Death Among the Doilies (8 page)

“I'm sorry, ladies,” Officer Shimer said, walking toward them as they came out the back door. “We haven't been able to find anybody. None of your neighbors witnessed anything, other than the usual UPS delivery, catering van, a florist, and so on. In fact, most of the neighbors are not even home. It's the middle of the day. Everybody must be away at work.”

“The grass over that way was bent in such a way that we could follow the trail for a few minutes. We even got a dog involved. We checked down by the river as well,” the officer explained.

The river was a couple of miles from Kildare House, down a rocky landscape. If someone had run in that direction, he or she would have had an unpleasant time of it, unless they were familiar with the area.

“What are the chances we can get the door painted over before Jane's daughter comes home from school?” Cora asked.

“Depends on if you have paint. We've taken photos and gathered all the evidence,” Officer Glass replied.

“Evidence?” Cora said.

“We took a sample of the paint, which will tell us what kind it is and then we might be able to figure out where it was purchased,” he said.

The officers of Indigo Gap wore indigo blue. Officer Glass's uniform seemed to almost blend in to the sky as he stood in the garden between the big house and the two smaller houses on the property.

“Can you get back to me and let me know?” Cora said.

“That's police business.”

“It's just that this is my property,” she replied. “It would make me feel more secure to be kept informed. Besides which, I was thinking maybe the vandal is also the person who killed Sarah Waters.”

“Whoa,” he said.

“Whoa indeed,” Jane said.

“That's quite a leap of logic,” Glass said.

“Not really. Who else would want to make it look like Jane is guilty, but the guilty person?” Cora said, as if he should know.

Officer Glass shook his head. “It's never that simple with cases like this. I get what you're saying. But it's probably a local kid looking for mischief.”

Glass was called away by another officer.

“A local kid looking for mischief that the cops can't find,” Cora said to Jane. “Makes me feel all warm and cozy.”

Jude, who had been hanging around on the periphery, walked up to Cora and Jane.

“I couldn't help but overhear what you were saying,” he said. “I didn't want to bring up Jane's predicament . . .”

“You know, of course, that she's innocent,” Cora said, perhaps a bit too fast.

Jane stood by silently, brooding. Her were arms crossed, and the nearby mums and marigolds framed her long cur vy figure.

“Of course,” Jude said, smiling at Jane. “But I wanted to say I think you're on to something. I think someone wants people to believe she killed Sarah. That's how it appears.”

Cora warmed. She already liked this guy a lot, and now, she liked him even more.

He hitched his fingers in his jeans. “Sarah Waters, man, what a pain in the ass.”

“Excuse me,” Jane said. “Did you know her?”

“Yes, that's one of the things the cops were talking with me about.”

“I'm all ears, Jude,” Cora said.

“I bought her broom collection at this auction the family had,” he said. “Evidently one of the daughters is protesting and wants the brooms back.”

“Broom collection?” Jane said, raising her eyebrows.

“I read about it online,” Cora said.

“Who collects brooms?” Jane said, incredulous.

“I do,” Jude replied and chuckled.

“You're a broom maker,” Jane replied. “That makes sense. But why would Sarah?”

“Who knows why anybody collects anything?” Cora said, realizing the police were still scattered about the backyard. “Maybe we should take our conversation inside.”

“Nah, you go ahead,” Jane said. “I need to find some paint and get that door fixed before London gets home.”

* * *

Cora poured Jude a glass of sweet tea. He sat at her kitchen table eating an egg-salad sandwich. While Cora loved her new home, she despised the small, somewhat dingy kitchen. One of these days, the kitchen would also be remodeled. Eventually, she wanted to offer baking classes. But, first things first.

“So, you knew Sarah?” she asked Jude.

“I did. Not well,” he said, then took a drink of his tea. “I knew her ex-husband better. We worked at the mill together for a few years before my business took off. He actually worked more with my dad.”

Cora knew the “mill” everybody talked about was the local textile mill, now closed, just another blow in the local economy. It was famous for its fine indigo-blue cotton.

“Her ex lives in Pennsylvania now,” he added.

“What was she like? Why did they get a divorce?” Divorce wasn't such an odd occurrence these days, but Cora made a mental note to check into the court records to see exactly what kind of divorce occurred. Cora knew enough about murder to know that usually the victim knew her killer. Husbands and ex-husbands were usually at the top of the suspect list—for good reason.

“You know, I never knew why. Nobody did. But she changed. I think she became a health freak or something and lost a lot of weight at one point and the next thing you knew, they were getting a divorce,” he said and bit into his sandwich.

“Someone said she was a typical librarian,” Cora prompted.

“I suppose,” he said. “Whatever that means. But I guess she was bookish. She had quite the book collection. Still does, from what I hear. The family didn't sell her books.”

“How odd that they want the brooms back,” Cora said.

“There's one daughter who wasn't around when all of this went down,” he said. “She wanted the brooms for herself. But I paid for them fair and square.” He hesitated. He seemed to be considering his situation. “I love those brooms.”

“But?”

“I kind of feel bad that the daughter wants them.”

Cora felt her heart flutter. What a nice man.

“What are you going to do?” she said.

“I'm not sure. What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“About Jane.”

“I know she's innocent. I have faith in our judicial system. It will be fine,” Cora said with finality. She placed the lid back on the plastic bowl containing the egg salad.

“I hope you're right,” he said. “This is a fine place. I love what you've done with it. I love the whole idea of it.”

Cora beamed. “It's a dream come true for me.”

“Sometimes I teach at a prison. And I tell you what, it makes a difference. Giving people something to do with their hands . . . it's healthy and healing,” he said, then took his last bite of sandwich.

Cora could hardly believe what she was hearing. This handsome man sat across the table from her, spouting her own beliefs. Her eyes met his and her faced heated. She glanced away. She thought Jane might be interested in Jude—and no matter how good-looking or nice, that meant hands-off for Cora.

Cora's pencil pointed at each item on her list again. Everything seemed to be in order. The food would come tomorrow. Fresh clean linens were on the beds. New bars of rosemary-mint handcrafted soap and clean towels filled each of the bathrooms. The craft rooms were spotless and well organized. The place had been dusted and preened over until it shined. And it was a shining, gleaming jewel, this house of hers. Well, not hers, technically speaking. It still belonged to the bank and her investors. One guest was scheduled to arrive that evening, but the others were all getting in the next day. Tomorrow was the day. Grand opening.

She wondered how far Jane had come with removing the graffiti from the front door of the carriage house. She didn't want London to see the monstrosity, nor did she want any of her guests to see it.

Now, on to her next project: proving Jane's innocence. Jude gave her a little more information to mull over. Sarah was divorced. She had two daughters—one of whom had been living who knows where, and was not happy the family had sold her mother's collections. Cora wanted to talk with her. It might lead her to learn more about who would have wanted to kill Sarah.

Of course, the other daughter would help, as well. Where did these women live? And how about the ex-husband? Did Jude say he was in Pennsylvania? What about Sarah's house? Was it sold? Was there someone living there?

Given what Cora knew about murdered women—way too much for any person to know—she thought she'd start with the divorce and the husband. What was that statistic she'd read about recently? That 30 percent of murdered women were killed by their spouse—or boyfriend. Did Sarah have a boyfriend? How would she find out?

After researching everybody online, she came up with a list of people to question:

She wrote down Sarah's address. She decided to take a walk through the town by Sarah's house to check it out, just out of curiosity. She stood and stretched out her arms, and the tightness in her shoulders gave way.

Her cell phone buzzed.

“Yes,” she said.

“It's Jane. I've lost track of time and I'm covered in paint. Do you mind picking up London?”

“Sure, I can do that,” Cora said.
So much for the walk
. “Did you get the door painted?”

“Yes, but I'm a mess and need to get in the shower. A guest is expected in a couple of hours, right?”

“Yes,” Cora said. “I was getting ready to Google more names. Mostly family of Sarah's.”

“For what?”

“I think we need to talk with them about their mother. We need to find out more about her if we're going to find out who killed her.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Jane?”

“Yes,” Jane said.

“What's wrong?” Cora asked.

“Other than the fact that I'm a murder suspect?”

“Well, not officially a suspect. But yes, other than that.” Cora paused, wanting to change the subject. “I thought we should look into her ex-husband. Where was he on the night of the murder?”

“He'd be the number one suspect, wouldn't he?” Jane said. “I'm sure the police have already talked with him. What we need is a cop to tell us what they know and go from there. Some cop likes to talk or that newspaper article wouldn't have gotten published. Well, I have to get in the shower. Can you bring London to your place and I'll meet you there?”

“Sure,” Cora said. It was a great idea to chat with the police, just like it was a good idea to go for a walk. But first, London.

Cora grabbed her purse and headed for the back door just as the doorbell rang for the front door. When she opened the door, a huge basket full of fall flowers greeted her.

“Oh!” Cora gasped. “How stunning!”

“Glad you like them,” the delivery man said. Blond, slight, and with a pleasant smile, he stepped forward. “I'm Matthew Reardon, one of the owners of Cattail Florists. We haven't met yet.” He extended his hand, and Cora wanted to cry as she shook his hand. Here was a local who either didn't read the paper or didn't care what the paper said and was willing to give them a chance. She hadn't realized until that moment how stressed she had been about it all.

“Good to meet you,” she said. “I'd ask you to come in, but I'm on my way to pick up a child from school.”

“I'll take a rain check,” he said. “I've been so curious to see what you've done with the place.”

“Why don't you come by Sunday afternoon? We're having a dessert reception. We'd love to have you.”

“I'll check my schedule,” he said. “I might see you then.”

He left, leaving Cora to read the card attached to the flowers:

Overcome, Cora held back tears. Uncle Jon—what an old softy. She was blessed to have him in her life. He wasn't her grand-père, but he was close enough to be a comfort. Uncle Jon was her grandfather's brother. Her grandfather had emigrated from France to the States when he was a student, then he stayed because he married an American. Her grandmother was the woman who basically raised her because Cora's parents traveled so much with their work, up until their accident. Jon and her grandfather kept in touch and remained close through the years.

She remembered her grandfather and grandmother with such clarity, it almost felt as if they were with her here. She knew they would be happy for her and proud of her and Kildare House and what she was building. She caught a faint whiff of her grandmother's favorite scent, L'Air du Temps, so slight that she told herself she imagined it.

Cora mustn't forget how far she'd come. She mustn't forget to stop and celebrate this dream come true.

Like all dreams, it had come with a price. And it wasn't turning out to be the smooth road she'd wanted.

The bouquet included salmon-colored roses, deep orange calla lilies, and miniature sunflowers and black-eyed Susans. She sat it on the foyer table, where it would be the first thing to greet her guests.

After Cora picked up London and delivered her to Jane, her mission was to take a walk before dinner. She planned to treat the whole crew to dinner tonight—sort of a calm-before-the-storm dinner. Their first guest would be coming in late that night.

She walked down Azure Lane toward the center of town, where Sarah had lived. Cora loved that many of streets in Indigo Gap were named after shades of blue. The town had several different legends about how it had gotten its name. The most believable one was that it had been a crossroads gap in the mountains where people came together and traded fur, pottery, and cloth. Because the locals grew the plants that gave indigo dye its color, the town became known as Indigo Gap.

Another interesting theory was about a group from India who settled in the region and became friends with and married into the local Native American tribe. The Indians were expert in the art of dying fabric and taught the locals their craft and trade. Over the years, the intermixing of the Indians and Native American gave the locals much to ponder, providing fodder for some interesting legends—like the belief there was a whole tribe of them deep in the mountains somewhere, practicing a mix of Native American beliefs and Hinduism. Cora doubted any of this ever happened. But still, there were interesting, somewhat unexplained relics around—like a Ganesha temple deep in the woods. For years, this group of people were just known as the “Indigos.” History had yet to prove their existence, but it was fun to ponder.

Cora gazed into the distance—dusky skies, the sun setting low against the mountains that gave off a blue hue, which could also be described as indigo. The shops were starting to close and the lantern-shaped streetlights to glow.

Leaves scattered across the sidewalk as Cora made her way down the street. One more block and she would be able to see Sarah's house, which was one of the historical houses in the village. It was stationed on a corner, with its main door facing a side street.

She spotted Sarah's house, painted in a terra-cotta shade and trimmed in teal. It had a gabled roof, which was quite steep, and was a bit taller than the surrounding houses and businesses. Cora wrapped her sweater closer around her as she approached. Oddly enough, smoke puffed out from the chimney. Someone must be inside.

As she walked closer, Cora saw a yard-sale sign. Hadn't they sold everything at the auction that was in the paper?

A car sat in the off-street driveway. Should she knock at the door? In addition to the smoke, there were lights on inside the house. Someone walked around inside, maybe preparing for the upcoming yard sale.

She fought the urge to turn and go home. This was awkward. But it might be a good break for her—a way to help prove that Jane was innocent. She thought of everything that was on the line—Jane's case, their new business—and she mustered her courage.
Awkwardness be damned.

She opened the gate, which gave off a loud creaking noise, shut it, and walked up the stone path to the front door.

Settling her nerves, she knocked.

“Just a minute,” came a male voice. She heard some scuffling and movement behind the door, which finally opened.

“Can I help you?” the man said. He looked as if he were in his late fifties, perhaps early sixties. Pale. Shadows circled his eyes. He wore glasses and a Steelers baseball cap, along with a UNC sweatshirt. He frowned at Cora.

“Um, hi,” Cora said. “I was walking by and I saw the sign. I'll be busy tomorrow and wondered if . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, you can come in and take a look around. You're not the first early bird,” he said. He moved his head, and Cora noticed he was shaking slightly. He was perhaps older than Cora had first thought. “This stuff didn't sell in the auction we had a few weeks ago and we need to get rid of it.”

He ushered her inside. The place smelled of burning wood, cats, and something else that she couldn't quite place. Something floral and a bit spicy. Incense-like.

Sarah's things were scattered on tables throughout the house. Even though Cora didn't know her, an overwhelming sense of sadness overcame her.

“Are you okay?” the man asked.

“Oh yes, yes,” she said. “I just, you know, feel so terrible about Sarah.”

“Bloody awful business,” he said. He had apparently been in the middle of organizing a group of items down at the end of a long card table.

Cora briefly glanced at the items in front of her. Tupperware containers, a few plates, and a big box full of doilies and handkerchiefs. Five dollars for the whole box. It was the kind of thing she liked to find at sales; she was certain she could make use of the items. She picked the box up and carried it along with her, until she reached the end of the table, near where the man was organizing old vinyl record albums.

There, at the end of the table, was part of Sarah's collection of opium antiques, which shone and glittered like jewels.

“These didn't sell?” Cora said to the man with surprise.

“Not these pieces. I'm afraid not,” he said. “It takes a collector, I think, to appreciate their value.”

“They are just beautiful.”

“Yes, I was with her when she purchased the first one. We were on our honeymoon in Turkey,” he said.

“You're—”

“I'm Josh Waters, the ex-husband,” he said and coughed a bit.

What was he doing here? They'd been divorced for years.

“She left it all to me,” he said, with an odd, beleaguered grin.

Cora took an eyeful of Josh Waters. He was now standing in much better light. His demeanor was off—almost as if he were stoned.

“Did she think she was doing me a favor? Pfft,” he said. “Like I don't have anything better to do than get rid of all this junk.”

Cora sat the box down, fighting the sudden urge to leave this place and this man. “Turkey,” she said, changing the subject. “That must have been wonderful.” It was the best she could do.

She ran her fingers along the cool surface of the opium kit. She opened the lid—that same sweet, floral scent that had greeted her when she first walked in came pouring out. Was the smell opium? Had Josh been smoking opium before she had come inside? Or could the smell be the lingering scent from the paraphernalia? There was more here than what was pictured on the Web site. There was quite a collection of pipes, which were also stunning, with jewel-tone colors and delicate accents.

“You wanting to buy?”

“Excuse me?” she said, turning back toward him.

He coughed a little, again. His eyes were red and watery. He was definitely stoned. Or drunk? Something was off.

“Did you want to buy some of that stuff ?” he said.

“No, what would I do with it?” She tried to laugh. But as she examined the dangle tools used for opium cutting and so on, she could imagine a lovely mobile. It would be quite the conversation piece. “I'll tell you what.” She reached into her bag and handed him a card. “If you don't sell this stuff, give me a call. I might be interested.”

“Really? You don't look the type.”

“What type? A collector or an opium smoker?” she joked.

“Neither,” he said.

“Well, I'm not. But I like to repurpose things. I'm into crafts. I will take this box of doilies.”

Josh rubbed his nose and he sniffed. He took the card and her money. “My allergies are so bad when I come back here,” he grumbled.

Allergies, my ass,
Cora thought.

“I better go,” she said. “It's getting late. You have my card.”

She carried her box to the front door and opened it to find a frantic woman rushing up the path.

“What you doing?” she screamed at Cora.

Cora peeked behind her. Surely this woman wasn't talking to her.

“You!” the crazed woman said and shoved Cora. Startled, Cora dropped the box of doilies. She took the stance she'd been taught over and over again in self-defense class. “Get back!” she said and raised her hands.

The woman jumped back and then reached for the box on the ground. “These are my mother's things. Who do you think you are?”

“I just bought them,” Cora said, her hands still up, heart pounding and adrenaline coursing.

“Well, la-di-da,” the woman said and fished out the doilies and hankies and flung them all over the yard, skipping through the grass.

“Becca! Good God, what are you doing?” came Josh's voice from behind Cora.

Cora stilled. What was going on here?

“I'm so sorry, Ms. Chevalier,” the man said. “It's my daughter. She's having such a hard time with all of this.”

Cora relaxed a bit. “I can see that,” she said after a minute, a wave of sympathy swept through her for the woman who was still throwing doilies all over the front yard. At least she had stopped skipping.

“Rebecca, this just isn't helping,” Josh pleaded.

Rebecca looked up at him, as if it was the first time she'd seen him. He walked up to her slowly, as if approaching an animal, or a stranger half crazed with grief, not a daughter. He held his arms out to her.

“You've got to be kidding,” she said to him.

I should go,
Cora thought.
Why are my feet not moving?
She was no longer a counselor, she told herself, and yet she couldn't help reaching out.

“Can I help?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

“Look, lady, I don't know who you are, but I think you should mind your own damn business,” the woman said.

That was all Cora needed to hear to be on her way. When some half-crazed, grief-stricken woman tells you to leave, you march.