The Icing on the Corpse (15 page)

He went to sit again, but someone else called out a question. “What kind of information did you find?”

“Mr. Fox, perhaps it would be easier if you came up front,” Jeremiah said.

Edgar glared at his co-presenter. Jeremiah ignored him.

“I'd be happy to.” Fox rose and walked to the front of the room, dazzling the teenagers in his path with his pearly white smile. He stood between the two men. Edgar Fenwick immediately moved away, as if Fox had the plague.

“The first thing we do when we get a tip is exactly what you might do if you wanted to get quick background on something—we Google it,” Fox began. “We had the address and the background story, so we simply did a search on those keywords.” He paused. “And what came back was an unsolved murder. That's really what brought us to town.”

Chapter 21

A buzz made its way through the crowd, escalating to a higher pitch as comments and questions traveled. Stan leaned forward in her chair so she wouldn't miss a word.

“Is this the old story about the boxer?” “Does that mean the spirit is angry?” “Is it trying to hurt people?” “Do we need an exorcist?” Voices grew louder.

Fox held up a hand, asking for silence. The noise level immediately dropped. “First, just because someone was murdered, it doesn't mean they are angry or trying to retaliate. In many cases, the death happened so quickly and unexpectedly that the spirit might not know he or she is really dead. Usually when that happens, they stay in a place that's familiar to them, like their home. Or the person may simply be stuck.

“I had the pleasure of speaking with your town historian before her tragic death, and she had an enormous amount of knowledge about this particular event. She shared with me the pieces that were written on the murder, from the time it happened to entries in local history books.”

Fox spoke with Helga? Stan and Char exchanged glances. That was interesting. Stan was dying to get Jake's reaction, but she didn't want to turn around.

“Luckily, there's a wealth of information available here, through all the people so dedicated to the town's history,” Fox continued. “People like Betty Meany, your librarian. I'm sure she'd be happy to help anyone interested to find out more about this story.” He looked at Betty. She remained frozen to her seat.

Char looked at Stan. “See what I mean about Betty? She certainly looks like she doesn't want to be here.” Char frowned. “She usually doesn't miss a chance to direct people to the library or tell them stories. And you know she loves murder stories.” In her free time, Betty'd been known to watch marathons of
Murder, She Wrote
and all the
CSI
's ever made.

Maybe she is too worried about real-life murder stories.
Stan kept her face neutral.

From a seat on the side of the room, Dale Hatmaker bristled. “I'm the historian-elect,” he said, rising to his feet. “I can certainly share the story of the murdered boxer.”

“Boxer? That's mad cool.” This from a teenaged boy who had been slumped so far down in his chair he'd practically been on the floor.

“How dare you!”

The voice came from the front of the room. Stan caught a glimpse of Helga's boyfriend, Gerry Ricci. He shook his fist at Hatmaker. “You're not an elected anything, you old—”

Betty cut in gracefully, glaring at Hatmaker. “Helga was the expert. And since there's no voting process for town historian, I'm not sure how you can be the historian-elect.”

Fox looked amused by the exchange, but Hatmaker was getting hot. “It's an appointed position, and the mayor—” Hatmaker began, but Falco, whether to try and smooth things over or to save his own face, had the wherewithal to jump in. He didn't look at Don Miller, who sat stone quiet as the argument flew around him.

“Dale, no one's disputing your ability. I think Mr. Fox was put in touch with Helga and found her expertise valuable, that's all. We should let Mr. Fox continue.”

“That's
all
?” Betty turned on him, too, looking murderous.

Behind her, Izzy laughed. “This is getting good. Who's gonna throw the first chair?”

“Folks,” Fox interrupted. “I'm sure there are many, many people in town who could offer perspective and history on so many things, it would take me months to talk with them all. Everyone's perspective and offering is valuable.

“Now, as far as the investigation goes, I've been working closely with Izzy Sweet.” His eyes scanned the crowd for Izzy. The rest of the room turned to look, too.

“Guess I'll make it easy on him.” Izzy rose and squeezed past a stone-faced Jake. She sauntered to the front of the room to join Fox and flashed a smile at the audience. “I'm behind this all the way,” she said. “I'm totally committed to Frog Ledge, and I can't wait for the bookstore to open. I think it's best to clear up any mysteries first, that's all.”

“Are you going to move the café into the bookstore?” a lady from the third row called anxiously.

“I don't have any plans for that right now,” Izzy said. “But let's keep the conversation to ghosts for now, shall we?”

“I'll betcha Jake doesn't agree with this nonsense.” A man sitting up front whom Stan didn't recognize called out that comment. A challenge. “Jake knows this'll bring the wrong kind to our town. We'll have worse troubles than a ghost.”

“Amen,” a woman with hair wrapped in a severely tight bun and an even more severe face, chimed in. “Once those gangs come in, there's no getting them out. It doesn't take much.”

Stan stifled a giggle. Gangs? These guys gave “uptight New Englander” a whole new meaning.

Behind her, Jake muttered something that sounded like a curse. She turned and caught his eye, sending him telepathic instructions on solidarity and united fronts. He stood up. He didn't look at Izzy or Fox. “I'm satisfied with Mr. Fox's proposal, and if the workers on the site feel this is warranted, then I have no objections.” He sat back down. The guy in the front had no further comment.

Stan turned and smiled at him. “Nice job,” she whispered.

“Yeah, I'm a stand-up kinda guy,” he said. “I have to get back to the bar. Can you stop by later?”

“I'll try,” she promised.

He looked puzzled, like he wanted to ask why she had to try, but the meeting was ramping up again. Edgar Fenwick, who'd been brooding behind Fox the entire time, stepped back into the spotlight. “Can we get back to the issue at hand?” he demanded. “We need to talk about how the town feels about allowing this circus.”

“Amen!” Lena from the next row agreed.

Fox smiled, but Stan could see a glimmer of annoyance. “My team doesn't run a circus, we run a ghost hunt,” he said, while Cyril scribbled furiously in his pad.

“When is the investigation?” someone called out.

“Friday evening,” Fox answered. “It is not open to the public.”

From the corner of her eye, Stan saw Jake slip out. She wanted to get up and follow. Take him aside, tell him everything from Betty's crazy talk to Cyril's crazy favor. Maybe they could take that vacation until this was all over. But that was a fantasy. He needed to attend the funeral, help plan the celebration, and run his bar. And she needed to write a story about a murdered woman. And plan a doggie wedding. She remained seated and watched her opportunity slip away.

“Does anyone have any other questions for me? Concerns?” Fox asked.

“No, but I'd like to offer my help.”

All heads turned to the back of the room as Sarah Oliver walked in. She wore a flowing navy blue skirt with little silver moons on it. A matching scarf contained her wild hair. Dozens of silver chains, all in varying lengths, were draped around her neck. Like clockwork, “Gold Dust Woman” took over Stan's brain.

Sarah moved to the front of the room and bowed slightly to Adrian. “My name is Sarah Oliver.”

Stan held her breath. What was Sarah going to do now? Her eyes automatically traveled to the front of the room where Don and Carla Miller sat with a couple of other council members. Carla had one hand partially shielding her face, most likely in embarrassment. Don had no expression whatsoever. The guy was a master.

Adrian Fox regarded Sarah with open curiosity. “Ms. Oliver, a pleasure to meet you. What help would you be interested in offering?”

Sarah reached the front of the room and offered a stiff curtsy to Fox. “Mr. Fox, I'm a medium.”

That sent Don's non-expression right out the window. He rose, murder written all over his face, his bald head shiny with sweat. “Sarah, what do you think you're doing?”

Sarah ignored him. “Helga Oliver was my mother,” she explained to Fox. “I feel she'd like to finish telling her story, and your investigation will be important to that.” She smiled at him. “I think we can make a great team.”

Stan sat back in her chair as the buzz picked up again within the room. Izzy leaned forward. “What the heck is she talking about?” she muttered. “What story does Helga need to tell?”

“I have no idea,” Stan said. And she didn't—there were too many missing pieces. But the pieces she had so far did not paint a sunny picture. Especially with the new revelation that the police were actively pursuing Helga's death as a murder. The story could be how Helga was killed because of what she knew about Felix's death.

Chapter 22

In her dream, two dogs Stan didn't recognize dressed in wedding garb pranced around the town green. There were no humans in sight, but there were hundreds of dogs and only one cake, which the wedding couple didn't seem to like. The pup-cake desserts were missing, and she ran frantically around the green looking for them. Instead, she found a groundhog behind a tree eating a cookie, but it wasn't hers.

“Why aren't you eating my cookie?” she asked the groundhog (probably Lilypad, since that was the only groundhog she knew of that ate cookies), but got no answer. When she ran back to the crowd of dogs, Sarah Oliver stood in the middle of the pack, holding a crystal ball. “My mother's dead,” she kept saying, and the dogs were barking like crazy and wouldn't stop....

Stan's eyes flew open. It was her own dogs barking, not the dogs in her crazy dream. Which she hoped wasn't a premonition of how the real “wedding” would go. But before she could worry about the wedding, she had to get through today's funeral. After Sarah Oliver's hijacking of last night's town meeting, the funeral was sure to be a happening event. She'd certainly thrown the remainder of the meeting into an uproar.

After her offer to help Adrian Fox, the whole room had erupted into pure mayhem. Stan imagined there were a few different things going on—the camp who thought Sarah was nuts, the camp who thought the whole thing was nuts, and the camp who now wanted to go on a ghost hunt and be part of a seance. Edgar Fenwick's friends had finally escorted him out of town hall before he had a heart attack. Betty had vanished, too. Don Miller had refrained from physically dragging his eccentric sister from the building, but Stan figured the after-conversation had not been pleasant. Char had soaked up the whole scene to discuss at the inn, and Izzy sat back and watched it all with the same amusement one would watch a particularly bad reality show—a train wreck you couldn't help but remain glued to, glad it wasn't your life.

But if Sarah really was on to something—if Helga did need to tell her story, and it was related to this ghost hunt—things could get interesting.

The dogs were still barking up a storm downstairs. Stan looked at the clock. Six-ten. A ruckus at this hour couldn't be good. She got up and threw on her fuzzy robe and slippers. The house still had a chill to it, which meant it hadn't warmed up at all outside. Racing downstairs, Nutty right behind her, she found the dogs at the front door, wooing and barking up a storm. She peeked through the blinds in the hall window. Didn't see anyone. Perhaps Cyril had delivered another paper with his special report on the town meeting. She pulled the door open.

No paper, but there was a package. A regular, manilla envelope, oversized, propped against the door. Stan stuck her head out and looked around. No one in sight. She picked up the package gingerly. It was kind of heavy. She flipped it over. It hadn't gone through the mail, because it was blank. Someone had clearly just dropped it off. She shook it. One piece, whatever it was.

She looked at the dogs. “What do you think?”

Scruffy wagged and stomped her feet. Henry laid his face on her leg. He looked concerned. “It's probably okay,” she told him. He sighed as if to say,
Your choice, Mom, I'll support you.
She stepped inside with the envelope and shut the door, then ripped the flap open. Pulled out a large hardcover book, almost unwieldy in its size and shape. A photo of an old map of the town adorned the cover.
Frog Ledge: Connecticut's Revolutionary Headquarters
, by Helga Oliver. Helga's photo, professional and unsmiling, was in the lower left corner. Stan frowned. Someone had left her Helga's book under cloak-and-dagger circumstances. Why not come over at a reasonable hour, ring her bell, and hand her the book? Unless it was part of the upcoming celebration of Helga's life. Betty had said it would be a big deal. Maybe this was the beginning—everyone got a copy of her book. But at six a.m. on a Sunday?

She flipped through it. A notepaper stuck in the middle caught her attention. There was nothing written on the paper, but the story it marked gave her a chill: “Death of a Boxer,” by Helga Oliver. Coincidence? Doubtful. Plus, there were way too many coincidences going on around here. No, someone wanted her to read this. Now. Who and why?

She let the dogs out, made coffee, and picked up the book again. Helga's article was a two-page, slightly rambling account of the Felix Constantine saga. The story started at the party where Felix was last seen. Hosted at the former Trumbull Hotel on Main Street, which now housed apartments and shops on the ground floor, the party was “an elegant affair, attracting the who's who of Frog Ledge and neighboring towns.” Boxing had apparently been a big-deal sport that brought with it a certain level of sophistication.

Helga described Felix as “strong, dashing, and quite charming,” which suggested she'd at least made his acquaintance. Stan scanned the description of the room, the elaborate outfits and the fancy menu. Helga detailed all the “important” people in town who attended—Felix's nationally known coach, the town government officials, even a reverend from one of the local churches. And the boxer Felix was supposed to fight—the Frog Ledge favorite named Tommy Hendricks.

Whom Helga identified as her boyfriend. Stan hadn't picked
that
up from the newspaper articles she'd read.

“Well, well,” Stan said out loud to the empty room. “The plot thickens.” So Helga had been in the mix the night of the murder. And her boyfriend was Felix's contender. Maybe they'd fought early. Perhaps over a woman.

Stan did the calculations in her head. Helga was eighty-seven when she died, so in 1949 she would have been twenty-one years old. Just because they didn't look like it when they were almost ninety didn't mean they weren't wild and crazy kids in the 1940s. A lot could've happened at that party.

The story wrapped rather abruptly.

No mention of murder, or the fact that the case had remained unsolved all these years. No speculation on who did it or why. Just that his body was found. Odd. She flipped through the rest of the book, looking for any other relevant stories. There were none. Out of curiosity she opened to the inside cover to look at the copyright date: 1991. More than twenty years ago. Her eyes fell to the bottom of the page. Someone had written their initials in deliberate, blocky handwriting:
ACP
.

Stan frowned. ACP. Arthur C. Pierce?