Paper-Thin Alibi (8 page)
“Well, what do
you
think?” Jo asked. “Would Bill Ewing be angry enough with Linda to want to kill her?”
you
think?” Jo asked. “Would Bill Ewing be angry enough with Linda to want to kill her?”
Gabe’s face clouded. “That is a question I can’t answer with 100 percent confidence, I’m afraid. I’ve been flummoxed too often by people to guess what they are capable of and what they’re not. No one can see everything that’s going on deep inside another person’s head, can they? So, though I hope Bill would never think of committing a deed as terrible as murder, I can’t guarantee that he hasn’t.”
Jo nodded, understanding. She too had been flummoxed in the past, and it had come close to having dire consequences for her. She hoped it hadn’t destroyed her ability to trust altogether, but it had certainly made her more cautious.
“Well,” she said, “then I guess I’ll need to judge for myself.” She pulled out and unfolded the map that listed Michicomi vendors by name and location. “Looks like Bill Ewing’s in building 5.” She checked her watch. “If I hurry, I’ll have a few minutes to at least look him over.”
Jo browsed through Bill Ewing’s booth, which, unlike hers, had no obstructive front counters. Instead, an open area invited shoppers to stroll in and examine the many framed prints hung on back and side walls. Besides Jo, two other shoppers peered at his work, and Bill Ewing himself perched on a high stool beside a small table where Jo presumed he handled his sales.
A crew-cut, husky man in his middle years, he acknowledged rather than welcomed visitors to his booth with a brisk nod and answered questions about his photos when asked. But he obviously preferred to let his work speak for itself. Jo got the definite impression that given the choice, he would be out taking more photos instead of dealing with potential customers. His work impressed Jo, and if she’d actually been shopping and could afford them, one of his prints of a lighthouse at sunset would have greatly tempted her.
“Don’t you have any pictures of animals?” a well-dressed woman asked. She clutched bags from several purchases and tiptoed along on what might have been three-inch Prada slides. “Baby seals or maybe kitties?”
The woman looked like she could afford to buy cart-loads of kitty pictures if she found them, but Ewing simply grumbled, “No animals.”
“Oh,” the woman said and tripped off. Jo watched her go with a small sigh, wishing she could guide the well-heeled woman toward her own booth to discuss any variety of custom-made, animal-themed jewelry. But she remained in place in her undercover role.
In a moment it seemed to pay off as another vendor, a sparkly T-shirted woman, wandered over to chat with Ewing. When Jo caught a low-voiced mention of Linda, she moved closer.
“. . . heard the local sheriff’s asking about anyone who had a beef with her.”
“Yeah? My name come up?”
The woman barked out a laugh that ended in a phlegmy smoker’s cough. “Can’t say.
Someone
sure had it in for her, though.”
Someone
sure had it in for her, though.”
Ewing simply grunted, then glanced over toward Jo, who immediately focused on a dramatic shot of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. “Can you stay a few minutes?” he asked the cougher.
“Yeah, that’s why I came. Figured it might be time.”
Ewing bent down to a duffel bag at his feet and pulled out a small, black case. “You figured right,” he said, and quickly took off.
As Jo turned to watch, the woman who was standing in for him smiled at her. “Diabetic,” she said, apparently feeling Jo needed an explanation. “My gran had the same problem. Had to jab herself with needles every day. God, I’m glad I never came down with that, knock on wood. I can’t stand needles, can you?”
Jo smiled and shook her head. So Bill Ewing was proficient with hypodermics, she thought as she looked toward where he had walked off. She doubted the fine needles used for insulin could handle peanut paste, but wondered about the coincidence. Thoughts of injections would occur quite naturally to a diabetic who handled such things every day, wouldn’t they? Plus, he might know where to find the proper size needle. But would he have also known of Linda’s allergy? That was still a major question.
Chapter 7
Jo hustled back to her booth to find Meg quietly manning it.
“Any problems?” Jo asked as she slipped behind the counter.
“No,” Meg said. She scrunched her nose. “But I only sold one pair of earrings for you.”
“That’s fine. You also kept my merchandise from turning into free samples, so along with giving me a much-needed break, you were a major help. Thanks so much, Meg.”
Meg gave a wan smile, causing Jo to realize that Meg’s sales skills were probably about the same level as Bill Ewing’s. “What kind of work do you do at the Abbot’s Kitchen?” she asked. Ruthie Conway, one of the owners, had always handled the front counter in a way that made every customer feel like a longtime friend. Jo couldn’t imagine Meg easily stepping into that spot.
“So far I’ve been helping Bert with the food prep—chopping and mixing—and I clean up out front too.”
Jo nodded. “As I mentioned before, I’ll probably see you a lot then, since I pop over there often at lunchtime for sandwiches.” She checked the time. “Oops! It’s almost two. If you want to catch that pottery demo you’d better get going.”
Meg picked up her things and after acknowledging more of Jo’s sincere thanks with a nod, took off. Once Jo settled herself and had a chance to look around she realized from the suddenly diminished number of shoppers that the pottery demo must have been a major draw. She decided this would be a good chance to discuss Bill Ewing with Gabe a bit more. When she wandered over, though, Gabe was busy straightening several of the wooden toys that had been rearranged in the process of showing them to shoppers, so Jo paused at his front counter to let him finish. Gabe had just glanced over and noticed she was there when Jo was addressed from behind.
“Mrs. McAllister?”
Jo turned to see a young deputy sheriff, who touched his hat politely.
“Sheriff Franklin would like to see you for a minute.”
Jo sighed and asked, “Now?” aware that she had repeated her response to the sheriff’s request of that morning and just as aware of the futility of it.
“I’ll watch your booth,” Gabe offered. “There won’t be much happening for at least another half hour.”
“Thanks, Gabe,” Jo said. She tossed him a rueful look, then followed the deputy back to Julian Honeycutt’s office, wondering what Sheriff Franklin needed to know that he hadn’t asked about before.
The deputy ushered her in, and the sheriff half rose in what Jo supposed was a gesture of welcome, though she felt less than happy to have been invited. She sat down, and he immediately got down to business.
“Mrs. McAllister.” He slipped on his half-moon glasses once more and Jo braced herself. “You said this morning that you had known Ms. Weeks when you both lived in New York City.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I believe you indicated you had been friends for a while, but that friendship ended before you moved down here.”
“I think I said we had been
friendly.
”
friendly.
”
“There’s a difference?”
“I believe so, yes. Linda and I had never reached the closeness, the sharing-confidences stage that friends have. We were more acquaintances with a few things in common.”
“I see. So that
friendliness
ended, I assume, when you found out she was having an affair with your husband?”
friendliness
ended, I assume, when you found out she was having an affair with your husband?”
“What!”
The sheriff simply looked at her, waiting. Jo was sure he expected her to blurt out confirmation of the absurd question he’d just thrown at her. Instead she counted to ten as she returned his stare, holding herself down until she could speak calmly.
“What in the world, Sheriff, makes you think Linda had an affair with my husband?”
“Are you saying she didn’t?”
“Absolutely she didn’t. I know that for a fact.”
“Interesting, since she told others the affair was the reason for the problems between the two of you.”
Jo grit her teeth and drew a deep breath, thinking how typical that was of Linda. She was sure Linda also claimed to have been a complete victim in the supposed affair, to have been totally unaware that Mike had been married to Jo at the time, and was cleverly seduced.
“Sheriff,” Jo began, “Linda said a lot of things that were figments of her own, very creative imagination. This was just one more very hurtful lie of hers. I wouldn’t put any credence to it.”
“Then I presume you would also contend your husband didn’t commit suicide when he realized he couldn’t spend the rest of his life with her?”
Jo groaned, and shook her head in disbelief. How long, she wondered, was that woman going to continue to throw jabs at her? Wasn’t death supposed to put an end to such things? At that thought Jo almost smiled, realizing that that question was the last thing she would voice to the man sitting behind the desk, watching her so carefully over the top of his glasses. She drew a breath, wondering what in the world she was going to say that would swing a predisposed opinion in her direction.
Jo’s cell phone rang as she worked her way through the crowd toward building 10, and she checked it before answering, not in the mood for frivolous chat. The call, however, was from the one person she was willing to talk to. She pressed the answer button.
“Hi, Carrie.”
“Hi.” Carrie paused, probably reacting to the less than happy tone of Jo’s greeting, then asked, “How’s it going?”
Jo sighed, and looked about for a quieter place to talk. She spotted an empty kiosk that had closed up early as the final hours of the festival ran out, and headed for it. Leaning against its side and out of the flow of last-minute shoppers, she brought Carrie up to speed on the downward spiral of events that had occurred since they’d last talked. Carrie knew about Linda’s death, but her reactions to what followed ranged from horrified gasps to sputters of outrage. These were exactly the gamut of emotions Jo had experienced and she was glad to have them confirmed as reasonable.
“Jo,” Carrie said, “I think you should call Russ.”
Jo straightened up from her lean. “Russ? Why?”
“For his help, of course. He can vouch for you to this sheriff, and anything Russ says will carry much more weight than what your friends would say.”
“I don’t know, Carrie. I’d hate to ask that of him.” She really did, but for reasons that weren’t totally clear to her at the moment.
“I don’t think he’d feel imposed upon, if that’s what you’re thinking. At least get his advice. He’d want you to do that.”
“I’ll think about it. How are things at the shop?”
“Slow to moderate. Michicomi probably drew away most of our crafters. But I think we’ll reap the rewards later as it inspires them to try new things.”
“I hope so.” Jo told Carrie about Meg Boyer having come by to help out in Ina Mae’s place.
“Good for her,” Carrie said. “She seems to be livening up a bit—taking that job at Bert and Ruth’s, for one thing, after being pretty much of a recluse from the time she and her husband moved here. Some people wondered if she had a chronic illness of sorts, but I think it may have been a kind of depression. I’m glad to see her starting to come out of it.”
“Was she unhappy over moving away from her home-town?” Jo remembered getting that feeling when Meg had indicated the move had been more her husband’s choice than hers.
“I don’t know,” Carrie said. “And I feel bad for not trying harder to get to know her.
Ah-choo!
”
Ah-choo!
”
“Bless you. Did you call your doctor?”
“Not yet. Oh, someone’s coming in.” Jo heard the soft ding of her shop’s bell. “I’d better go,” Carrie said, “but I was calling to say Charlie and Dan will be there a little after six to help you dismantle your display cases.”
“Great. And Carrie, call your doctor.”
“I will if you’ll call Russ.”
“Take care of your customer, Carrie. See you later.”
Jo had a flurry of decent last-minute sales, which was gratifying. It seemed as though the really serious shoppers had meticulously checked over the entire show for the last three days, comparing and mulling things over before making their final purchases. She recognized a couple of returning customers, women with whom she had spent a considerable amount of time discussing necklaces and pins.
When they’d wandered off with vague promises of returning she hadn’t really counted on seeing them again, but was pleasantly surprised when they reappeared, credit cards in hand.
She was happy, then, to see she had considerably less merchandise to take home than she had brought to the show, though she wasn’t sure yet if she’d actually managed to earn back her expenses and make a profit. Less merchandise, however, at least meant less to pack, and she had made significant progress toward that effort by the time Carrie’s husband and son arrived.
“Wow, you did great, Aunt Jo,” Charlie said, eyeing Jo’s near-empty cases.
Jo laughed. “Not that great, Charlie. I was the one, not my customers, who emptied most of this out. Hi, Dan. I’ll have the rest of these things out of the front case in a minute.”
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