Eine Kleine Murder (10 page)

Chapter 17

Bellicoso: In a martial, warlike style (Ital.)

Now that I knew I wanted to dedicate my master's thesis composition to Gram, I was stuck on several fronts. My insipid melodies wandered around with no central direction, and no relation to each other. I couldn't find a trace of Gram in those stupid notes.

I was afraid of a life without Gram. I had pictured her so many times, sitting in the audience while I conducted this piece. Her face would beam, her heart would swell with pride. And I would bask in her love.

But there was no Gram.

I had fixed a small lunch, though I couldn't eat much of it. My stomach decided to play percussion for me.

The fact that a murderer might be near distracted me, as did the thought that Len or Mo could be lurking anywhere right now. Added to that was a popular melody stuck in my head. Not that popular, actually, but very catchy. And very stuck. “The Chicken Dance.” Now, how did that get there?

The final reason I couldn't get any writing done this afternoon was the thought of those mice creeping around the edges of the cabin. They were probably running through the shadows inside the walls and laughing at me.

Admittedly, there was one more thing bothering me. After I showed the glasses to Al he was convinced that his wife had been murdered.

“I've been suspecting this,” he had said, his voice low and dejected. “Now it looks like I was right.” He had called the Alpha police station. Al told me the police chief, Kyle Bailey, had come out and looked at them, but hadn't taken them seriously.

“Chief Bailey didn't think he could use her bifocals for evidence, even if Grace met with foul play,” Al told me after the chief had left. “He mentioned a couple of times the deaths are both being considered accidental until the autopsies tell him differently. He said something about chain of custody, too.”

Al's thin shoulders drooped. “Since the evidence is tainted now, he said I can take them over to Henry County myself and have them checked for fingerprints. The chief promised to call and give them a heads up. If anything comes of this, it might point the police in the right direction. At least that's something.”

Al said he would do that this afternoon.

It was discouraging that no one, except Al and me, thought foul play was involved, and I despaired of justice ever being served to Gram's killer. I didn't see how any fingerprints could have survived being buried in those damp leaves like that, but I was glad I had made sure mine weren't there, just in case.

I wandered out onto the back porch and sat in Gram's wicker rocker, creaking to and fro and feeling the comfort of the afghan in my lap. I could hear the five children still at Eve's.

“James, mind your manners,” said an authoritative, but sweet, light voice. Probably an older sister. I smiled at the thought. They were doing fine at Eve's.

Sometimes I knew Gram had been killed, other times I talked myself into thinking maybe both women had drowned. But just because the police thought they were accidents, didn't mean they were. Police can be wrong, I told myself. And I was accomplishing nothing.

I had to get something done. Back inside, I looked at my work in disgust. The air hung like heavy draperies. As the day warmed, it got muggier, outside and in. Spotting a small oscillating fan atop the armoire, I thought it might feel cooler if I used it to move the sluggish air around.

The armoire was tall, the top of it above my sightline, so I had to stand on tiptoe to get the fan.

The door started to swing open, but I kicked it shut. I had to avoid dwelling on thoughts of that mysterious envelope inside. If it held an angry note from Gram, I would fall apart, lose my fragile hold. I would face it later.

But was anything else up there? I stretched up and patted around with my hand, and there was. Several hard, dark balls. I'd forgotten about those. Bile surged as I shook the hand that had touched the mice droppings, like a cat trying to get goo off its paw. I thumped the fan onto the counter and ran to scrub myself at the kitchen sink. I ran hot water over my hands, picturing mice running up my legs and over my face in my sleep. I shuddered.

Rummaging through the small amount of storage space in the kitchen cabinets and armoire, then under the sink, I was unable to find any traps.

“Listen, you little rodents, I'm going to win. You are
not
going to live here.
I
am going to live here. At least for awhile. You guys looking for a fight? You got it.” I was ready for battle.

I grabbed my purse, and marched toward my car. The grass was so long I had to lift my feet with each step to get through it. It had to be mowed. Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone, and some mice, too. Since Mo's car wasn't there, I stopped at Toombses' and used the brass knocker. Martha came to the door, the television tuned to a soap opera behind her. She was wearing what I had seen described in catalogues as a “patio dress,” a sort of muumuu, in yellow, green, and orange, with large sagging pockets. The usual pink rollers in her hair completed the ensemble.

“Could you please tell me if I can get someone to mow my grass?” I asked. “Your husband said I was responsible for it, but I don't have a mower. Does Sheila mow yards?”

“Oh, dear, no! It's all she can do to get the shared property done. I suppose you'll have to get someone.” Her face assumed its usual worried pucker. “You can always use Freddie, you know. He did it for Ida and he does ours. Have you met him?”

She made no move to invite me in this time, so we talked through the screen door. Maybe she thought she wasn't dressed. Maybe it wasn't a patio dress, but, instead, a bathrobe. Or maybe a nightgown?

“No I haven't met him.”

“Freddie lives in the trailer at the far end of the campground. You might have seen his children? Curly-headed little tykes?”

I nodded. The kids at Eve's.

“Those are Freddie and Pat's kids. Do you want to ask him?”

“Sure, that'd be fine.”

“I can't get over what happened to Grace. Such a nice lady. And right after your grandmother like that. Goodness gracious.” Those eyebrows twitched higher yet.

I nodded again.

“Are you enjoying the cabin?”

“I like it.”
Except Gram isn't there.
“It's a cute place.”
But how weird this is, talking through the screen.
“I do have a problem, though. Mice. Could you tell me if I can get mousetraps in Alpha?”

“Oh, dear! I remember Ida did have them sometimes,” Martha said. “Aren't there any traps in the cabin?”

“I can't find any. Maybe Gram used them all.”

“I don't have any right now or I'd give you a few. But there's a drugstore right on the main highway in Alpha. It'll have mousetraps. Do you have very many mice?”

“I have no idea.” Was she saying I might have dozens? Hundreds? I envisioned them creeping around inside the walls, waiting for me to fall asleep so they could come out and play. “Haven't noticed any in the day, but I hear them at night. And I found droppings on top of the big wardrobe. I didn't know mice could climb so high.”

“Oh my, yes.” Martha smiled. It gave her a wistful expression. “They can get anywhere.”

Anywhere? The vision of the horrid creatures crawling all over me in my bed was even more vivid. My still-sore stomach gave an extra lurch.

Martha continued. “If there's a hole, they'll find it. We have to keep fighting them.”

“Thanks so much, Martha.” I turned to go, then whipped back. “I was thinking of taking a walk around the lake sometime. Is there still a footpath that goes around the lake?”

“Sure. You walk across the dam and you'll find the start of the trail over there.”

“How easy a walk is it?”
Easy enough for Mo to get over there to murder two women?

“Well, not too bad. I've done it a couple of times. Not for a long time, though. It's buggy. You get bit by mosquitoes something fierce.”

She hesitated one more moment, made a decision, and swung the door open for me. As I stepped in she gave me a smile tinged with sadness.

“You're a nice girl, like your grandmother. She was a sweet person.” Martha focused beyond my shoulder, swallowed, and lowered her voice. “I'd like to talk to you about her sometime, but not today. I'm expecting my husband back any minute.”

“Okay. I appreciate your help with the mice. And I'll be sure and put on bug spray before I go walking. Thanks.”

As I turned, I found myself face to face with Toombs, who had soundlessly come through the front door.

“What were you saying?” he squinted hard at his wife.

“I was… I was telling her about the path around the lake.” Her voice was faint. “I just said it was buggy.”

“Well, sure it's buggy. It's outside, ain't it?” he snapped, his nasal voice menacing.

“No, I mean, it's just that there are so many mosquitoes.”

“No more there than anyplace else. I thought I told you to get more beer this morning.” He pushed past me and went toward the kitchen, trailing beer fumes.

“I'm going into town as soon as I get dressed.” Her voice was faint and discouraged. “I had to do laundry this morning. I ran out of clothes.”

Martha gave me her sad half-smile and shut the door after me softly.

Hadn't he bought beer yesterday? I wondered if he was drinking a case at a time.

I drove down the road and entered Alpha again.

Chapter 18

Accelerando: “Accelerating,” growing faster (Ital.)

The small town of Alpha bordered Illinois State Highway 150 for about a mile. It consisted of a large school building, several businesses, and a few one- and two-story wood frame houses. None of the homes had been built recently, and several of the larger ones had wrap-around porches with gingerbread trim up under the eaves. A shiny metallic diner, made to look like a railroad car, stood on the highway. On second thought, maybe it actually was a dining car from a train.

Hoping to find Gram's old house, I decided to explore a bit. My memories of Alpha were hazy, but I did have a few fond ones of visiting here. Gram had grown up in Alpha and she and Gramps had lived here for many years before they moved into Moline.

Several narrow roads led off to either side of the highway, but they only went two or three blocks. All but one were residential. The exception was the downtown street of the village, edged by a post office, fire station, and a few more business establishments.

I did manage to find my grandparents' old house, but it looked tiny compared to my early childhood memories. Even the yard, where we'd played croquet and tag, looked small.

It hadn't been Gram's house in a long time, but it evoked happy times. We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas here, and the kitchen was always filled with the delicate aroma of Gram's Swedish spritz cookies for the holidays. Gramps used to hold back some of the outdoor lights and let me help string them up on Christmas Eve. The present owners were letting it go. The paint on the south side was peeling and the back porch sagged. Gram's porch swing was gone, too. The house not only looked small, it looked diminished. And sad.

I headed back to the highway and drove past the bowling alley where I'd had that burger with Mo and Daryl. My car was making strange sputters, but it kept going, so I ignored them.

I still wanted to somehow try and pump Mo about Gram and Grace. He hadn't struck me as a fast thinker. Maybe, if I could word it right, he would slip up and admit he was nearby when they died.

Two doors past the bowling alley was a square brick structure whose storefront window lay flush with the sidewalk. Pain relievers and cold remedies were displayed in a matter-of-fact manner with no attempt at artistry or appeal.

My car jerked into a shady parking place at the side of the drugstore and I walked around to the front. A bell tinkled as I pushed open the heavy, wooden door, then stepped onto a wide-board oak floor. An ancient wrinkled man, perched on a stool behind the counter, came to life as the bell rang. He didn't say anything, but raised his bald head and kept his dark eyes on me. I was sure his hand was the one that oversaw the no-nonsense window display. The warm, closed-in smell was comforting.

I nodded at him, smiling, and he nodded back soberly.

That's the small-town attitude. I'm a stranger and not to be trusted.

Wanting him to think of me as something other than an outsider, I told him I was Ida Miller's granddaughter.

He nodded, pursing his lips tightly in what may have been a smile. That opened the way to conversation.

“I knew Ida since she was a pup. Too bad about her drowning like that. I guess you're out seeing about her lake house.”

I murmured assent. I was relieved he didn't seem aware I had found her body. But then he put it together.

“Wait a minute. Criminy! You're the granddaughter who …” This grimace was definitely not a smile. He must have regretted his outburst of emotion, and his wooden expression came back. “Funny things go on out there, you know.”

“Funny things?”

“Forget I said that.” He shook his head.

“Funny how?” I persisted.

“Nothing lately. Not for years.” I wasn't happy with his answer, but it was all I was going to get. “It's nice,” he continued, “especially this time of year. I never had a place at Crescent Lake. Never had time to spend away. My name's Anders, by the way. I've run this store since I was a young lad.”

A person who was still a young lad staggered up the aisle laden with a huge carton of baby food. He thumped it onto the worn floor and straightened up, staring at it before he started to rip it open and shelve it. His movements were on the slow side and his employer saw no need to hurry him.

“This here young man, now, his father used to work for me when he was his age. I've employed half of those lake club people when they were teenagers. Yep, I've had Wayne Weldon, Martha Toombs, Al, Norah's daughter Sheila, Smiley, Grace Harmon. All those lake club people. Even Mo for a short spell. It's sure too bad what happened to Grace, too, isn't it? What are you needing today?” He rubbed a hand over his shiny scalp.

“A couple of things. I'm afraid I have mice I need to get rid of.”

He surprised me when he jumped off his stool and darted out from behind the counter to show me where the mousetraps were. He also pointed out the antacids when I asked and I grabbed a box of those.

“Oh, and I need a flashlight.”

He steered me to the next aisle where the flashlights and batteries were.

He must be as old as he looks to have employed people like the Harmons and the Toombses. They aren't young, themselves. He sure moves quickly, though.

The pace of the little town was much slower than what I was used to in Chicago. A certain amount of chat seemed to be called for while business was conducted. We discussed the weather while I picked up shampoo and sunscreen, feeling comfortable with the old man. The chat and the business taken care of, I thanked him as I paid for my purchases, and he told me I could get cheese for bait at the supermarket right across the road.

I stashed my purchases, taking a minute to pop one of the antacid tablets into my mouth, and left my car where it was to dash across the highway. I had to wait for a chance between the smelly, roaring semi trucks, but I soon got a break and crossed to the parking lot of the big, bright, prefab aluminum building on the other side.

It must have been one of the newest businesses in town—and one of the ugliest—but it was well stocked and clean. However, I immediately missed the ambience of the charming old brick pharmacy across the street with its wide-planked floors and wizened pharmacist who served gossip with his wares.

I quickly found the cheddar cheese and paid for it without the preliminaries called for at the drugstore, then ran back across the highway, anxious to get the traps baited and set. I threw my purse onto the passenger seat and slid into the car.

When I turned the key in the ignition, the motor started, but immediately died. I tried a couple more times. It sputtered until I gave up and climbed back out. The tablet had soothed my tummy, but now it started jumping around again.

Fighting back tears of frustration, I ducked back into the car to retrieve my purse, thinking to go ask Mr. Anders for advice.

A heavy hand clutched my arm as I bent over, and I straightened up in alarm, hitting my head on the top of the door opening. It was Mo.

“You scared me!” I yelled.

“Sorry.” He patted my head where I had bumped it and tried to dazzle me with his grin. “I wanted to catch you before you got away. I saw you in the grocery store, but I couldn't get your attention. You were in the express lane.”

I swatted his hand away. “There are only two lanes,” I answered, still annoyed, rubbing my head.

“Is something the matter with your car?”

“I guess so, but I don't know what. It won't start.”

“There's a service station over in New Windsor. I don't have to work until four. Want me to drive you? You have anything in there that will spoil?”

I started to answer, “No, I don't think …” Then I spotted him across the highway, back at the grocery store parking lot.

Len! What in the hell is he doing here?