Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky (11 page)

“Wow, how awful to hear Tucker gave her an ultimatum like that.” Colby Tucker had just graduated from “jerk” to “royal asshole” in my totally biased opinion.

“Say, Mr. Duckworthy, were you familiar with the custodian at the library, Tom Melvard?”

“Oh, I heard Ducky mention him a time or two, but can’t say I ever met the man. Why?”

“Just curious. He indicated to me on the phone he’d been interested in pursuing a relationship with her before she met you, but I’m sure he soon realized you were the best man for Ducky. She, of course, showed no interest in Tom, and nothing resulted from Tom’s attraction to her.” I had to be careful I didn’t get Tom Melvard threatened, harmed, or worse, by implying the wrong thing to a potential killer, who might be enraged by the idea another man was lusting after his late wife.

I was surprised when Quentin showed no anger whatsoever, but merely laughed, and scoffed at the very notion of Ducky being involved in any way with another man. He said, “Melvard was sniffing up the wrong tree, I’m afraid. Lucky for him, Ducky had all the man she could handle at home.”

“Yes,” I said, chuckling softly to echo Quentin’s demeanor. “I’ve no doubt she was very satisfied with her marriage.”

“As was I,” he replied. I was touched by the sight of his eyes welling up, and patted his arm as he wiped a tear off his cheek. I wondered if the tears were genuine, or just a show put on for my benefit.

“I am so sorry for your loss, Quentin. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

“Thank you. I feel so guilty for not picking up on any signs she was suicidal. If I had, I could have gotten her some help and treatment for her mental and emotional well-being.”

“I’m really curious about why you didn’t report your wife missing when she didn’t come home from work on Tuesday night,” I said, hoping to look more curious than accusatory, even if the latter term was more accurate.

“I wish I’d been here to know she didn’t come home, but I wasn’t. I was elk hunting in Wyoming with my brother. In Wyoming, they have a drawing every year for elk tags, and we were both lucky enough to get bull tags for the first time in six years. Clyde got his bull on Monday, and I had a chance at a six-by-six on Tuesday, but missed my target. We headed home late Tuesday night, arriving home Wednesday morning. I got the message about Ducky being found dead in the library, just as we crossed over the Missouri border. I feel so guilty about not being here, but I guess it wouldn’t have changed the outcome any.”

“That’s true, and you couldn’t be expected to know what would happen while you were away. I sure hope you can prove your whereabouts, just in the slim chance the detectives ask you for an alibi in the course of their investigation,” I said, hoping to draw a reaction out of him.

“Why in the world would I need an alibi because my wife committed suicide?” He asked, with an expression of pure dismay on his face.

“Oh, I’m sure the chances of that happening are slim. But, Quentin, I have to tell you, I’m not convinced she took her own life, and I am searching for evidence to prove otherwise. I feel your wife deserves a full investigation into the circumstances surrounding her untimely death.”

“I don’t expect to have to prove my whereabouts to the police, but I’m sure my brother can substantiate my alibi if it were to come to that,” he said. I was not surprised to hear him say his brother would vouch for Quentin’s whereabouts. Who’s to say his brother wasn’t in on Ducky’s murder? For that matter, if someone I dearly loved, such as my only sister, told the homicide detectives she was having lunch with Elvis Presley at the time of a murder, I might be tempted to vouch for her too.

“Yes, I’m sure it won’t be an issue for you. Are there any other reasons you’d think your wife could have actually hung herself?” I asked.

“Ms. Starr, are you sure you should get involved in this matter? It could put your own well-being in danger, you know,” Quentin asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.

“I’m aware of the risks. I’ll tread lightly and use common sense. And, of course, I’ll take the utmost precautions to guard against putting myself in harm’s way. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” I assured him. If Quentin knew anything about me, at all, he’d be laughing hysterically, knowing that when I was in the middle of a murder case such as this, all common sense flew out the window. And as far as treading lightly, I was more apt to approach the situation like a herd of Thomson’s gazelles fleeing from a pride of hungry lions. But for now, that was my story and I was sticking to it.

Quentin seemed to weigh my words for a few moments before speaking. “You know, Ducky had been suffering from depression recently, even before she was forced to retire, and unfortunately, one of the side effects of the medication she was on is suicidal thoughts.”

It sounded like an oxymoron to me to take a medicine to help improve your mood that could also cause you to go hang yourself from the rafters at the library. It would make a handy excuse for Ducky’s death, but I didn’t believe for a second that’s what caused her death.

“Also,” Quentin continued, “Ducky had been very rattled and upset the last few weeks since her ex, Bo Reliford, moved back to this area from Lee’s Summit. We heard he’s living in a rental just outside town. Because their relationship was so rocky, and Bo was often abusive, Ducky was terrified of him. She told me a couple of times she thought she’d recognized him in an older-model Jeep, custom painted in a desert camouflage design, following her as she drove home from work. Most likely, it was just her mind playing tricks on her because of her fear of him, but it still had a deeply disturbing affect on her. She had me driving her to work for over a week after she convinced herself he was stalking her. Perhaps you should speak to Bo, if you get the chance.”

Had Ducky been right about Bo stalking her? Did he think Ducky wouldn’t see him following her if his vehicle was camouflaged? Stupid man, Rockdale was not located in the desert. I think I’d be more apt to notice a camouflaged Jeep driving behind me than a white or black one, or even a bright orange one. Quentin was probably right that it was just stress causing her to imagine Bo might be stalking her. But what if it wasn’t? I didn’t want to just disregard the possibility as a figment of her imagination.

I wondered how I could find him, and what excuse I could invent to speak to him. Making up flimsy excuses was something I usually was very good at. The fact that anyone believed the crap I came up with sometimes amazed me.

“Hmm, I think I saw a vehicle like that parked in front of a house out on that two-lane county road just west of town. I wonder if that was Bo’s car,” I said, lying with as much nonchalance as I could muster.

“Could’ve been, I guess, but we heard he moved into a place on that gravel road that heads north, the one just past the Casey’s Convenience Store on Locust. I drove out there hoping to confront him after the second time Ducky thought he’d followed her through town, but I didn’t spot any Jeeps, and wasn’t sure which house he was renting.”

I sat down on the bench of the picnic table, because I was feeling a bit light-headed with all Ducky’s husband had just related to me.

“Are you okay?” Quentin asked. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“I’ll be okay in a moment, but thank you anyway.” I pointed toward the impressive birdhouse Quentin was working on. It was not your typical birdhouse, but nearly a work of art, with amazing architectural design and craftsmanship. “That’s really quite something! You must be a carpenter, by trade.”

“No, actually I worked as a honey dipper the last twenty years before I retired last spring. Woodworking is just a hobby of mine. It helps me relax when I’m stressed out.”

“Honey dipper?”

“I cleaned out porta-potties for a living,” he said, almost apologetically. “It was a shitty job, and didn’t pay worth a crap, but someone had to do it!”

I smiled, knowing he was most likely making a joke with his play on words. But I didn’t want to make that assumption and laugh out loud, taking the chance of insulting or demeaning him.

“I’m sure you were the best man for the job,” I replied, diplomatically, realizing too late it was probably the most insulting and demeaning thing I could possibly have said. But, fortunately, Quentin took my remark as friendly teasing and slapped his leg in amusement.

Before I gave myself an opportunity to make another stupid remark, I stood up, stuck out my hand to shake his, and said, “It was nice to meet you, Quentin. Again, I am so very sorry for your loss. Even though I’d just met her, it was obvious to me that Ducky was a remarkable person.”

“Well, that’s one way to put it,” was his ambiguous reply. I didn’t quite know what to make of his remark, so I asked him for the details of the funeral services to change the subject. I also sat back down, with renewed interest in what Quentin had to say.

“She’s being cremated, and there won’t be any formal services,” he said. “However, there will be a small memorial for her when we scatter her ashes in the flower garden in front of the library.”

“She’d really like that,” I said. I couldn’t really imagine anyone “liking” having their body reduced to ashes and spread anywhere, but it seemed like the thing to say. I wondered if Ducky had mentioned to Quentin in the past that she’d prefer cremation, but figured it really didn’t matter one way or another. After death, the body was just a useless shell, and she’d be in heaven and just as dead either way.

“Her daughter called me about an hour ago with the time and date of the memorial. Let me run in and get that information for you if I can remember where I put it.”

I thanked him, and wondered how you could misplace the details of your spouse’s memorial, as if that scrap of paper you wrote it down on was as immaterial as a gas receipt, or a grocery store shopping list.

As soon as the back door closed behind Quentin, the cell phone he’d left on the picnic table started playing the theme from “Shaft.” The phone was lying face down on the table, so I picked it up and started to run after him with the phone, until I noticed an image of an extremely good-looking blonde on the caller I.D. under the name “Barbara Wells.” I was a bit curious who the beautiful woman was that was calling Quentin, even though I realized it could be nearly anybody considering the recent death of his wife. Surely, a great deal of condolence calls were being made to him.

When the ring tone stopped, I picked up the phone and quickly brought up a list of the last dozen or so incoming phone numbers. All but two of the numbers matched that of the blonde who’d just tried to reach Quentin. As soon as I began to place the phone back down on the table, it rang again. The same number and photo popped up on the screen again. Perhaps she’d thought she’d dialed the wrong number. I laid it, with the theme song from
Shaft
still playing, face down on the table as Quentin had left it, and ran to the door to holler in to Quentin that his phone was ringing.

“Oh, thanks,” he replied, as he stepped back out on the patio. He looked at the screen, turned off the ringer, and quickly put the cell phone in his pocket. With a grimace, he said, “Just my brother. I’ll call him back later.”

My first thought was that his brother was one exceedingly effeminate-looking fellow, and certainly not the elk-hunting type. My next thought was that I’d never met a gentleman named Barbara before that looked like he could be Pamela Anderson’s twin sister. I made no comment, but wondered why Quentin was lying about the caller. He hadn’t appeared happy Barbara Wells was calling, but perhaps he was just disturbed about the timing. Quentin then began to recite the information scribbled on the post-it note in his hand.

I took a pen and checking deposit slip out of my fanny pack, and notated the details of the memorial, which was not to be held for two weeks, and jotted down the female caller’s name when Quentin looked away, along with the words
Casey’s, North,
and
Locust
.

I then excused myself and walked back to my little blue convertible with more questions than answers. I was convinced there was a great deal more to Quentin’s story than he’d told me, and I had every intention of getting to the bottom of it. In the meantime, I had a camouflaged Jeep to track down.

* * *

It wasn’t even noon yet, so I figured I had a couple more hours before Stone started worrying about me. I’d let him think I was going to a two-day clearance sale at Kohl’s, at the Legends shopping area in Kansas City, Kansas. It would take over an hour drive each way to go shopping at the Legends, and stopping for lunch could easily fill another thirty minutes.

I was supposedly looking for a new pair of jeans because marriage had put a couple extra unwelcome pounds on me and some of my clothes were getting a little snug. Shopping for jeans could definitely consume a lot of time, because everyone knows a woman has to try on several dozen pairs of jeans before she finds a pair that she doesn’t think makes her butt look fat. And with those recent extra pounds, that always seem to find their way to my posterior, finding a pair of jeans that didn’t make me look as if I had way too frigging much junk in the trunk could prove to be impossible. So coming home without a new purchase could be reasonably explained.

I didn’t like not being totally honest with Stone, so I disguised my little white lies with statements like, “Unless I find something better to do, I was thinking about going shopping for new jeans at the Legends. Kohl’s has a two-day sale I just might decide to check out.”