Dearly Depotted (31 page)

He reached across and put his hand over mine. “I pinned the brooch on your sweater and told you I wanted you to wear it because it had been passed down from my grandmother to my mother.”

My stomach fluttered at the memory. It had been a very romantic moment, a rare occasion for Pryce. “I remember,” I said, and I couldn’t help but gaze at him with renewed affection.

“Could I have it back?”

I gave my head a little shake, in case my ears had become plugged and I’d heard him wrong. “I’m sorry. What?”

“That amethyst brooch. Could I have it back? It’s a family heirloom. My mother asked me to ask you for it.”

I blinked at Pryce, trying to wrap my mind around what he’d just said. The little voice in my head whispered,
What are you waiting for? Give him a good smack on the head and tell him to get lost. While you’re at it, smack yourself for being an idiot.

Since I wasn’t about to pummel either one of us, I settled for pretending his request didn’t faze me in the least.

“Sure,” I said lightly, sliding my hand from beneath his. “You can have the brooch. Drop by the shop tomorrow and I’ll have it here for you.”

He pretended to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Whew. That went better than I expected. I was afraid you’d be—what’s the word I’m looking for?—prickly.”

“Me?” I exclaimed, trying to smile. “Prickly?”

He folded his arms and leaned back, grinning in that arrogant way of his. “I remember very well how prickly you’d get when you believed you’d been offended.”

When I
believed
I’d been offended? “Really?” I said sweetly, plotting Pryce’s swift demise.

“Oh, yeah.” He rolled his eyes.

We laughed. Then I rose, picked up his cup of coffee, and poured it onto his lap.

“There’s another one for your memory book, Pryce.”

 

At noon, I got into the Vette and zipped over to Grace’s tidy green bungalow on Greenleaf Street. The home was located on a narrow corner lot, with a small English garden on the side and a screened porch in the front. I let myself into the porch, then knocked on her door. “Grace, it’s me,” I said.

I heard her call, “Come in,” so I opened the door and stepped into Grace’s world.

There was a museumlike quality about her house—with furniture that smelled of beeswax, graceful wing-back chairs flanking lace-curtained windows, crocheted doilies adorning curved-leg cherry tables, and oil paintings of apples and pears decorating walls of creamy swirled plaster—yet it also had a sense of being lived in, with fabrics worn smooth and floorboards that creaked with age.

The house was long, its rooms telescoping from front to back—living room, dining room, kitchen. The two bedrooms were on the left side, one off the living room, the other off the dining room. The bath was off the kitchen, built in a day when the tubs sat on clawed feet and bathing was a Saturday observance.

Grace used the front bedroom as her office, and that’s where I found her, sitting at her desk looking through a stack of papers. She saw me in the doorway and got up at once. And although she looked pale and gaunt, her first concern was for me. “Are you all right, dear?”

“I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.” I shrugged, like it was no big deal. “How are you?”

Tears filled her eyes, something I’d never seen before, but she quickly blinked them away. “I’m okay. Thank you for asking. Would you care for tea? I have a fresh pot steeping.”

“Sounds great.” Nothing made Grace happier than brewing tea.

“Have you had lunch?” she called, starting for the kitchen. “I have egg salad finger sandwiches in the icebox. That’s a refrigerator, dear, if you didn’t know. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back with a tray.”

I wandered around the living room, a virtual museum of twentieth-century English culture. I bent to look at sepia-toned photos on top of the television in the corner and picked up my favorite, a snapshot of Grace’s husband in his GI uniform. I admired her hand-painted plates and an assortment of china figurines in a corner hutch. Then I came to her office door and couldn’t resist stepping inside to see my favorite collection of all—Grace’s Elvis Presley memorabilia, three bookcase shelves dedicated to the King of Rock and Roll.

She had mugs and pencil holders, a two foot tall plaster bust of Elvis, a radio shaped like a pink Cadillac, a small dueling saber in a fancy sheath, a pair of miniature blue suede shoes, and a ceramic model of Elvis’s home, Graceland. There was even an Elvis doll in a white sequined jumpsuit.

Then I spotted a framed black-and-white photo of Elvis in army uniform, tucked back in the corner. I hadn’t noticed it before, so I picked it up for a closer look and saw something handwritten across the bottom.
To Grace, from your hound dog.
Underneath was a date: 1959.

From her hound dog? No way.

I heard the rattle of cups and went back to the living room just as Grace came through the wide arched doorway of the dining room. “Here we go,” she said, setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I took a seat, sniffing the gentle fragrance of oolong tea that wafted from the delicate china teapot hand painted with pale pink cabbage roses. On the tray were a matching sugar bowl and creamer, two cups in saucers, two tiny sterling teaspoons, white linen napkins, and a plate of sandwiches cut in thin strips.

“Would you mind pouring?” she asked. “My hands seem a bit unsteady.”

I filled both cups, wondering whether talking about Elvis would cheer her up and take her mind off Richard, at least for a little while. Plus, I was nosy. “Grace, that autographed photo of Elvis Presley on your shelf—I’ve never seen it before. Where did you get it?”

“From Elvis. Didn’t I tell you about that? Would you care for sugar?”

“No, thanks. I’m sure I would have remembered your meeting Elvis. How did it happen? What was he wearing? Was he hot? Did your husband meet him, too?”

She smiled at the memory. “It was a long time ago, before I met my husband. I believe I told you I was a nurse in the English army, stationed in Germany. Elvis was stationed there, too, and we struck up a friendship of sorts. When he got out of the army he sent me the autographed picture, and I’ve been a loyal fan ever since.”

They’d struck up a friendship of sorts? I looked at Grace, trying to imagine her as a young, sexy nurse, someone who might catch the King’s eye. Yes, I could see it. She had elegant features—high cheekbones, a generous mouth, a long, graceful neck—and a slender body that was once probably very curvy. Replace her short, gray, layered cut with long black hair and of course she would catch his eye. Was it merely a coincidence that Elvis had named his home
Graceland
?

Her hand shook as she lifted the teacup to her lips. She seemed to have aged five years in the past week. It reminded me of the reason I’d come. “I’m sorry about Richard’s arrest.”

She put down the cup with a sad sigh. “That poor man. He’s been under such a terrible strain, first with the long interrogations, now this. They even had someone follow him to my house the other night. Richard said they’d probably tapped into his telephone line, too. He called me shortly before he turned himself in—his lawyer had notified him of the warrant. He tried to sound optimistic but I can tell he’s worried. I just don’t understand this investigation. Wouldn’t you think someone would have seen him drive away from the banquet center after the ceremony, or have noticed his return? As you know, his Cadillac does attract attention.”

“I have good news in that regard, Grace. I viewed one of Jillian’s wedding videos—I’ll tell you how I ended up with it some other time—and it clearly shows Richard leaving the banquet center when he said he did. It also shows that his car wasn’t in the parking lot at the time of the murder.”

Her eyes lit up. “That’s wonderful, Abby.”

“There’s more. On the video, just before the time of the murder, two tiny faces in white coats appear. I think one of them is Jack, and the other might be the killer, but I can’t see the faces well enough to identify them. But if the police can enlarge it—”

Grace sat forward excitedly. “Do you still have the video?”

“Yes, it’s in my purse.”

“Abby, I have a television magnifier! It’s tucked away in my closet. Stay right there and I’ll find it.” She jumped up and hurried into her office.

“What’s a television magnifier?” I called.

“It’s a piece of clear vinyl that fits over the screen and enlarges whatever is behind it. It was popular in the sixties.”

That would explain why I’d never heard of it. I took the video out of the plastic case and popped it into her DVD player on top of the television.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” she called.

While I waited, I gobbled a few finger sandwiches. My cell phone rang, so I swallowed hurriedly, ran for my purse, and pulled out my phone. Seeing the name on the display, I flipped it open and said excitedly, “Lottie, good news! I think I found something on the video that will help Richard. Grace and I are going to watch it now and see if we can make out those blurry faces.”

“You might want to hold off on that for a little while, sweetie,” she said. “Melanie Turner just called and she sounded pretty frantic. She wants to talk to you right away.”

“Melanie?” I was amazed. I hadn’t thought I’d hear from her again. Melanie wouldn’t call me unless she had more information about Jack’s murder. Lottie gave me the number and I punched it in, then paced the living room, waiting for her to answer.

“Abby?” she said, at once, her voice tight and edgy. “I need to talk to you. Would you come over?”

I hesitated, remembering my last close call. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. Please. It’s important.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I shut the phone and went to the office to tell Grace why I had to leave.

“I can’t find the magnifier anyway,” she told me. “I’ll have to pull out some of those boxes in the back of the closet, but I should have it by the time you return. What do you think that phone call means?”

I knew she was hoping Melanie would have news that would clear Richard, because I was hoping the same thing. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. In the meantime, when you find that magnifier, feel free to watch the video.”

As I sped out of town, I tried to reach Marco to tell him what was going on, but he wasn’t answering his cell phone. I called the bar and Chris said he’d left in a hurry. No doubt his sister had suffered another crisis. I turned onto the country lane that led to the Turner farm and slipped my phone back into my purse. As I drove up the gravel driveway I could see Melanie waiting for me at the door, her face pinched and anxious. I hurried up the porch steps and went inside.

Suddenly, there was a blur to my right, and Josiah came at me. It happened so fast all I could do was raise my arms to cover my head, but he only pushed the heavy door shut behind me.

“Sit down,” he thundered. “We have to talk.”

My lungs gave a wheeze as I resumed breathing, then I smelled the pungent odor of manure coming from Josiah’s dusty overalls and wondered if breathing was such a good idea after all.

“Talk about what?” I asked, casting them both nervous glances.“Melanie, what’s going on?”

“What’s going on is that you’ve been harassing my daughter,” Josiah replied.

I glanced at Melanie again, but she wouldn’t look at me. Had she told him about my last visit? Was she that intimidated by him? I curled my fingers into my sweaty palms and tried to look outraged. “Harassing her? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He held up one of my green Bloomers pens. “I believe this belongs to you.”

I shot Melanie an accusing glare and she looked like she was ready to cry. “He found it on the floor,” she said, wringing her hands.

“Sit down,” he commanded, indicating the worn navy checked sofa behind me.

I really didn’t want to do that. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve got in mind,” I said, edging away from him, “but Marco knows I’m here. In fact, he’s probably driving out here right now. So why don’t you stand away from that door?”

He pointed behind me. “Sit
down
, damn it.”

I sat because I didn’t have much choice. Melanie sat right beside me, her eyes glued to her father. I wondered if she was there to keep me from trying to escape through the kitchen.

“You are not going to keep tormenting Melanie like this,” he said, shaking a thick finger at me. “Her nerves can’t take it. She’s got a child to raise.”

“I wasn’t trying to torment her,” I told him. “I was trying to find out who killed Jack Snyder.”

I saw Josiah glance at Melanie, so I turned to look at her. “What? Do you know who killed him?”

She bowed her head. “It wasn’t my father.”