The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle (8 page)

I
really did have work to do. Saturday nights were almost always booked with an event. Tonight's was a roast—the make-fun-of-someone kind, not the edible kind—to celebrate the retirement of the school superintendent. It was being held at the high school so they could use the stage for skits and such like, and the caterers were setting up in the cafeteria. I'd arranged for the gym to be decked out in promlike decorations and a DJ was set to play for dancing. The whole thing was rather sweet, and I'd had fun putting the event together, but now I needed to concentrate on Derek's problem.

Sitting in my van outside Derek's house, I called Al and asked if he could fill in for me this afternoon, getting everything set up. He agreed, saying he didn't have much homework this weekend. I thanked him, assured him I'd be there by five, and hung up. I really did need to think about hiring another part-time assistant. I'd still need to be at the high school tonight, but now I had a few hours to try to sort things out for Derek. Where to start?

Coffee. I'd start with coffee. Caffeine would kick-start my thought processes. I drove to the Divine Herb and got a cranberry orange muffin to go with my jumbo
coffee. Sugar would amplify the coffee's effect. Scoring a small table by the window, I pulled my phone out and began making notes, nibbling on the muffin. I'd only gotten as far as (1) Talk to WOSC women and (2) Talk to Susan/Kolby when Hart's voice interrupted me.

“You didn't tell me about Derek and Gordon having a fight on the roof.”

I looked up, feeling a guilty flush climb up my neck. Hart stood looking down at me, mouth firmed into a straight line, holding a cup with steam escaping through the lid vent. The mingled accusation and disappointment in his eyes lanced through me like a needle.
Damn it.
Derek must have told him.

“I'm sorry.” I gestured toward the chair, but he didn't move. “I
am
sorry. He's my brother. I know he didn't kill Gordon.” My eyes pleaded with him to understand.

He shook his head slightly, denying my mute appeal. “I thought I could trust you to be truthful with me, Amy-Faye.”

“You can! I am. I told you they were having money issues. I just didn't—” I stopped, ashamed of my legalizing, of my lie of omission. “You're right. I should have told you about the fight.” It hurt more that he was disappointed in me than that he was angry.

“Tell me now.”

He finally sat across from me and I let out a relieved breath. His foot bumped mine under the table, but he withdrew it. I told him in as much detail as I could
recall about Derek's fight with Gordon and what they'd said. Hart's lips twitched when I got to the part about turning the hose on them. He didn't say anything, though, just took a few notes, and asked, “Is that everything?”

“Yes.” I nodded once, firmly.

He flipped the notebook closed and stood, startling me.

“Wait. Do you have the autopsy results yet? Have you talked to Kolby or Susan Marsh? Is—”

There was a trace of regret in his voice when he said, “You're too close to this one. I can't talk to you about the case. We'll see you down at the station sometime this morning to sign your statement, right?”

“Right,” I whispered. The day seemed gray and chilly all of a sudden, even though the sun shone brightly through the window beside me, highlighting a gleam of white I took to be shaving cream beneath Hart's left ear. I wanted to wipe it off. “I'm really sorry.”

“I know.” He seemed about to say more, but then he swallowed the rest of his coffee, put the cup gently on the table, and walked away.

I watched him go, his back straight and shoulders squared, curly brown hair lit with gold by the sun. Overnight a wall had gone up between us and it hurt. It hurt a lot. I blinked back tears and made myself return to my list. If I was going to cry about anything, it should be Derek, who was facing ruin and a potential prison sentence. Unable to concentrate, I put my phone away and pushed my chair back with an ugly scraping
sound. If Detective Lindell Hart wasn't willing to share any of the case details, I'd find out for myself.

•   •   •

My office was at the back of the building housing the Divine Herb, but for once I didn't feel like making lists. I needed to
do
something. Hurrying to my van, I pulled away from the curb, not sure where I was going. My incomplete two-item list came to mind and I determined to talk to the ringleader of the Women Outing Serial Cheaters. They had a clear motive for wanting to kill Gordon, and opportunity as well, since they were at the pub last night. Maud had researched them yesterday; she'd know where to find them. I headed for Maud's house.

As I pulled into the circular driveway of Maud's timbered one-story on the outskirts of town, I saw her hosing down the boat near the garage-cum-shed. She stood with her feet braced wide, the way she always did, shoulders squared, like she was on the deck of a ship, riding out a storm. I guess it's helpful to have a grounded stance when shooting at elk or trying to land a fish. She turned off the hose and made a visor of her hand to watch me as I approached. Wearing a white T-shirt tucked into multipocketed khaki shorts, with work boots and a bandanna around her head, she looked as if she'd just come back from a fishing charter. The large orange bucket of flopping trout seemed to prove that.

“Client had to catch a plane back to D.C.,” she said when I eyed the fish. “Gave them to me. Joe'll smoke 'em tonight. Delish. What's wrong?”

Words poured out of me as I filled her in on what had happened after she left the grand opening. She'd heard about Gordon's murder—no one knew more about what was happening in Heaven than Maud—and she listened carefully as I told her about lying to Hart, being worried about Derek, and wanting to find Gordon's killer to keep my brother out of jail.

“Sounds like your brother's in a pickle,” she said when I finally ran out of words, “but it's nothing the Readaholics can't sort out. You call Brooke and I'll get hold of Lola and Kerry. We figured out what happened to Ivy when the police wanted to call it a suicide—we can darn well figure out what happened last night. The police might want to play ‘I've got a secret'—they never want to share information with the citizens who pay their wages—but nothing happens in this town that I can't ferret out.”

My muscles went limp with relief and I almost dropped my phone when I pulled it out to call Brooke. When I gave her a short explanation, she said she'd be right over. Lola was busy with Bloomin' Wonderful, her plant nursery, which wasn't unexpected on a beautiful Saturday morning, but Kerry told Maud she'd come by as soon as she finished a house showing. It warmed me that my friends were willing to drop everything to help out. When Maud lobbed a sponge at me, I set to washing her boat with gusto, ready to let the sunshine and physical labor drive away the worry and sadness I'd been feeling since talking to Derek and then to Hart.

Half an hour later, the four of us minus Lola were
scrubbing Maud's boat and making plans. Brooke, wiping down the surfaces inside the boat, spoke from above us. When she found out we were doing manual labor, she gamely twisted her dark hair into a messy bun and tied the tails of her royal blue shirt at belly button level, kicked off her fashionable metallic sandals, and clambered into the boat with a rag and a spray bottle. She still managed to look like a supermodel.

“I think you're right about those WOSC women, A-Faye,” she said. “We should check them out.”

“Why in the world would they talk to any of us?” Kerry asked. She clutched a sponge in both hands and used her whole upper body to move it vigorously across the boat's underside. Soapy water dripped down her arms to where she had her sleeves rolled at the elbows. Her open-neck white blouse was not looking as crisp as when she'd arrived.

“Maybe,” I suggested slowly, thinking the idea through, “one of us contacts them to say she dated Gordon and is so sorry she couldn't be at the pub opening to ‘out' him—because of work or illness or something—and wants to know how it went?”

“I'm not saying I dated Gordon,” Brooke said, straightening. “That would not go over well with Troy.”

“Joe would think it was a hoot,” Maud said, smiling broadly, “but I don't think anyone would buy the idea that Gordon was dating a woman ten years his senior, especially not a string bean like me. Judging by the other night, he liked his women on the rounder side.” She looked at me.

“Hey,” I protested.

Kerry gave me a “get over it” look. “Face it, everyone's rounder than Maud.”

“Fine, I'll do it,” I said.

“You knew him better than the rest of us, so you'll sound more plausible,” Brooke said. “While you're checking up on the WOSCers—do you s'pose that's what they call themselves?—I'll see if I can find out the scoop on his niece's death.”

“And I'll get hold of the autopsy report,” Maud said.

The three of us turned to look at her with varying degrees of surprise.

“I have sources,” she said, pleased with our reaction, but trying to act as if it was no big deal. “You don't think I just make up the stuff on my blog, do you? I work damn hard ferreting out the truth about political shenanigans and other conspiracies in this town. No offense, Kerry.”

“None taken,” our part-time mayor said. The way she dropped her sponge into a bucket with a soggy plop belied her words.

Maud finished rinsing the boat and turned off the hose. “I've cultivated a lot of sources over the years. You'd be surprised how many people want to be whistleblowers but can't afford to risk losing their jobs. People who work for the government—and not just the minions, either, in medicine, insurance, for nonprofits, the schools. Corruption and conspiracy are rampant in all sectors. They're happy to pass info along to me so that the truth gets out there. I'm looking into a
conspiracy now involving the National Forest Service and that corporation that wants to develop—”

“You're a public servant, Maud,” Kerry interrupted with a sour look.

I jumped in. “Where do I find WOSC headquarters, Maud, if there is such a thing?”

After consulting her smartphone, she told me that the Web site only listed a post office box. “No physical address,” she said. “And the contact e-mail isn't in anyone's name. It's just WOSC at Gmail-dot-com. Conspiracy rule number two: When people try to hide their identity, they've got something to hide.”

I pondered that, wondering how I could get hold of whoever was in charge of WOSC. I'd have to send an e-mail and wait for a reply, I guessed.

“I'll ask the police chief for an update on their investigation. There are some perks—damn few—to being the mayor of this burg, but finding out what's going on with city funds—from police investigations to buying a new snowplow—is one of them. Let's get together on Monday evening to see what everyone's found out,” Kerry, ever the organizer, said. “We can do it at my house. Six thirty?”

We all agreed and tramped back to our cars, a bit wetter than when we had arrived. Brooke caught up to me as I was getting into the van. “How's Derek holding up?” she asked, worry putting a line between her brows.

“Not so well,” I said, grateful for her concern. “He's worried that he'll lose the pub and end up in jail. He
looked awful this morning when I talked to him; I sent him over to Mom and Dad's.”

“If there's anything Troy or I can do . . . Troy Sr. knows some good lawyers.”

Troy Sr. had enough business irons in the fire to keep a whole herd—pack? flock? pod?—of lawyers gainfully employed.
A murder of lawyers
 . . . I liked that. “Thanks, Brooke, but he's already got a lawyer.”

She hugged me. “Tell him to hang in there. No one with half a brain could think he killed Gordon. It sounds like he'd have had to stand in line to get to him, as many people as Gordon pissed off. Like Ratchett in
The Orient Express
.”

“I don't think Gordon was as bad as Ratchett,” I protested. “He didn't kidnap and kill children.”

“You know what I mean.” She stood back so I could close the door.

“Have a good rest of the weekend,” I said. “Thanks for worrying about Derek. Call me if you find out anything. Otherwise, I'll see you at Kerry's Monday night.”

She agreed, and with a brief toot-toot of my horn, I drove off.

•   •   •

With some reluctance, I reported to the police station to sign my statement. The Heaven Police Department building was red brick, separated from the street by the sidewalk, and one block off the downtown square between Mike's Bikes and A World Apart, the new travel agency. Pink and purple petunias frothed from planters outside the building, getting leggy and tired-looking as summer raced toward fall. A skateboarder careened
down the sidewalk, ignoring signs prohibiting the activity, and forced me to jump against the glass door that didn't quite go with the building's facade.

Inside, it was cool and dry. The reception area consisted of a counter, molded plastic chairs, and what might have been the building's original tile floor. I'd never been in here before this summer, but what with Ivy's murder and now Gordon's, I was spending more time here than some of the town's repeat offenders, I was sure.

“Amy-Faye Johnson. Detective Hart told me to expect you.”

Mabel Appleman was in her seventies and had been the police dispatcher forever, starting back in the era of typewriters, carbon paper, and party lines, as she liked to remind people. She wore blue-framed glasses that perched halfway down her roman nose, and had tightly permed gray curls. Double-knit polyester was her fabric of choice, and today's short-sleeved powder blue jacket had brassy buttons the size of fifty-cent coins. She occasionally came to Readaholics meetings when we were reading a police procedural.