Elizabeth C. Main - Jane Serrano 01 - Murder of the Month (26 page)

“Let’s go inside,” I said, mostly because I needed more time to think. Rational explanations didn’t go anywhere with this group. If I told them the truth—that Bianca was in a real mess and I had no idea how to get her out of it—within twenty minutes they’d be gathering ropes and horses for a jailbreak like something out of an old Gene Autry movie. And that would be only the first step. I didn’t even want to think about what else they’d dream up after they’d had more time to organize. They were practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of action. All I knew for sure was that whatever action they decided on would complicate things.

“Let’s call the governor!” Tyler suggested.

“The hell with him,” Alix snorted. “He’s a Republican.”

“Besides, he’s too far away,” Minnie said. “We need to get ourselves on TV right here, with bigger signs—”

.”—and a megaphone,” Tyler added.

There was only way to slow this crazy train before it went off the tracks. I forced a huge smile onto my face and lied my head off.

“No need for that! Everything’s under control. All we have to do is … is lie low.”

“What’s changed?” Alix sounded suspicious.

Tyler asked, “They’re going to release her?”

“They should have told us about this at the jail,” Minnie complained, “before I ruined my favorite lipstick.”

I made my fake smile even bigger and added a wink for good measure. “The less you know, the better. You’ll be able to keep a straight face until everything is settled.”

“Is Bianca going to be released or not?” Alix demanded. “And who killed Gil?”

“Of course she’ll be released,” I answered confidently. My affirmations sounded great, though they were based on nothing. Swami Rhami would be proud of me. “Do you think I’d be sitting here if I didn’t believe that?”

“Well, no,” she said after a minute’s consideration, “but what about the rest of it?”

“Gil’s killer? That’s the part I can’t tell you right now. I want you to act natural until the sheriff makes an arrest. Okay?” I hoped I wasn’t sweating clear through my clothes. I’d lied more this week than I had in my entire life. It was hard work.

“Then it’s somebody we know?” Minnie asked. “Oh, my, I hope it’s not someone coming to the church potluck tonight. That would certainly be a bad way to attract new parishioners. I mean, who wants to—”

“You absolutely should go to that potluck.” I tried to sound mysterious.

“Really?” Minnie was obviously thrilled with her assignment.

“Yes, really,” I answered, “and don’t you have a wedding reception tonight, Alix?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“You have to go,” I said fervently. “Nothing’s going to happen until tomorrow anyway. And Tyler, your grandfather must be getting frantic for company by now.”

“What are you going to do now?” Tyler asked. He sounded unconvinced.

“Me? I’m going to catch up on a few things at Thornton’s. I might as well spend a little time there as long as we can’t do anything until tomorrow anyway. It might relieve Laurence’s mind if you tell him that when you visit him.” My explanation sounded so phony that I couldn’t believe they’d go for it, but apparently my proposed trip to the bookstore was a clear indication that the army could stand down for the night. I herded them toward the door.

“What about Wendell?” Tyler asked. “The vet said he’s going to be okay. His ribs are just bruised, but I don’t want to leave him alone.”

“I’ll take him with me,” I said.

Alix was still suspicious. “And everything will be settled by tomorrow morning?”

“Even if Arnie hasn’t made the announcement by then, I’ll fill you in.”

“I’ll bring breakfast here at nine o’clock sharp,” Minnie said.

“Great,” I said. Our little caravan moved at Wendell’s halting pace down the sidewalk. The rest of them waited until I had helped him into my car before they finally left me.

“I’ll have Grandpa call you from the hospital so you can give him an update, okay?” Tyler gave Wendell a last pat on his head.

“Good idea,” I said. After I watched the others roar off on their various errands, I dropped my fake smile and turned to the dog sitting quietly on the front seat beside me. “I hope you’ve been thinking about how to clear Bianca. I’m sure you’re a better detective than Bipsy and Mr. Potts put together.” Wendell regarded me steadily with his one good eye, but apparently he was too modest to reply.

The still unchanged window display rebuked me as I approached Thornton’s. I wasn’t watching my step as I felt around in my bag for the keys, so I half-tripped over a hose stretched across the front doorway, a hose I’d asked Tyler to move several days ago. Obviously, he hadn’t. Would I ever get back to such mundane tasks as moving hoses and changing window displays again? Right now it was hard to imagine.

Piled in front of the door were several bulging cardboard boxes, which I reached around with difficulty to unlock the front door. The stale heat of the room provided mute evidence that no one had been tending the store for several days. I left the door open and switched on the counter fan. The slanting rays of the sun highlighted the dust in the air. I sighed as I pictured poor Laurence, lying in his hospital bed, worrying about his health and his store, and wondering why his usually reliable employee couldn’t seem to find the time to open Thornton’s for business. The telephone rang and I glanced at my watch before picking it up. Past seven o’clock already.

“Why didn’t you tell me what’s been going on?” Laurence said without preamble. “You’ve had a rough week.” Tyler must have arrived and filled him in on the story. I hoped it had been an edited version.

“Not as rough as yours,” I said. “Look, about Thornton’s—”

“Never mind the bookstore, Jane. I’m just glad that beautiful, long-legged daughter of yours is going to be released. Ridiculous to hold her in the first place.”

Beautiful? Long-legged? Laurence’s health must have improved since the last time I’d seen him, if he was starting to think about pretty girls again. “Uh, yes. That’s what I thought.”

“So, who killed Gil? You’re not going to make a sick old man wait until tomorrow for the news, are you? I might not last that long.”

“You don’t sound all that sick to me,” I said. “Sorry, you’re out of luck until tomorrow, unless you can get Arnie to tell you something.”

“Huh! If Arnie Kraft is able to track down a murderer, I’ll eat the flowers right here in this vase. By the way, thanks.”

“I didn’t send flowers.” No need to explain that I was busy breaking into Gil’s house during the time I might have thought to do it.

“It says right on the card that they’re from the Murder of the Month Book Club, in lieu of a casserole, whatever the hell that means.”

“That means Minnie’s been busy.” How had she managed this thoughtful gesture in between bouts with the police? I was impressed.

“Waste of money,” he said gruffly.

“Right, no sense doing something nice for a cranky old man.”

“Never mind that,” he answered. “What’s the bottom line at the store? Has anybody sold a single, solitary book since I left?”

“Your store has been doing just fine.” I let my gaze wander to the boxes of books yet to be unpacked, the accumulation of messages on the counter, the blinking answering machine light on the phone. “Everything is under control.”

It was easy enough to sort through the notes and determine their origin. Alix’s stark printing matched her caustic commentary on the literary taste of our customers, while Tyler’s cramped writing pointed out glaring errors in the inventory, such as the absence of Howard Zinn’s work. Minnie concentrated on non-literary matters in her looping scrawl: “How can you work in a place without a proper coffeemaker?” and “Curtains would brighten the back room.”

I was contemplating Minnie’s suggestions when Laurence asked, “Jane, are you there?”

“Just reading some notes. Didn’t Tyler tell you? He’s been working at the store, and Minnie and Alix have pitched in, too.”

“Good God! You haven’t let Minnie near the cash register!”

“Oh, please. First you complain that no one is selling books and then you fuss if someone has. Ever heard of looking a gift horse in the mouth?”

“Bah!”

“You’re impossible, Laurence. It’s a good thing I have work to do now or I’d tell you what I really think.” Now that everyone was safely out of the way for the night, I wanted to get off the phone and do some thinking.

“Work,” Laurence said. “That has a nice ring to it. You go right ahead … oh, I almost forgot. Tyler, hand me that pad. We’ve been talking about some ideas. This boy has a good head for business, you know.” Apparently Laurence and Tyler had made peace over the borrowed car incident. “I have a couple of things I’d like you to check right now, Jane. Won’t take a minute.”

I heard a feminine voice in the background and then Laurence came on the line again, “They want to do some fool procedure. Call you right back.”

His voice was replaced by the dial tone. Casting my eye around for something simple to do while I waited for him to call back, I spied the boxes outside the door.

“Too bad you’re not a sled dog, Wendell,” I said. “You could make yourself useful hauling these boxes.” Wendell thumped his tail on the floor, raising more dust motes to dance in the waning sunlight.

Someone had scribbled a few words in pencil on the flap of the top box. The letters were half-formed, obviously written in haste: “Family emergency in Boise. Pls. keep ‘til reunion resched. or give to Harley. Thanks. Helen (‘Sassy’) Bartells.”

Just what we need here, more junk, I thought irritably. We’d allowed the committee to hold meetings upstairs, but why leave their boxes here now that the reunion had been postponed indefinitely? There must have been some better place. And couldn’t they have found sturdier boxes? With difficulty, I carried two of the three tattered masses of buckling cardboard inside and set them beside the counter. Unfortunately, the third box disintegrated midway across the room. Photos, notebooks, blue and gold streamers, and even one scuffed red high-top tennis shoe cascaded in all directions.

The noise startled Wendell, who jumped up to sniff at the debris.

Unexpectedly, I burst into tears. This mess on the floor was the last straw. I sank down beside it and gave way at last to the despair that had been building for days. The box of Kleenex we kept under the counter was half-gone before I calmed down enough to think again.

Sitting here crying wouldn’t get Bianca out of jail. Now that I had vented some pent-up emotion, I felt better, but I was also restless, itching to do something productive. I wished Laurence would hurry up and call back so I could get going, even if I didn’t know which direction to go.

I regarded the jumble strewn around me and decided to let it sit. I couldn’t even begin to work up the energy necessary to care about it. Sassy might have her own set of personal problems, but so did I.

I leaned against the counter and emptied my mind of everything but my conversation with Bianca. Her description of what she had heard from inside the closet would surely yield some clues if only I could order my thoughts. Still sitting on the floor, I reached under the counter for a legal-sized pad of yellow paper and started making notes on what she had said.

First, Gil had seemed surprised to see the person who entered his house, but if Bianca’s report was correct, his words—“What are you doing here? Oh, I see”—sounded more annoyed than scared. Was the intruder someone he knew?

Second, the person had come carrying a gun, though it probably wasn’t in view at first. Gil’s murder was premeditated.

Third, what had Gil meant by saying, “Oh, I see”? What did he see or know? That Bianca was in the closet listening? Supposing Gil and the intruder both knew that Bianca was present, why would that person then kill Gil, knowing that there would be a witness to the crime? Then it came to me. No, not a witness. Bianca would be a suspect. Everyone knew that Bianca detested Gil. She could have been being set up to take the fall for his murder.

Yes, this was making more sense by the minute. The chair that had held the closet door closed hadn’t been tightly wedged under the door handle, but maybe that wasn’t just a mistake. The chair would have held Bianca captive long enough for the killer to escape without being seen, but once she made a determined attempt to get the door open, she’d have had no trouble getting out. The killer couldn’t have counted on her to do anything so stupid as to pick up the gun and carry it away. That had been a stroke of pure luck.

While mulling these ideas, I had absently begun collecting the papers and folders from the floor. A 1984 Juniper High School yearbook caught my eye and I leafed through it, looking for the pictures of the kids who were this year supposed to be celebrating their twentieth high school reunion. Their smiles reflected a youthful happiness that they thought would last forever. I flipped to the inside of the front cover. In gaudy pink ink, a feminine hand had claimed it: “Vanessa Mae Farmer, Class of ‘84.” I checked her senior picture and, sure enough, there was the younger version of the person I’d known. No doubt Vanessa Mae Farmer thought she had it made when she became Vanessa Fortune. When she and Gil had volunteered to co-chair the reunion, did they ever suspect that neither of them would live long enough to attend?