Cupid's Revenge (2 page)

“Let’s eat,” Alex said, and chilled people dove on the pizza.

While we munched and slurped I looked around the locker. It was one of the largest of the storage units, a place where someone could store an RV or boat. There were outlets on two of the three walls and some soot marks on the plywood of the ceiling and the bank of florescent lights. The culprit space heater was gone, but there was still an extension cord plugged into the outlet on the south wall. It was an industrial kind and someone had written on it ‘Property of Hope Falls High School’.

“Who brought the extension cord?” I asked and then realized I sounded abrupt. The others were assuming that I was there to volunteer as usual and not investigating anything.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Graves answered, brows contracting. Everyone else looked blank. Maybe their faces had frozen. “I’m not even sure who brought the space heater.”

I smiled and took another bite of pizza. For the time being I would let assumption stand that I was there as a volunteer and nothing more.

“Well, this was lovely,” Tara Lee lied. Pizza— pig swill— it was all the same to Tara Lee. “Thank you for bringing dinner, Alex. But I really need to be getting on home. I’ll let you young people take the night shift.”

“Me too. I need to get home,” Mrs. Winkler said in her gruff tone. I thought there was genuine relief in her low voice and wondered if it was all due to getting off her feet and out of the cold, or if maybe she had had enough of playing supporting princess when she should have been queen.

Part of me hoped that Mom would leave then, but of course she wanted to talk wedding. Since I was in no way prepared to have this discussion— especially with Alex’s parents coming into town— I decided to distract her by putting other cards on the table.

“Since we’re alone now, I have something to talk to you about.” I turned to Mrs. Graves. “You don’t mind?”

“No. Go ahead.”

“I think you have a saboteur who is trying to ruin the Sweethearts Ball.”

 Only Mom looked shocked, so I knew Mrs. Graves had confided in Mr. Jackman.

“But why?”

“How much money will this event bring in?” I asked. “And what happens to Books on Wheels if they don’t get this funding?”

Everyone paused to hear Mrs. Graves answer. Mom had been a volunteer for decades, but Mrs. Graves was a retired accountant and always knew about money things.

“After expenses, probably about seven thousand— and that will pay the bus’s expenses for half a year. If we failed… I suspect someone would rush in and save the day.”

“Only half a year?” Mom asked, looking in dismay at the gazebo they were redoing for the third time. Mom wasn’t great at math, but it must have occurred to her labor was not being all that appreciated.

“Yes, after they pay the driver and for insurance— you know how iniquitous rates are for bus drivers,” Mrs. Graves said. “And fewer people are donating liquor and so on for the ball so expenses are higher this year.”

We all nodded solemnly though I didn’t know if insurance rates for bus drivers were especially bad or if donations were down.

“Who has keys to this unit?” I asked after we had considered the shortcomings of the insurance industry for a moment longer.

My Mom looked serious.

“I do. And Dotty has keys too. So does Tara Lee and Mrs. Winkler.”

“And I have a key. So does the manager,” Mrs. Graves added. “They give them to all the volunteers. At least, all the ones who work here regularly.”

“And this isn’t a new policy?” Mom shook her head. “So basically anyone who has worked on the gazebo in the last 60 years could have a key to this unit?”

“No,” Mr. Jackman corrected. “This storage facility was built in the ‘70s. Not that it narrows the field by much.”

“The key wasn’t used the night of the rain storm though, right? So it might be someone who only recently got a key” I asked. “Did the hasp that fell off look really rusted? Or was it pried off?”

Alex went to the door and stepped outside. He carried a tiny pocket light which he used to examine the wood.

“I can’t be certain since the wood is so weathered and slivered, but it looks to me like force was used.”

“So either the person didn’t have a key at that point, or wanted the damage to look like either an accident or plain old robbery.” I took a sip of coffee. It was almost cold and very bitter. “Then came the fire. Does anyone know how the manager came to spot it right away? I don’t see any smoke detectors in here.”

Mr. Jackman cleared his throat.

“I talked to Emmett— Emmett Spalding, the night manager. He says he got a phone call warning him that there was smoke coming out of the unit. The Good Samaritan didn’t leave a name.”

“Man or woman?” I asked.

“He couldn’t tell. The voice whispered.”

“So, we have someone who is willing to wreck the gazebo, but not to burn down a building. That’s good, I guess.”

“Good!” My mother sounded outraged. “This is an assault upon tradition. The destruction of our gazebo would mean more than the burning of this old building.”

“Probably not to the people who are storing things in the unit next door,” I said dryly. Then, to put the argument in terms my mother would understand, I added: “What if all our family photo albums were in there?”

“Oh.” Mom fell silent, doing the heavy math that would quantify the loss of a town landmark against the destruction of treasured personal mementos.

“It also means that we aren’t— at least yet— looking at anyone who will commit an act of violence.”

“Who was the front-runner for the award before the library thing happened?” I asked Mom. “Who might be bent out of shape?”

“Debbie Mullins and her community garden. She donates the extra produce her fifth grade class grows to the food bank. But the garden got its funding and the library didn’t so….”

“I don’t know Debbie well. Her son was a year ahead of me in school and seemed like kind of jerk. Is she a jerk too?”

Alex snorted and then laughed. Mom looked pained.

“Yes, she’s a jerk,” Mrs. Graves answered. The word didn’t sound natural on her tongue but she was at least willing to say it. My mom would have a seizure before using the word.

“Too bad she doesn’t teach at the high school. We would have the perfect suspect,” I said, looking at the extension cord again. “Don’t!” I added when Mr. Jackman turned and reached for it. “I know that the culprit probably wore gloves since it has been so cold. And it is also likely that the cord has been handled at least by Emmett Spalding and half the high school, but I am going to take it in and dust it for prints anyway.”

That would mean telling the chief what was going on, but I didn’t think he would mind. This was a small crime, but it could have been a bad one if the fire had spread.

“Well, that’s very— very— efficient of you,” Mom said brightly. “But I really think that we should get back to work on the gazebo. We have only a few days left to get this done.”

I opened my mouth to explain that I wasn’t there to make paper carnations, but Alex beat me to the punch.

“Sure. Let me wipe my hands off,” he said, looking enthused. “I’ve never done this before.”

There was no point in protesting. This was part of the small town charm that was all new and appealing to Alex. He’d learn quickly enough when his finger got raw from scraping against the wire as he poked in the carnations.

“Let me get an evidence bag out of the car and then I’ll get started,” I said. Really it was just a clear zip-lock I kept a car blanket in, but it would do.

Chapter 3

I brought the extension cord into work early the next morning and stopped in to see the chief before the morning briefing. I explained what I wanted and why, and he kindly didn’t argue. Like me, he was concerned that someone had been willing to risk a fire to stop completion of the gazebo. It is a tribute to our relationship that he didn’t question my hunch that this was more than random bad luck.

“What’s wrong with your hands?” the chief asked when I took off my gloves and pulled the makeshift evidence bag out of my pack. They were nicked and scratched but also an unhealthy shade of red from the crepe paper dye that wouldn’t wash off.

“The gazebo is what’s wrong. I’m kind of sorry the fire didn’t melt the thing.”

“Oh.”

“Have you got your ticket to the ball yet?” I asked.

“Well, I ah—” the chief stalled.

“No problem. I have some here.” Mom had thrust them upon me with instructions to sell them to my co-workers. “It’s to benefit Books on Wheels. It’ll look wrong if you aren’t there,” I added. “Dad has to come too. It’s your civic duty.”

The chief sighed and reached for his wallet.

“How much?”

“Twenty bucks. Be sure to drink heavily at the bar. You’ll need to if they’ve booked the same band. And that’s where they make their real money anyway.”

The chief handed me a twenty and I handed him a ticket. He shuddered at the bright pink hearts and white doves.

“I haven’t seen Blue for a while. She’s with Alex today?”

The chief hadn’t been thrilled with Blue being with me on the job when he first arrived in Hope Falls but he had grown fond of her, as every right thinking person does eventually.

“Yeah. I miss her a lot, but the cold is harder on her now that she’s older and she likes Alex almost as much as me,” I said, being brave and unselfish.

The chief nodded.

“Chloe, you know that even if the cord has prints on it that it won’t prove anything by itself?”

“I know. But it could be supportive evidence if this ever comes to making an arrest.” I sighed and got to my feet.

“Anything else wrong?” the chief asked. It was kind of him to take an interest.

“Alex’s parents are arriving this afternoon. They are staying for Valentine’s Day.”

“That’s not good?”

“We haven’t told them that we’re engaged.”

“You haven’t told me either,” the chief pointed out.

“I’m trying not to tell anyone because they’ll blab. But Mom found out anyway. Now Dad and Aunt Dorothy and Althea and Dale and Mary Elizabeth probably all know.”

“Mothers! They find out everything.” The chief grinned at me and I found myself smiling back. Maybe I was sounding a little petulant.

“Yeah, what’re you gonna do?”

“Turn off your cell phone?” he suggested, knowing my mother the way he did.

“Already done. I will check messages though in case you find Jack the Ripper’s prints on that cord.”

“Hope ever, hope on.”

It was another slow day and parking revenues would be down at least until the weekend when tourists and even locals would come into town for bright lights and big romance, or at least a fancy meal. Since I had some spare time, I swung by the community garden site. It was still too cold for anyone to be working there, but I figured that I could talk to the neighbors and get a feel for how much support the garden had at the neighborhood level. Someone might be angry enough and dumb enough to try and get back funding by ruining the Sweethearts Ball.

As I had hoped, a couple of the seniors were out having a chat at the mailbox. One of them was Rosie Templeton, a terrible gossip and good friend of Mrs. Everett. The other was Elvis Baum. I didn’t know him real well and didn’t want to. Dill pickles are less sour.

“Hello, Chloe,” Mrs. Templeton said. “Blue not with you today?”

“No. She’s home with Alex.” I smiled at both of them.

“I hear you’re engaged.”

Mom was wasting no time.

“Yes, it was all very sudden.”

“And Alex’s parents are coming up to celebrate?”

Celebrate our engagement? Not hardly.

“They’ll be in this afternoon. They don’t know the happy news yet. We thought we would surprise them tonight.” And hopefully not shock them into coronary arrest. “So, I came by to look at the garden. You know, I’ve never taken a plot here but maybe I should since pumpkins take up my whole yard.”

“You should,” Mrs. Templeton said, with a sweet smile that didn’t match her next words. “We would far rather have you here than those brats of Debbie Mullins’s.”

I blinked, not expecting this attack.

“The kids are noisy?” I asked.

“The damn brats are painting graffiti all over the place,” Mr. Baum added, finally taking part in the conversation.

“Graffiti? Have you called the station?” I asked.

“Yes,” Mrs. Templeton answered, scowling now. “They said it was just chalk and we should wash down the sidewalks.”

“Oh.” I was at a bit of loss. The suggestion seemed sensible to me.

“It’s a good thing they didn’t get that Sweetheart money,” Mr. Baum said. “They wanted to lease the lot next to mine and expand the garden. I’d have the damn brats all over my yard too, writing stuff on my sidewalk.”

“I had no idea that the children were causing so much trouble.” I still didn’t have that idea. For heavensakes! Chalk on sidewalks was harmless.

“She may still get her money,” Mrs. Templeton warned. “Debbie Mullins is one stubborn woman and she was not happy about the money being voted to the Books on Wheels program.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “Books on Wheels sounds like a great project.”

“And it keeps the other kids out of town!” Mr. Baum added and then shuffled away, muttering to himself.

“He should go to a retirement home. The man’s so old he might have come off Noah’s Ark,” said Mrs. Templeton who was at least his age and perhaps even older.

“I imagine that it would be hard to give up the home you’ve always lived in,” I said gently.

Mrs. Templeton snorted but didn’t disagree. I said goodbye and got back on my route.

So, Debbie Mullins was angry about not getting the grant. She didn’t seem the type to be vindictive, but I didn’t know her that well. And her son was still a jerk.

*  *  *

“Did your parents arrive?” I asked Alex, slipping off my coat and going down on one knee to hug Blue, who is my soul made visible and who I had missed so badly I felt like crying. As we exchanged greetings, I noticed that Apollo and Aphrodite were both on top of the television and looking tense.

“Yes.” At Alex’s strangled tone I looked up and saw he was showing some white around the eye.