. I don’t want the poor man undergoing visits from a ghost.”

“He’ll never know I’m there. You’re the only person I’ve ever let see me.”

Oh, lucky me
. “Still, I don’t think it would be right. You’d be invading the man’s privacy uninvited.”

Andrew issued a short, sharp laugh. “From what I’ve seen of the internet and the use of cell phones today, there’s very little privacy left in the world.”

“I suspect a lot of people would agree with you.  But still, I believe they should be protected from ghosts.”

“Hetty, I sometimes think… even though I died decades ago… you’re much more old fashioned than I am.”

***

The next morning delivered a healthy dose of reality to my door. Even after calling out for him countless times, Andrew was nowhere to be found. I had a terrifying feeling that my ghost had followed up on his threat and was now following poor Hubbard around.

I must admit it surprised me. I hadn’t known ghosts could go wherever they pleased. That, of course, is if ghosts were even real in the first place.

Still, I shivered. No one deserved to come upon a ghost. Well, maybe a murderer did, but Hubbard hadn’t been proved guilty of anything. Still I couldn’t think of any way to demand that Andrew return home.

Blackie wandered into the kitchen. I opened a can of cat food and set it in his dish. He sniffed at the offering and walked away, his tail and nose pointed skyward. I poured a small saucer of milk, and he returned to polish that off.

Right, like I was so in control of my world.