Paper-Thin Alibi (6 page)

Authors: Mary Ellen Hughes

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Paper-Thin Alibi

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The shock of it all had frozen Jo for an instant, but she snapped out of it and grabbed for her pocketbook. By the time she’d dug out her cell phone to call 9-1-1, though, she heard Ina Mae’s voice already giving the information on her own phone.

Ina Mae closed her phone and told Jo, “They’re on their way.”

“Thank goodness.” Jo looked back to the scene across the aisle. She couldn’t see Linda anymore with so many others crowded about her, all shouting conflicting orders at once. After an agonizing length of time she heard, to her great relief, sirens in the distance. She realized the ambulance crew would need final direction and said, “I’ll go show them where to come,” then ran out and down the alleyway, glad to be doing something active. She saw the ambulance inching its way up the main thoroughfare through the parting crowd, and waved, calling, “This way! Over here!”

When they had pulled to a stop, a team of paramedics jumped out with their gear, and Jo led them back the way she had come, explaining over her shoulder, “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She just suddenly collapsed.”

The rescue team took over, sending people out of their way, and Jo too stayed back, out of the building but still able to glimpse some of what was going on, most of it a blur of activity and confusion. Gabe Stubbins appeared at her side, his shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets, as he too watched with concern.

“Your friend is taking care of your booth,” he said. “I saw her moving things off the counter so nothing would get knocked off.”

Jo nodded, feeling grateful to Ina Mae but at the same time guilty for caring about mere things when someone’s life might be in danger. Much as Jo disliked Linda, she felt that simply as a human being she deserved total attention.

A stretcher was rolled in, and Jo heard pieces of radio communication as the rescue team prepared to transport Linda to the hospital. When they wheeled her out, oxygen mask in place and IV tubes attached, Linda’s face looked pale against the dark blanket partially covering her.

What could have happened? Jo wondered as she stepped back along with the gathered crowd of curious onlookers. How could someone seem healthy and active one minute and collapse to the ground the next?

As these questions ran through her head, Jo saw one of the people who had first rushed to aid Linda step out of the building behind the rescue crew—a thin, middle-aged woman whom Jo remembered from the leather bags and wallets booth. The woman watched as the stretcher disappeared down the alleyway, her face screwed up tightly with concern. As she turned back toward the building her eyes suddenly locked on Jo, and her expression morphed into one of fury. Jo was dumbfounded, the anger projected from that look, causing her to recoil and bump into Gabe’s shoulder.

Their gazes held for a few seconds until the woman continued on into the building. Jo remained in place, wondering what could have brought that on. She began to rub at her arms, surprised to realize she felt a slight chill. After being on the receiving end of such heat it seemed more reasonable that instead of goose bumps she should be rubbing at singed hairs.

Chapter 5

Feeling in need of TLC, Jo called Russ when she got home that evening. The craft show had gradually recovered from the crisis caused by Linda, with most of the vendors in building 10 returning to their business, though in somber moods. Ina Mae had lingered, claiming she had nothing whatsoever to do the rest of the day, and Jo, though sure that was a huge exaggeration, had been grateful.

The distraction of newly arrived customers who had no idea of what had occurred earlier and therefore were in full, carefree, fair mode, had helped. But during her quiet drive home, all the distressing thoughts Jo had pushed aside came creeping back, making her long for a few soothing words.

Russ, she knew, was on duty that night, and Jo hoped she’d catch him at a slow time. She was delighted, therefore, when, after waiting on hold for several minutes, she heard his voice, brisk and businesslike though it was.

“Morgan here.”

“Hi, Morgan. McAllister here.”

“Ah.” His tone immediately softened. “That new guy at the desk is going to have to cue me in a lot better. How’d it go today?”

Jo sighed. “Got a minute?” When Russ acknowledged that he did, she spilled out the whole, disturbing story.

Russ, after offering a few consolatory phrases, zeroed in with his usual perceptiveness on the one thing that was bothering Jo the most, though she’d tried to minimize it—to herself as well as to him.

“The woman who gave you the evil eye, did she say anything to you?”

“No. We all simply went back to work. I didn’t see her the rest of the day. Now that I think of it, I probably should have, since her booth is only two down from mine. I can’t say for sure if she was there afterward or not.”

“What about that candy? What happened to it?”

Jo had to think. “Most of it, I think, was spilled from the box, and probably got trampled from everyone that rushed to help. I remember a security guard showing up at Linda’s booth later on. He seemed to be packing her jewelry away and locking it up. I suppose he might have cleaned up the candy. I don’t remember seeing the box or the pink wrapping anymore.”

“Hmm.”

“Why?”

“Nothing. Just wondered about it. So, did this very unfortunate event have an impact on sales the rest of the day?”

“Not terribly,” Jo admitted, aware of her torn feelings about that. Why did she feel the need to somehow suffer because of Linda’s illness? Would she be happier if in fact business had been awful? “Things eventually returned to normal, and Ina Mae and I made several very good sales.”

“Great. Word must be spreading about the fantastic McAllister designs.”

Jo smiled. “I don’t know about that.” She really didn’t, but she liked hearing Russ say it.

“One of my officers said his wife bought something of yours yesterday. He seemed impressed enough with it to not even grumble about the cost.”

Jo laughed. “She must have bought something with gold. Tell him if it makes him feel any better that the value will only go up.”

“I will. But not when he’s unwrapping his PB&J, the only lunch he can afford for a while.”

“Oh, come now!” Jo said, still smiling. “I couldn’t have made that big of a dent in their budget.”

“Well, put it this way—” Russ stopped, then asked Jo to hold on. When he came back on the line he said, “Sorry, gotta go. Something’s come up.”

Jo hung up, disappointed to have their conversation end, but happy she’d at least had a few moments to talk with Russ. She went to bed that night feeling better than when she’d come home, and looking forward to her final day at Michicomi.

The next day, Sunday, Jo pulled up to the craft fair and was climbing out of her Toyota when Gabe Stubbins came up to her.

“I’ve been watching for you,” he explained. “I wanted to tell you myself. There’s been some bad news.”

“What?” Jo closed her car door behind her. The look on Gabe’s face told her this was serious.

“Linda Weeks died last night.”

“Died! Oh, gosh.” Jo leaned back against her car, staggered by the unexpected turn. She looked up at Gabe. “What was it? Her heart? A stroke?”

“I don’t know. No one seems to have any details. I just thought you’d want to know before you came in.”

Jo thought of the leatherworks woman who seemed to want to blame Jo for everything. But why? Could an argument like the one she’d had with Linda cause a fatal reaction? Jo couldn’t believe it. But that didn’t mean others might not.

“How are people taking it?” she asked Gabe.

“Stunned, mostly. Still coping with the news. You know how it goes, though. Scoundrels turn into saints on passing, so there’s a lot of grief being expressed by people who could barely spare two words for her before.”

Jo nodded. She’d have to deal with her own mixed feelings. She felt shocked and sad for Linda, but at the same time hypocritical for the sadness.

“Ready to go in?”

“Yes. I assume the festival continues as usual?”

Gabe nodded. “The show, as they say, must go on.”

Gabe walked beside her through building 10, and Jo realized this respected, long-time Michicomi regular was in effect giving her his stamp of approval. Jo appreciated that, especially when they came to the leather-goods booth where the woman who had glared so fervently at her the day before worked busily at straightening handbags on a wall shelf.

“ ’Morning, Amy,” Gabe called, and she turned around with a smile, which faded as she spotted Jo beside Gabe. But Amy pulled herself together and returned his greeting cordially. Gabe escorted Jo to her booth, then said, “Don’t worry. Everyone just needs a little time to get their heads together.”

He turned back to his own booth, and Jo got down to work getting ready for business. She checked her clock: 9:45. The gates would open in fifteen minutes. She and Ina Mae had sold quite a few larger pieces the day before, and Jo needed to unpack replacements for them. She was crouching over her boxes on the floor when a man leaned over her counter and asked, “Mrs. McAllister?”

Jo looked up to see a mustached, pinstripe-suited man standing somewhat uneasily next to a taller, square-jawed man in a brown and tan uniform.

“Mrs. McAllister, I’m Julian Honeycutt, and this is Sheriff Franklin. He’d like to speak with you. Would you please come to my office?”

“Oh! Right now?” Jo asked. “The festival is on the verge of opening up.”

“I just have a few questions,” the sheriff said, adding, “if you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not,” Jo said, understanding the need but feeling, at the same time, pulled in two directions. She quickly relocked her cases and stepped out of the booth to walk silently between the two men to the Michicomi main offices, two buildings down. Julian Honeycutt ushered Jo and Sheriff Franklin into a small room with a metal desk and two chairs, offered coffee, which they both declined, then excused himself.

“Mrs. McAllister,” the sheriff began, pulling out a small notebook from his tan shirt pocket and slipping on a pair of half-moon reading glasses. He had very dark, thick eyebrows, Jo noticed, much darker than his hair, which had considerable gray running through it. His dark eyebrows furrowed together, either in concentration or displeasure, Jo couldn’t tell which. “You are aware,” he asked, “that Linda Weeks, the woman who had the booth directly across from yours, has died?”

“Yes, I heard it this morning. Just a few minutes ago. I’m still quite shocked. She was much too young, and, as far as I could tell anyway, perfectly healthy.”

Franklin looked at her over his glasses, an action that always made Jo feel uneasy from the air of skepticism it projected, though what there was to be skeptical about she had no idea.

“I understand you were acquainted with the deceased, before this craft fair. Can you tell me how?”

So the sheriff had been talking to others already, people who had probably reported on the acrimonious exchange between them. Not that it could have had anything to do with her death, Jo was convinced, but obviously he was leading up to that.

“Linda and I knew each other a couple years ago in New York, where we both placed our jewelry with many of the same consigners.”

“You were friends?”

“We were friendly, at one time. That changed.”

“Into enemies?”

“Enemies? No, I wouldn’t use that strong of a word, Sheriff. We simply didn’t get along. Look, I know you’re probably aware that Linda and I had a big blowup, but it was hours before she fell ill. I really can’t see that it had anything to do with her death.”

“Mrs. McAllister, yesterday morning you gave Ms. Weeks a box of candy, is that correct?”

“I didn’t
give
it to her. The box was on my counter but was addressed to her. I simply carried it over.”

“Is that right?” Another over-the-glasses look. “You didn’t buy the candy and bring it with you?”

“No, it was sitting there when I arrived. Why?”

“Well”—Franklin flipped a few pages of his notebook back—“witnesses saw you give it to her, and she seemed pleased to get it. I thought perhaps it was some sort of peace offering from you?”

“No, not at all. As I said, it was simply sitting on my counter, obviously delivered to the wrong booth. She seemed to think it was from Jack Guilfoil, but I didn’t see that name, or any other besides Linda’s, on the wrapping.”

“I see.” He referred back to his notebook. “So you weren’t trying to patch things up between you?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Then you still hold a lot of grievance against Ms. Weeks?”

“Up to the time she collapsed, she and I were not on good terms, no, though I
am
sorry this happened to her.”

“You said you two had been friendly for a period in New York. Did that include meals together?”

Meals? Where was this going?
“Yes, we met a few times for lunches.”