Throw in the Trowel (10 page)

Realizing that it had gone silent above me, I straightened to find the men once again waiting for me. “Sorry,” I whispered. “Dropped my pen.” I jotted a quick note about his shoes so I'd remember to ask him about them later.

“I never could figure out why Lila stuck with such a bastard of a husband,” Henry continued. “But Lila was a faithful wife, a kind and beautiful lady who deserved better. And somehow Doug was able to shrug it off.” Henry shook his head sadly. “No accounting for love, is there?”

“Was Kermit critical of you, too?” I asked.

For a split second, I thought Henry was going to cry. Looking down, he said softly, “Kermit was critical of everyone close to him. It was just easier for me to handle than for his kids.”

I added to my note:
Inner circle of abuse: Kermit's wife, children, and Henry. The Duchess?
Somehow I couldn't imagine a strong woman like Parthenia Pappas taking abuse from anyone. But then, as Henry had pointed out, love did strange things to a person. I glanced at Marco, trying to imagine him being abusive. Love or not, I'd be out of his life so fast, his skin would peel.

Henry folded his hands on the desktop. “When I look back on it now, I can see that Kermit was an unhappy man. I firmly believe drinking was his means of escape.”

Was something on my arm?

I turned my elbow out so I could see the whole arm, but nothing was there. Trying not to interrupt the interview, I scooted my chair closer to Marco's to get out from under the web, but the legs caught on a raised tile and the chair tipped me right into his side.

“Is everything okay?” Henry asked, as Marco righted me.

My cheeks burning from embarrassment, I lifted my chair up and set it down again. “It was rocking. One of the legs was on an uneven tile.”

Marco studied me for a moment, then turned back to Henry. “Why was Kermit unhappy?”

“I'm not sure. Depressed, perhaps? You must know people who drink to escape their lives. All I can say for certain is that Kermit was a difficult man. He had an engaging Irish charm but also a wicked temper brought on by dark moods.”

I couldn't imagine staying with a man like that. “Was his running off with the Duchess a complete surprise?”

“I was surprised but not shocked,” Henry said. “I knew he'd been seeing someone, and by the way, that wasn't the first time he'd cheated on Lila. There had been other women, too.”

“Did his wife know?” I asked.

“I'm certain she did,” Henry said. “She intimated as much to me after Kermit left. I'm positive Doug knew, too, so he probably told her.”

“Did Doug talk to you about it?” Marco asked.

“Not at first,” Henry said. “Maybe a month before Kermit left, Doug started pumping me for information about what Kermit did during his lunch hour. I was always honest with him. I told him that sometimes, instead of eating his brown bag lunch, Kermit would vanish and then reappear an hour and a half later with no explanation. I didn't tell Doug that Kermit always came back wearing a big grin and a swagger. And then one day Doug told me he had followed his dad to the Duchess's house. He never said anything to me about what he saw, but I had a strong hunch that he'd caught Kermit in the act.”

“When was that?” Marco asked.

Henry pondered the question for a moment. “I'm not sure, but it would have been while I was working on the bank job.” With a sigh, he said, “Poor Doug. I used to cringe when Kermit laid into him. I remember the boy leaving the work site practically in tears many times. Sometimes Lila would come down to ream Kermit out afterward, but it never did any good. Kermit was who he was and nothing was ever going to change him.”

I wrote:
Kermit abusive to Doug
.
Doug catches dad cheating? Kermit disappears. Motive for Doug—anger, betrayal?

“How old was Doug then?” I asked, just as something tickled my ankle.

Ignore it, Abby. It's your imagination again.

No, that was definitely something. I lifted my pant leg and saw a brown spider with short hairy legs and a fat body with a red spot on it crawling up my shin.
That
was not my imagination!

That shriek I'd withheld before came out at full force as I jumped to my feet, slapping the spider as hard as I could with my notepad. It fell to the floor, still alive, and crawled straight toward me. Still shrieking in terror, I stamped my foot on it until it was just a memory. Then I stood there rubbing my arms to stop the shivers, staring at the giant web above me.

Only then did I notice that Marco had risen and Henry had come around his desk. Both were staring at me in surprise.

“Spider,” I said in a trembling voice and sank into the chair, shaking like a leaf. This time I tucked my feet beneath me.

Marco shot me a quizzical glance that said,
Are you all right? It was just a spider,
as though I'd gone mental. Well, let him deal with a hairy eight-legged monster on his shin and see how he liked it.

I cleared my throat and went on as if nothing had happened. “So
how
old was Doug?”

Henry resumed his seat. “Doug was fifteen. Big, strapping kid. Took after his dad in height but was bigger built.”

“Do you know how the family is doing now?” I asked. I had one eye on the ceiling and one on the floor in case the departed arachnid had avenging siblings. It wasn't easy to take notes.

“I run into Doug every now and then,” Henry said. “He still operates the family business. One of his sisters, Sara, moved to New York City. The other one, Rona, lives in Maraville with her family, and Lila married Rusty Miller about two years after Kermit left town. Interesting tidbit: Rusty and Lila were high school sweethearts once upon a time. I always thought it was perfect that they married. She died just a few years ago, God rest her soul.”

“Mr. Greer,” the receptionist said in a low voice, stepping around the corner of a filing cabinet, “you have an appointment in fifteen minutes. I thought I'd better remind you.”

“Thanks, Kevin.” Henry picked up a briefcase that had been sitting beside his desk and began putting files into it. “Is there anything else I can answer quickly?”

There certainly was. “I happened to notice the mud caked on your shoes,” I began.

But before I could even frame my question, Henry said, “Occupational hazard. I inspect some pretty muddy work sites.” He scooted back his chair and stood up. “Anything else?”

“I think that will do it,” Marco said.

I glanced at my hubby in surprise. Wasn't he at all curious as to why Henry wasn't asking the obvious question? But he merely gave me a nod toward the door.

Fine. If he wouldn't ask, then I would.

C
HAPTER TEN

B
efore I could utter a word, Marco put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Let's let him get to his meeting, Abby.”

I gave him a questioning glance, and he shook his head, as though to say,
Not now.

Henry stood up and walked around the desk, his hand stretched toward Marco. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Salvare. Mrs. Salvare. I hope I've helped.”

“You've given us a lot of useful information,” Marco said. “We appreciate your time.”

As soon as we were out of the building, I said, “Why did you stop me? I had questions to ask.”

“I know you did, and I didn't want you to ask them.”

“Why not? Wait. Are we talking about the same thing—why Henry didn't figure out that we were investigating Kermit's murder?”

“He figured it out, Abby, in the first five minutes. I saw it in his eyes.”

“So why didn't
he ask?”

“You tell me.”

“Ah, a test. Okay, the obvious answer would be that Henry is the murderer.”

“Or?”

I pondered it as we waited at the stoplight. “Or . . . maybe it frightened Henry to think that his former partner had been murdered.”

“There's another possibility. Henry might know who the murderer is and want to protect him—or her.” Marco pointed toward the green light above me. “Are we going to cross the street now or did you want to wait around for the next light?”

I got the hint. I hooked my arm through Marco's and we crossed together. “I could see that as a strong possibility. Henry did seem to like Kermit's wife and children—enough to know what the kids are doing now.”

“What's your impression of Henry?” Marco asked.

“Overall he seems like a fussy but decent guy. His reaction to the news that we'd found bones seemed natural, except, as we just discussed, for asking who they belonged to. I didn't buy it when he said he was sorry about Kermit's leaving. His body language said he couldn't have cared less; plus it sounded like the business flourished without him. I also didn't believe him when he said he hadn't known that Kermit wasn't showing up for work. Other than that, Henry didn't really give away much about his own relationship with Kermit except to acknowledge that Kermit was difficult and critical.

“But here's something I found contradictory. Henry clearly didn't like Parthenia Pappas, yet if Kermit was such a lousy husband, father, and partner, and Lila and the kids were better off without him, what was Henry's beef with the Duchess taking Kermit away? It sounds to me like she did the family and Henry a favor.”

“See a motive?” Marco asked, as we crossed the railroad tracks.

“Just that Kermit's drinking was dragging the company down. If Henry felt threatened by that, then there's his motive.”

“You're on a roll, Sunshine. Keep going.”

I thought back over the interview as we waited at the corner by the courthouse for the light to change. “I see a motive for Kermit's son, Doug. Besides taking abuse from his dad, he might have caught his dad cheating on his mom shortly before Kermit's disappearance.”

“
If
Henry's information is reliable. Remember, Abby, this happened a long time ago, and memory can be a tricky thing. And don't forget that Henry is a suspect, so everything he says has to be verified.”

“Of course. And here's something interesting. Henry struck me as a fastidious guy. His clothing, his desk, his manners, they all seemed neat. But his squeaky clean shoes had mud caked on the soles. I find that odd for someone who's obviously a neat freak. Is it really an occupational hazard or did he track mud from the alley down to your basement?”

“I'm sure he does inspect his work sites, but we don't have prints, so there's no way to know.”

“What about Kermit's wife? Do we consider Lila a suspect, too, even though she's dead?”

“We don't rule anyone out yet.”

“Then Lila goes on the suspect list. After what Henry told us about Kermit's cheating, I can certainly see what
her
motive would've been.”

Marco glanced at me. “Is there a reason you're giving me the stink eye? Is that your subtle way of telling me I'd better not pull a Kermit?”

“Just keep in your head an image of what I did to the spider.”

With a laugh, Marco put his arm around me. “Abby, you're the love of my life. You don't need to worry. You're more than enough woman for me.”

“Just so we're clear.”

“Gotcha. So you're terrified of spiders, huh? I didn't think you were afraid of anything.”

“I don't want to talk about it. I might throw up. Now where were we?”

“There's Rusty.”

“Right. Who is another puzzle,” I said. “How could Rusty have forgotten that he had work done in his basement when he laid the floor himself?”

“No, Sunshine—I mean, there's Rusty.” Marco lifted our hands to point toward a man coming down the courthouse steps. “Let's go see if he has time to talk to us.”

•   •   •

Rusty Miller was a legend in New Chapel, at least to the generations that remembered the man who rode his horse into town as though he lived in the Wild West of old. Dressed in full cowboy regalia, Rusty would canter his quarter horse, Dolly, down Lincoln Avenue every Saturday afternoon at exactly one o'clock and tie her up on a bicycle rack outside Down the Hatch, where he would entertain the townsfolk with his stories.

My dad used to bring my brothers and me down to the square to watch Rusty and Dolly ride in. One time Rusty even let me sit on Dolly, with whom I was madly in love. My brothers, however, were too chicken. All it took was one look at the horse's big teeth and they backed away. Sadly, eventually the streets got too busy and Rusty's horse got old, so he switched to a small red Ford pickup truck onto which he had mounted a gigantic pair of bull horns. Even without his horse, he was still a sight to behold.

I saw by the way Rusty was moving down the cement steps that he wasn't as spry as he used to be. He also wore glasses now, and his leathery face was lined with wrinkles, but I had to remind myself that he was, after all, in his midseventies. Yet he still sported the same maroon leather cowboy boots, stiff blue jeans, a red shirt with fringe, a black string tie, and his infamous ten gallon tan cowboy hat with a maroon leather band.

As we approached, Rusty caught sight of us and broke into a wide grin. Doffing his hat, he said, “Well, if it ain't little Miss Abigail Knight. My, but you're a sight for these ol' eyes.”

I stared in surprise as he shook my hand. “You remember me?”

“With that purty red hair and those polka dots all over your face, who could forget you? Howdy, Marco. Good to see you stepping out. That ol' bar can suck the life out of a feller, can't it?”

For years I'd thought Rusty was a Texan because he spoke like the cowboys I'd watched on TV, and Texas was where I'd believed all cowboys hailed from. Now I knew that he'd been born and raised in New Chapel. Obviously, he'd talked in his affected manner for so long, he couldn't help it.

“Good to see you, too, man,” Marco said, shaking his hand. “How've you been?”

“You'd know if you'd ever come out to my shop,” Rusty said with a wink.

“That goes both ways,” Marco said.

“I know, I know,” he said, “but it ain't easy findin' time these days. With all the renewed interest in Western apparel, my business keeps me hopping. Miss Abigail, there's a pair of boots that are just callin' for you to try them on. Distressed brown leather with blue, yellow, and red daisies stitched onto the shaft . . . They even have pull-up straps to make them easy to slip into. Don't they sound like something a purty young florist would want to wear?”

Yes, they did. “I'd love to see the boots, Rusty. Maybe we can stop by after work one evening. What time do you close?”

“Six o'clock on the nose,” Rusty said, tapping his long, crooked proboscis. “Say, is it true what I hear about you two getting hitched?”

“It's true,” I said, beaming. I was doing a lot of beaming these days.

“Well, don't that beat all?” Rusty said. “I b'lieve this calls for a drink. Come on. I'm buyin'.”

“Thanks,” Marco said. He cast me a glance that said,
Perfect.

With the departure of the lunch crowd, Down the Hatch had nearly emptied out, so we had no problem snagging the last booth. Marco and I slid onto the bench facing the plate glass window in the front and waited while Rusty had a reunion with Gert.

“Golly, how I've missed you, darlin',” he said, lifting her off her feet in a bear hug. “You doin' okay with this greenhorn runnin' the place?”

While they chatted, I did a quick check of the time and saw I had just about fifteen minutes before I needed to be back at Bloomers. “Marco,” I said quietly, “I can't stay long. What's our strategy?”

“Just friendly conversation, no note-taking on this one. I'll lead him around to the bone discovery and see what he has to say. If he's talkative and you have to leave, just go. I'll fill you in after work.”

“I ordered us some bubbly,” Rusty said, sliding onto the opposite bench. “Hope that's all right, but danged shame if it ain't.” He guffawed, then glanced around. “Place looks good, Marco. You still have all those ol' photographs up on the wall, I see.”

“Everyone loves them, Rusty,” Marco said. “I don't dare take them down.”

“How's business fer you?”

“We were a little slow until the other day,” Marco said, “when that article about the bones made the newspaper.”

“I'll bet,” Rusty said, nodding, obviously aware of the discovery. “A thing like that is bound to fascinate folks. Police making any headway on who the feller was?”

“It's still too early for results,” Marco said. “But as long as we're on the subject, something interesting was found buried near the bones. Abby, do you have that photo with you?”

“Here's our bubbly,” Rusty called, as Gert arrived with a bottle of champagne and three flutes.

I waited until Rusty had toasted us and we'd taken a drink before sliding the photo across. Rusty picked it up and squinted at it, then held it under the overhead light. “Looks like a piece of a leather strap.”

“It's a Cannon Construction key chain,” I said. “You can just make out the logo on it.”

Rusty squinted at the photo again. “Now that you mention it, I can see the little cannon on it.” He handed it back as though he had no further interest in the subject, and reached for his champagne. When he picked up his glass, I noticed that his hand was trembling. Had that just started or had I missed it before? “Good stuff,” he said, smacking his lips. “Never heard of this brand before. You get a good deal on it?”

“It's Italian sparkling wine,” Marco said, “so it's more reasonably priced. Anyway, we talked to Henry Greer today and he identified the key chain as probably belonging to Kermit Cannon.”

“Funny guy, that Henry,” Rusty said. “Did I ever tell you about the one and only time I ever saw Henry drunk? True story. After Henry's first day on the job, ol' Kermit had a party for him at the bar to celebrate him becoming an official partner. In fact, if you look up on the wall behind the bar”—he turned to point—“you'll see a photo of us standing out front with Henry, who's got a look on his face like a deer in the headlights.

“Well, sir, it soon became as clear as ice that poor Henry didn't know his way around a bottle, because after Kermit finished toasting Henry, the company, everyone in his family, and every person in the bar, Henry was so pickled that he couldn't find his way to the john. Tossed his cookies right in the middle of the crowd.”

Rusty was laughing so hard he had to take off his glasses and wipe his eyes. “Henry never darkened our doorstep again. I don't think he ever forgave Kermit for embarrassing him. He always was kind of a fussbudget.”

“Henry didn't say anything about that incident,” Marco said. He was pretending to study the wine in his glass but I could tell he was watching Rusty like a hawk. “But he did mention that he and Kermit did some work for you downstairs. Do you remember hiring Kermit to do some remodeling work on the basement?”

As though thinking it over, Rusty polished his glasses with his napkin, then put them back on. “Now that you bring it up, I do recall something about it. My memory ain't what it used to be, I'm sorry to say.”

His memory had seemed fine for the interview with Connor MacKay.

Marco continued. “Henry said you got so annoyed with Kermit for not getting the job done that you fired him.”

“Now, that ain't quite so,” Rusty said with a bit of ire. “I couldn't fire the bastard because he wasn't there
to
fire. Tell you what, though, if he hadn't vamoosed, I sure would've canned his behind. He was tanked up on liquor more often than not.”