Paper-Thin Alibi (5 page)

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Authors: Mary Ellen Hughes

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Paper-Thin Alibi
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“Will this help?” Gabe Stubbins appeared at her side holding out a bunch of flannel rags. Jo set down her drinks and took them gratefully. “I didn’t see it happen,” he said, “but I noticed her sliding over there. She must have waited for this young man to get distracted.”
Jo felt pressure rising inside of her and struggled to control it.
“I’m so sorry, Aunt Jo. I should have watched out better.”
“Charlie, this is absolutely not your fault. Believe me. No one could have prevented it. Here, help me move these things out of the mess, then I’ll take care of the rest later. It’s almost time for your ride to come.”
“I can st—” Charlie began to offer, but Jo stopped him.
“It’s okay, Charlie. Really. It’s better that I take care of the jewelry cleaning myself.”
Charlie, still looking wretched, helped her move the jewelry, and Jo continued to reassure him while dealing with growing murderous thoughts toward Linda. She then sent him on his way with a quick hug and watched as he headed off somewhat reluctantly before taking a quick glance at his watch and picking up speed. She turned back to her cleanup work.
“Oh, good, you got some rags. Well, I guess you won’t be needing these, then.”
Linda Weeks stood just inside the nearby entrance holding two paper towels and wearing the most odious look of “oops, my bad” Jo had ever seen. It tipped Jo over the edge. She had had it. The steam that had been building finally blew.
“Don’t even try,” Jo said, her tone low but rapidly rising. “Don’t even pretend this was an accident, Linda. You’ve been working up to this all day, just waiting for your chance. I don’t know why you think you have to behave like such a slimeball, but you do.”
“Oh, really?” Linda dropped the smirk and her eyes flashed. “So suddenly you’re Little Miss Perfect with the right to call names? I wonder what people would call you if they knew what you’re really like—the ones who think you’re such a
fabulous
designer, but don’t know where you really get some of those designs.”
“I suppose you’d like to claim I stole them from you?”
“You know what you’ve done. I don’t have to spell it out.”
“Linda, if I were at all inclined to copy anyone’s ideas, which I’m not, you would be the last person in the world I’d ever want to copy. How you made it as far as you have is beyond me. Your unbelievably low level of creativity is matched only by that of your ethics, and I regret every minute I wasted in New York trying to be nice to you.”
Linda stood stonily staring at Jo, two small spots of red forming on her cheeks. Jo hoped that would be the end of it, that Linda would simply storm off in a huff. She was aware that nearby vendors had begun staring, taking in every word being spat out.
But Linda wasn’t about to leave. That, of course, would have been too much to hope for. Someone like Linda always had to have the last word, and hers, it turned out, were particularly venomous.
“Well,” she said, her eyes steely, “aren’t we the two-faced one? Sweet as pie on the outside but full of all kinds of nastiness deep down. I guess I can finally understand why Mike committed suicide, now, can’t I?”
She turned around and pushed through the plastic curtains before Jo could respond, though Jo, her mouth working soundlessly, couldn’t have answered that comment if she’d tried.
Chapter 4
Jo dragged herself out of bed the next morning, dreading the day that lay ahead. How would she be able to function as she needed to with Linda so nearby? The answer, of course, was she would
have
to, though it wouldn’t be easy, especially after the rotten night’s sleep she’d just had, Linda’s final barb pricking with every toss and turn. Bringing Mike’s death into their argument had been a low blow, but throwing in the word “suicide”—
Jo stopped herself. There was no use going over it. It was typical Linda, and that was that. Jo rubbed at her tired eyes and grumpily suspected her nemesis had slept like a baby. The woman seemed to thrive on conflict and was likely bouncing with energy as she planned out fresh misery to inflict from across the aisle.
Jo downed her first cup of coffee, letting the caffeine do its work, then braced herself. Darned if she was going to let Linda Weeks get to her anymore. She might not be able to control what Linda said or did, but Jo was certainly in charge of her own actions—and reactions. Not rising to the bait would be the best revenge. Plus it would save a lot of wasted energy, best spent on her own concerns and that of her jewelry booth, which, she reminded herself, still had a long way to go to earn back the cost of being at Michicomi.
Feeling better with a plan of action, or rather non-action, in hand, she added a bowl of energizing cereal to her breakfast, showered, then gathered her things before checking door and window locks on her modest two-bedroom rental house. As she breezed past her jewelry workshop in the small garage to jump into her Toyota, Jo felt her focus had moved from the negative of facing Linda Weeks to the positive of welcoming the fresh stream of Michicomi patrons who might come to her today for that special piece of jewelry.
Thirty minutes later, as Jo made her way through building 10 toward her booth, though, she noticed fewer friendly greetings and more than one uncomfortable look away. She was sure she knew why, and wished she could meet with each person who had overheard yesterday’s exchange between Linda and her and explain exactly what had led up to it, but knew that would be both impractical and fruitless. Gabe Stubbins’s welcoming smile as she approached, therefore, was wonderful to see. He beckoned her near to tell her—sotto voce, and with an impish wink—that she could count on him to ring the alarm bell from one of his wooden fire trucks if Linda came too near.
Jo laughed, and remarked, just as slyly, “Wouldn’t it be great if those little fire hoses worked as well?” She continued on to her own booth, feeling cheerier.
A pink-wrapped package sat on top of the tarp covering her counter, and Jo picked it up, curious as to what it could be. A quick scan showed it to be addressed to Linda, however, not Jo, and that it had come from Kitty’s Kandy, a gourmet candy shop with franchises scattered about Maryland. Jo looked over toward Linda’s stall and saw the back of her blonde head as she worked at adjusting her computer monitor. An evil impulse pulled Jo’s glance downward, toward her trash basket.
Dump it
, the fork-waving creature on her shoulder urged.
Pretend it never arrived
.
Jo shook her head, tempting though it was. Still, she couldn’t quite bear the thought of carrying it over to hand to Linda. Then a woman came up to Linda’s booth and began engaging her in conversation, and Jo saw her opportunity. She quickly crossed the aisle with the package.
“This is yours,” she said, setting it on an empty spot on Linda’s countertop, and did a quick reverse back to her own booth.
“Well, well,” Linda’s voice sailed over, “looks like Jack Guilfoil remembered my sweet tooth.”
Jack Guilfoil. That name rang a bell. Obviously Linda wanted her to know where the candy gift had come from. Then it clicked. Jack Guilfoil was one of the organizers of Michicomi. The brief conversation Jo had overheard during her dinner break the day before came to mind, with its hints of favoritism. Jo hadn’t seen any sender’s name on the box, but if Linda wanted to assume Guilfoil was who the box was from, that was up to her. Jo had her own business to attend to and she got down to it, readying her booth for customers, which was a good thing since before long the sound of approaching hordes reached her ears.
Jo had figured Saturday was likely to be busier than Friday, and she was quickly proven right. Building 10 was soon invaded by throngs of shoppers, exclaiming, touching, asking questions, and all thoughts of Linda disappeared from Jo’s mind as she repeated several versions of:
“Yes, ma’am, those are indeed Swarovski crystals.”
“No, these earrings are made with yellow sapphire, not amber.”
“This choker? Only fifty-six dollars, and the beads in it are sterling silver. Something cheaper? How about . . .” and occasionally—
“Thank you, ma’am,” as she rang up a sale. “Do come back if you decide you want the matching bracelet.”
Jo was kept so busy that the time flew by. She could hardly believe it when a very familiar voice behind her commented, “Looks like business is brisk.”
Jo glanced over her shoulder to see Ina Mae Kepner, white hair shining in the sunlight that beamed through the plastic doorway, the sleeves of her peach-colored warm-up pushed to the elbows, ready for action.
“Brisk enough,” Jo answered, “that I haven’t sat down since I arrived.”
“Then for heaven’s sake take a break now! I’ll watch things.”
Jo finished a transaction with the teen who had just bought a pair of Jo’s silver earrings, then turned back to Ina Mae.
“I’ll be glad to run out for a minute, but I don’t like leaving you on your own for too long.” Jo looked over toward Linda’s booth and Ina Mae nodded.
“I got the story from Carrie this morning. Don’t worry, I didn’t teach in the elementary schools for close to forty years without growing that necessary second pair of eyes in the back of my head. Nobody plays any tricks while I’m in charge.” Ina Mae’s face took on the stern look of a general preparing for battle—a
Viking
general—which made Jo laugh.
“Yes, ma’am, I believe that’s true. Even so, I think I’ll bring back lunch to eat here. Things have been busy enough that having two people here won’t hurt.”
“All you need to pick up are drinks. Loralee sent along her famous pasta salad with shrimp and snow peas”—Ina Mae held up the bag Jo hadn’t noticed until then—“including, I believe, homemade bread. Better than hot dogs, or whatever you’ll get here.”
“Actually, the food’s been pretty good. But nothing could be as good as what comes from Loralee’s kitchen.” Jo promised to bring back two large coffees, grabbed her pocketbook, and set off, happy to get her first full look at the sky in four hours.
When she got back, Ina Mae was helping a customer choose between a turquoise and silver necklace and an elaborately beaded one in shades of blue. “From what you’ve told me,” Ina Mae said in a tone that told Jo she had come close to the end of her patience, “I’d highly recommend the turquoise.” She then gently but firmly withdrew the beaded necklace from the woman’s fingers and set it out of reach.
“Yes, I think you’re right,” the woman said, and before she could add another qualifying thought Ina Mae was wrapping it up and totaling up the cost.
As the customer left the booth, pleased but blinking in a “what just happened there” way, Jo came around the counter with the tightly covered coffee cups.
“I think I just learned a new method in the art of salesmanship,” she said.
Ina Mae smiled. “Some people need to be told what they want. I could see she’d be here for the next three hours if I’d let her.” She took her coffee and reached back to get Loralee’s plastic lunch dish.
As Jo helped scoop out the hearty salad onto two paper plates Loralee had sent along, Linda’s voice sailed across the aisle, announcing to no one in particular that after such an extremely busy morning she finally had a chance to open up the box of chocolates from Jack Guilfoil, and how wonderful he had remembered that she loved vanilla creams!
Ina Mae rolled her eyes at Jo. “She’s also been letting me know about each and every significant sale she’s made. Tried to steal one of my customers once, but I wouldn’t let her.”
“You slapped on a pair of sterling silver handcuffs?”
“Didn’t need to use force.” Ina Mae unwrapped two of Loralee’s forks. “Ah, she sent along real ones. I can’t abide those plastic utensils, can you? No, I simply conveyed to the customer with a firm look and one or two choice words that her best course of action was to remain right here.”
Jo could only imagine the trepidation inspired in that hapless customer, who must have felt transported back to third grade—on test day—and might have bought almost anything at that point just to be allowed to leave.
Well, Jo thought with a grin, whatever worked.
Ina Mae opened Jo’s two folding chairs and sat down on one to enjoy her lunch. Jo was carefully prying the lid off her coffee cup when she glanced over to see Linda standing beside her own counter. Something about her didn’t look right. The pink wrapping that had been torn off the candy box lay on the countertop along with the box cover. Linda held the opened box in one hand, but her other hand clutched at her neck. Her face began to take on the color of the wrapping.
“Linda,” Jo called, “are you okay?”
Linda turned toward Jo, her eyes bugging by this time. “I—can’t—” she gasped, then sank downward, the chocolate candy spilling about her from their fluted paper cups.
A nearby shopper screamed. “She’s having a heart attack!”
Others began shouting:
“Call an ambulance!”
“Call security!”
“She needs CPR! Can anyone do CPR?”
“No, it’s a stroke! She needs aspirin. Who has aspirin!”
Everyone seemed to be shouting at once as people rushed to Linda’s booth, crowding around her. “Give her space!” “We need a doctor!” “I think she’s dying! Oh my God!”

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