Fruit of All Evil (15 page)

I wanted to cheer, but I just nodded. I couldn't remember one other time in our lives that she had uttered those words. She never told anyone, including me, something she shouldn't be telling them.

“Listen, this goes against everything I believe in. I don't break confidences—that's why I haven't told Sam, and believe me, if I should be telling anyone, it should be the police. Jeanine told me what she told me only because I promised to keep it to myself.”

“I understand. I won't tell Sam either,” I said, but I wasn't sure that's the response she was looking for. “I won't tell anyone, Allison.”

“Yesterday, right after Madeline blew through here, Jeanine came and talked to me.” Allison's brown eyes locked on my blue ones. “She was angry. Angry at Madeline, and she wondered if there was any way I could prevent Madeline from ever coming into Bailey's again. Keep in mind,
this was right after Madeline blew through here
.”

“Okay, Jeanine didn't want Madeline here because she made a scene, and that made Jeanine uncomfortable?” We all knew how paranoid Jeanine was; her asking Allison to ban Madeline from Bailey's seemed like a normal Jeanine reaction.

“No.” Allison paused and swallowed. We must have been getting to the part she was supposed to keep to herself. “Because of the correspondence Jeanine had just received from Madeline: a foreclosure notice from Central Savings and Loan.”

“What? Really? But, that doesn't seem . . . Al, I saw her account balances. She has enough money to buy at least two more small farms.”

“I know . . . well, I don't know how much money she has. You saw her bank statements?”

“Yes, when I went with Sam. It seemed prudent at the time, but go on.”

“I know she doesn't owe money on her farm. According to what she said, she has never had any sort of mortgage. She just pays yearly property taxes.”

“Then why the foreclosure notice? Some misunderstanding?”

“Jeanine didn't know, but she told me she'd left at least ten messages for Madeline. Actually, I offered to call Sarah Nelson for her—maybe someone other than Madeline could help. She refused, said she wanted to talk to Madeline and no one else, and she was going to do it that day, no matter what.”

“Oh? Oh. But according to what I saw, it looked like Madeline did try to call her back. Maybe they resolved whatever the issue was. Or maybe not.”

“Maybe not is right. It doesn't look good does it? I know I should tell Sam, but I keep thinking Jeanine will call or show up, and we can get it cleared up. She was so adamant that she didn't want me to say a word to anyone about it. I shouldn't be telling you.”

The police would want this information, but I still didn't think Jeanine was a killer. There must have been some mistake regarding the foreclosure notice. Jeanine was a rich woman, or at least extra-comfortable. I doubted that she would have killed over anything, let alone a paperwork mistake. There had to be something else. Someone else.

I said, “Don't tell Sam, not yet. He'd like to talk to Jeanine, but that's based on Madeline's phone list. If Jeanine had been home when Officer Norton stopped by, all of this would probably be cleared up. Now, Sam's more curious than anything. Let's not make Jeanine look guiltier than she already does. Sam's got other things he can look at. Plus, he's going to talk to the bank. Maybe he'll figure it out from that end.”

“I'll think about it,” Allison said, “but no promises.” This was eating at her. Most of the time Allison saw the world and its issues in black-and-white; there were no gray areas. She knew the right thing to do, knew the correct answer, knew the appropriate response. This was the first time I'd seen her unsure what to do next.

A knock suddenly boomed on her office door, launching me off the chair.

Allison smiled. “You feel guilty, too. See, it isn't good to keep secrets, is it?”

Allison had to assist with some sort of crate delivery problem, solidifying my belief that while she might be better at almost everything than I was, it was vastly more fun to sell jams and preserves than deal with delivery issues.

Despite what she had said, I thought it was just fine to keep a secret or two. It was necessary sometimes. I wouldn't tell Sam—or anyone—what Allison had told me, but not because I wanted to investigate it on my own. I wouldn't risk the chance of Allison not wanting to ever share with me again.

As I thought about Jeanine, I threaded my way through the smallish crowd left at Bailey's and toward my stall. Usually, late afternoons were quiet, and the best time to visit with other vendors, or relax and wait for the few customers left to finish their shopping. I waved at Herb and Don as I passed their stall.

“Becca, you're here?” Herb asked as he lifted a small rack display from his table.

“I'm here. Were you looking for me?”

“Only to tell you that someone else was looking for you,” Herb continued.

“Who?”

Herb bit at his bottom lip. “Darn it. Don, what did that guy say his name was—the one who was looking for Becca?”

Don duplicated Herb's lip biting. “Give me a minute.”

“He was blond, good looking, nice enough guy,” Herb said as he thought.

“Was his name Alan?” I asked, taking a pretty sure guess.

“That's it! And, he didn't really want to talk to you as much as he wondered if you'd ever talked about selling your property. I told him I didn't think so. Do you? Are you selling?”

“Never, not in a million years.” I bit back the other choice words I had for Alan. I thought about what Sam had said. Alan hadn't done anything wrong, that was true, but he was certainly irritating. “When did he come by?”

“Gosh, late morning, I think,” Herb said. He looked at Don, who nodded confirmation.

That was right after I left with Sam.

“Did he say anything else?” I asked.

“Well, he asked if we'd seen Jeanine, which we hadn't. He also asked about other properties up for sale. I couldn't help him at all.”

“Did he, by chance, leave any contact information?”

“No.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

“Sure. And Allison stopped by to tell me about the ambush wedding. I'll be prepared if you need me. How are Linda and Drew?” Herb asked.

“Ambush, huh? Well, we're shooting for a pleasant surprise. I think Linda and Drew are hanging in there, but I haven't talked to them today.”

“Give them our condolences, and let me know if you need any help with anything.”

I continued down the long aisle, visiting with other vendors or helping some of them load their trucks and vans. Speaking of pleasant surprises, I had one when I saw that my stall had been completely cleared, all my items packed in the back of my truck.

It had been a long two days, and I wanted to get home to Hobbit and write down some notes about what had happened. I pulled out my cell phone to call Ian and see if he wanted to come over for dinner, but the phone rang before I could push Ian's speed dial button.

The number had a South Carolina area code, but it was unfamiliar.

“Becca Robins,” I answered.

“Becca, this is Sally McNeil,” the voice drawled.

“Sally, hi. Thanks for calling me back.”

“Certainly. What can I do for you?” She sniffed. Was she crying?

“Sally, do you have a few minutes? I'd love to ask . . . well, I'd love to talk to you some more.” I hadn't prepared a good reason or good lie. Hopefully she wouldn't push the matter.

“Right now?”

“Sure, unless you're busy.”

“No, darlin', I'm not busy, and I'd love to talk to you, but not over the phone. Can you meet me tomorrow morning?”

“In Columbia?”

“Oh, no, darlin', I'm still in Monson. I want to wait until the police figure out Auntie's . . . murder before I go home. I'm stayin' at the Monson Inn, and I have an appointment for a pedicure tomorrow mornin' at the salon next door—Hard as Nails, I think it's called. How 'bout you meet me there at nine o'clock and I'll call them and get you an appointment? I find there's nothin' better'n a little socializin' while I get my toes done. What do you say?”

I had never had a pedicure before, and I thought about what I'd have to do to the calluses on the bottoms of my feet to prepare them to be seen by a professional. I didn't want to have a pedicure, but Sally had a point; she would probably be relaxed and willing to gossip, and that was ideal.

“Uh, sure, that sounds like fun.”

“All right, then. See you tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it.”

I hung up and thought about where I could pick up a pumice stone on my way home.

“What did you tell her?” Ian asked. He and I sat were sitting
on George's couch. George faced us from his old leather high-backed chair, and Hobbit was curled up at his feet. I was decidedly Hobbit's favorite human, but when Ian was around, she felt the need to split her time between the two of us. And when George was present, she gave him her full attention, especially when we were in George's house.

The room was the kind where you half expected the smell of pipe smoke to be combined with the scent of worn leather. In the winter, when George lit the wood in the fireplace, it was heavenly.

We were invited to dinner at George's, so instead of going home to Hobbit and staying there, I picked her up and we made our way back to town.

“I agreed to go,” I said. “I could use a pedicure, I suppose.”

I'd unloaded my leftover inventory from my truck but hadn't taken the time to find a pumice stone. My feet would have to be fine the way they were, though I wondered how many thirty-five-year-old nail salon customers hadn't had a pedicure before. Maybe I'd win a prize or something.

As dinner cooked, we “lounged” in the best part of George's old French Tudor house. Full and inviting bookshelves surrounded us. There was a painting above the fireplace of George in his younger days, when he had dark hair and a tall, trim body. He was still trim, but the years had taken some of his height and turned his hair steely gray. Even with thick glasses he couldn't see well, and though he could still work his way around a kitchen, many times Ian would read to him from one of the thousands of murder mysteries on the shelves. Hobbit and I had become an eager part of the story time audience.

“So,” George interjected, “tell me about this young man, Drew Forsyth, and his relationship with his mother.” George, though saddened that someone had died, had been excited to talk about a real-life murder mystery; thus the dinner invitation. Once Ian told him we'd been part of the group to discover the body, George insisted on hearing the details.

“Oh, well”—I sat up straighter—“Drew's an amazing guy, really. He's kind, he's handsome, and he loves Linda very much. He's
in the military,
which both impresses me and makes me watch my manners when I'm around him. I'm not sure about his relationship with his mother, but I'm determined to understand it better. Linda said that Madeline had a soft spot, and I never heard Drew say one thing bad about his mom. Linda was often frustrated by something Madeline had done, but to be honest with you, I can't think of one specific thing Linda told me. I wish I'd asked her more questions when she was frustrated, but I just tried to be supportive and not add to Madeline's terrible reputation.”

“Do you think Drew could have killed his mother? To clear the path for his new wife, maybe?” George asked.

I hesitated. I still hadn't told anyone what I'd overheard in the men's bathroom at the police station. After Linda told me that she and Drew had been together all afternoon, I thought I would talk to Drew myself. I felt I owed him that, at least. I didn't want Drew Forsyth to be a killer, but I had to acknowledge that his profession might give him a trained advantage in that area. The longer I kept the secret to myself, the more I wondered about his involvement. “The thought crossed my mind, but I don't have much to go on. I can't begin to tell you how much I hope he isn't. Beyond the fact that he's Linda's fiancé, he's supposedly reporting for active duty next week. This has to get solved quickly.”

“He's still going?” It was George's turn to sit up straighter.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Hmm. That seems . . . somehow wrong, doesn't it?”

I gulped a swig of the heavily creamed tea that George had handed me when I came in the back door. “Maybe, but I'm not sure how it works. I get the impression that he can't delay his departure.” Still careful about what I said about Drew's profession, I continued. “George, I'm pretty sure he's part of some special operations group. When he's called to duty, I think . . . well, I think important things are involved.” I could only imagine.