Fit to Die (13 page)

James and the twins joined in her laughter. Their dream of bringing the library into the twenty-first century was looking more and more like a reality.

As the week went by, James felt buoyed by the realization that having cheated on his diet on Tuesday didn’t prevent him from losing weight. Once again, he and his friends each got on the scale and were pleased to see lower numbers, by four or five pounds, than they had seen the week before. The exercise classes weren’t becoming any easier, but at least James felt he could breathe during the workouts without his lungs turning to liquid fire.

By Friday, James was feeling less elated. He barely had the energy to make it to the end of Dylan’s latest routine and he was thoroughly sick of eating the bland Witness to Fitness entrées. The other supper club members who were gathered around his Bronco after their exercise class that night agreed.

“I could really go for a pizza right about now,” Bennett moaned. “The thought of eatin’ that stir-fry made of rubber bands and tired-out vegetables does not make me wanna rush on home.”

“Forget pizza. How about a spicy cheese and chicken enchilada?” Lindy sighed. “The Witness to Fitness Mexican Marvel dinner tasted like tree bark in red sauce. I don’t think Ronnie’s ever tasted real Mexican food.”

“There are a few of those dinners that I just can’t swallow,” Lucy said. “I actually had a Happy Meal yesterday for dinner instead of that package of fettuccine and broccoli. I took one whiff of that as it came out of the oven and got right in my Jeep.” She laughed. “I don’t like broccoli as it is, but boy, that stuff smelled awful, like some chemistry experiment gone bad.”

“I’ve been adding organic sea-salt to all of my meals,” Gillian confessed. “I don’t think they’re bad, they just lack a sense of soul. So,” she looked at her friends, “anyone have a report to make on Pete or the fire?”

“I do!” Lindy exclaimed. “Not a breakthrough on the case, but I did find out that Pete was kind of chummy with one of the history teachers from school. Mr. Wimple has long-since retired, but according to one of the teachers who have been at Blue Ridge High the longest, this man was the only person Pete was ever seen talking to. I guess that although he muttered to himself a lot or grumbled at students, he didn’t socialize with any of the other teachers or staff.”

“Where’s Mr. Wimple now?” James asked.

“Wandering Springs. It’s a nursing home.” Lindy pulled a piece of paper from her purse. “It’s over in Harrisonburg. I’ve got directions here and Saturday’s visiting hours, but I can’t go ’cause I’m going to visit my mother and daddy this weekend. Can anyone else go? Mr. Wimple might know something about Pete that we won’t be able to find out on our own.”

“Count me out,” Bennett said. “I’ve got to cover for Carter. He says he’s got somethin’ important planned for Saturday so I’m takin’ his shift.”

Gillian shook her head forcefully. “I’ve got two horse shows. It’ll be by the grace of Buddha that I even make it to our Sunday dinner alive.”

“James? What about you? And Lucy?” Lindy asked them both simultaneously.

“I can go,” James answered quickly.

Lucy hesitated. “I guess I’m free, too.”

“Great!” Lindy smiled. “And Lucy, did you have any inside news from the Sheriff’s Department?”

Lucy shook her head. “I looked through the credit card receipts from the liquor store, but none of the customers seemed connected to Pete. There weren’t too many of them, either. You know most folks around here like to pay for things with cash.”

“So we’re at a dead end so far.” Bennett kicked at a stone with his shoe.

“I hope you and James can discover something from Mr. Wimple.” Gillian slung her gym bag over her shoulder. James grinned at the sight of her orange hair paired with a neon yellow bag and her shimmering lilac tracksuit.

“We’ll do our best,” James replied solemnly and then an image of Lucy’s filthy Jeep arose in his mind. “Oh and Lucy, I’ll drive. Pick you up at ten?”

James couldn’t believe his eyes when he and Lucy pulled up to Wandering Springs. The building, which resembled a miniature Monticello, had a manicured lawn and a sweeping gravel drive flanked by azalea bushes exploding in all spectrums, from delicate pinks to fiery crimsons and oranges. Mammoth magnolias and tall, thin pine trees dotted the tidy grass and a row of dogwood trees led visitors to a small parking area. Off to the side, beyond the front lawn, James noticed that the walking paths were populated by several groups of elderly residents and that a woman dressed in a kimono was singing as she stood on a wooden bridge in the middle of what appeared to be a Japanese garden. Hummingbirds and bumblebees filled the air with pleasant sounds of industry and a variety of birdhouses and feeders attracted groups of bright finches, cardinals, and blue jays.

“If this is what old age has in store, bring it on now,” James murmured.

Lucy inhaled deeply. “Count me in, too. Even the air is restful here.”

James glanced over at Lucy and smiled. She had seemed a bit tense and unusually taciturn during the forty-minute ride from Quincy’s Gap to Harrisonburg. James had tried to warm her up by recounting the tale of the two pig farmers and though she smiled when James shared some of the names given to the cloven-hoofed racers, that smile faded away just as quickly. She also inserted Carter’s name into the conversation several times, praising him for being a dog lover and musing over what was so special about his Saturday plans that Bennett had needed to cover his postal route.

It was all James could do to refrain from mentioning that Carter was undoubtedly smitten with Ronnie Levitt. Why else would the man walk his dog in a different neighborhood if not to catch a glimpse of the woman he admired? But he kept silent, not wishing to draw Lucy into an argument.

Finally, James resorted to rehashing details of the Polar Pagoda fire until they reached the nursing home. Despite the choppy beginning to their day of investigation, James felt a renewed sense of hope as they mounted the sweeping stairs leading into the brick mansion’s entranceway. A willowy blonde seated at an ornately carved oak reception desk greeted them warmly when they asked if they might pay a visit to Fred Wimple.

“Oh, he’ll get a kick out of talking about his days as a teacher,” the blonde assured them, directing them along a plush carpeted hall that led to the back of the building. “Mr. Wimple likes to read outside before lunch, so I’m certain we’ll find him, nose buried in a book, out on the sun porch.”

Lucy was craning her neck as they passed large oil paintings in gilt frames and stately pieces of antique furniture. “How many residents do you have here?” she asked.

“About sixty. We keep it cozy so it feels more like a home filled with extended family than some kind of hotel or hospital.” The blonde gestured gracefully as they passed an intersecting hallway. “Our dining room and kitchen are to the left and we have exercise facilities, a music room, and a media center to the right. All of our residents live on the second floor. Each room has a private bath.”

“This place must cost a fortune!” James blurted out.

The blonde slowed her pace. “It’s not inexpensive, no, but the people who come to live here are genuinely happy. They don’t feel like they’ve been left here to die, but given a place where they can genuinely live out their golden days.” She held open a heavy door leading out to a wide, sunlit porch. Several men and women were reading in wicker rocking chairs with plump cushions and a foursome were playing Hearts as they sipped on glasses of cool tea. The sound of soft jazz was being piped through speakers tucked beneath the eaves, and a gardener was carefully pruning the hedge growing alongside the porch. “Here we are. That’s Mr. Wimple in the corner wearing the gray vest. Oh, and I’m Trish. Just call me if you need anything. Someone will be coming by shortly to see if any of the residents are thirsty. Feel free to try some of our homemade limeade at no charge, of course. Enjoy!”

Lucy moved forward in order to introduce herself to Mr. Wimple. He was a slim and dignified-looking octogenarian with thick, wavy white hair receding along a pink forehead. Along with his vest, he wore a pair of comfortable chinos and leather house slippers. His hands shook slightly as he turned the pages of his book.

“Mr. Wimple?” Lucy interrupted his reading using a soft voice. “We came to talk to you about someone we believe was a friend of yours,” she began after introducing herself and then James. “We heard you were a friend of Pete Vandercamp’s.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing,” Mr. Wimple said, “I was truly shocked to read about his death in the paper. You work for the Sheriff’s Department you say?” he asked Lucy.

“That’s right.” Lucy plowed on in a direct manner. “You see, a friend of ours teaches art at Blue Ridge High. She thought you might be able to shed some light on Pete’s past. That’s why we came, Mr. Wimple. We aren’t convinced that Pete Vandercamp’s death was an accident, but we really don’t want to disturb you if you’d rather not talk about it.”

Mr. Wimple carefully closed his book and removed his reading glasses. He studied Lucy and James for a few moments with a pair of keen eyes from within crinkled folds of skin and then seemed to come to a decision. “Call me Fred—my teaching days are long over. So you think I might be of assistance?”

James nodded. “No one really knew Pete. We might have thought we did, but we just knew of him. You know, only the bits he showed the outside world.”

Fred Wimple seemed to consider James’s words very carefully. Finally, he folded his hands together and looked James in the eye. “Tell me everything you know about the fire so I know the background a bit more. I might be able to fill in some blanks.”

As Lucy filled Fred in on the details of the tragedy and the subsequent findings from the fire investigator, the Sheriff’s Department, and Willy’s insurance company, James found his eyes wandering to the lush and verdant gardens beyond the back porch. A muscular young man wearing athletic shorts and a tight T-shirt wheeled an elderly man down one of the garden paths. James recognized the fit form as belonging to Dylan Shane, but didn’t dare wave hello. He returned his attention to the task at hand as Lucy finished her summary of the events involving Pete’s death.

When she was through, Fred hailed over a middle-aged woman taking orders for refreshments and asked for three limeades. When the woman moved away, he cleared his throat and in a wobbly voice said, “Peter never smoked cigarettes and he never used drugs. I may not have seen him every day of his life, but I knew the habits that became his demons and those were chewing tobacco and Wild Turkey. And those two were enough!”

“I don’t know whether you remember Danny Leary, the owner of Quincy’s Gap’s only liquor store, but Danny doesn’t believe that Peter would ever have purchased a bottle of Jack Daniels. Would you agree?” James asked.

“Yessir. Mr. Leary had the right of it in telling you Peter would only buy one brand of whiskey. My young friends, someone else dropped those cigarette butts at the scene of the fire and someone else brought our Peter that Jack Daniels.”

James and Lucy nodded. They both agreed. “Do you have any idea about who his enemies might have been?” Lucy queried.

Fred shrugged. “Peter’s worst enemy was himself. He punished himself day after day for not being with Jeannie, his wife, the day she was killed. The whole world knows it wasn’t his fault. Shoot, he wasn’t even invited as it was just for the womenfolk, but that didn’t stop him from blaming himself.” Fred smiled as he accepted a cold glass of limeade from the woman who had returned with three glasses and a bowl of pretzels. “Thank you, Mabel.”