Wreath of Deception (24 page)

The door jingled, and Jo pushed aside her depressing thoughts to greet her customer. No matter what her troubles, she still needed to earn a living, or she’d end up being the hungriest murder suspect in Abbotsville.

 

Mindy Blevins was the first to arrive for the scrapbooking workshop. “Cute,” she said, indicating Jo’s camouflaging baseball cap.

“Glad you like it. You’ll be seeing a lot of it until my hair evens out.”

Mindy looked closely at Jo’s bruises. “They’re starting to fade. How do they feel?”

“Not bad. I’ve stopped the prescription pain pills altogether.”

Mindy took her place at the worktable as Deirdre walked in. When Deirdre did a double take, Jo realized they hadn’t seen one another since the accident. Deirdre peppered Jo with concerned questions on her condition but made no reference, of course, to their phone discussion of the previous night. Ina Mae and Loralee were the last to arrive, with Loralee carrying a plate of homemade pineapple squares.

“They’re mostly for you, Jo, a little treat for your convalescence, but I made extra for everyone to share tonight.” Jo thanked her gratefully, remembering that she hadn’t eaten since her lunch with Rafe. The others moaned with delight over the frosted pastries and debated their possible caloric content.

“Are you sure you’re up to running this workshop tonight?” Ina Mae asked quietly, her eyes scrutinizing Jo’s face. Jo assured her she was, though in truth she could feel fatigue starting to set in. And though she’d stopped taking the strong prescription pain pills, she thought a Tylenol or Advil wouldn’t be a bad idea.

However, she managed to put on a positive smile. “How’s everyone’s project coming along?” she asked as they spread out their photos and tools. She got four varieties of responses, ranging from “wonderful” to “I need a bit of help.”

Loralee’s was the last, and Jo went over to look at her pages. Loralee was putting together a scrapbook for a five-year-old granddaughter who lived in Seattle and had spent a week visiting during the summer. Loralee wanted the scrapbook to be a source of special memories of the visit, and planned to send it to the granddaughter at Christmas.

A quick glance at what Loralee had done so far brought to mind Rafe Rulenski’s complaint of Loralee as a diabetes inducer: the pages nearly dripped with cotton-candy pinks and gossamer fluff. Jo knew Loralee’s granddaughter was named Caitlin, but if her name were Tinkerbell, or maybe Barbie, the pages would fit her just as well.

“I want to create a page for our day at the beach in Ocean City, but I can’t think where to start,” Loralee said.

Jo quickly pulled out some sheets of blue paper, with the idea of toning down some of the intense pinkness of the scrapbook. “How about one of these for background?” she suggested, and when Loralee pursed her lips, Jo pointed out, “It will coordinate with the blue in your ocean shots. Then,” Jo grabbed some red paper, “you could frame your shots with this to pick up the red in your beach umbrella.”

Loralee played with it for a bit, placing a few photos over Jo’s papers. “It’s very nice,” she said, “but I wonder if it might also be good to pick up the pink from Caitlin’s swimsuit.”

“That would work,” Jo agreed. After all, it
was
Loralee’s scrapbook. She offered a few starfish and sand bucket prints to further decorate the page, and moved on, leaving Loralee to create to her own taste.

“How is your book doing, Deirdre?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s coming along great. This is so much fun.” Deirdre flipped to her previous page to show Jo, and Jo leaned over to see photos of two Afghan hounds in various poses.

“Well, aren’t those beautiful dogs,” Jo said, somewhat surprised.

Mindy leaned over to see. “They’re gorgeous. But I thought your scrapbook was supposed to be about your husband.”

“It
is
! And Caesar and Max are part of Alden’s family.” Deirdre beamed at the dogs’ pictures, obviously as proud of them as Mindy was of her twins. Mindy shot a look to Jo, and Jo remembered how Mindy once told them about Alden Patterson’s minimal tolerance of his wife’s dogs. Jo made a tiny shrug, and Mindy smiled and turned away.

“Jo, did you ever get to see that tennis person?” Ina Mae asked. “Genna’s roommate?”

All the faces at the table turned once again in Jo’s direction.

“Yes, I talked with Bethanne. She seems quite broken up over what happened to Genna.”

“Did she have any theory on what happened?”

“She couldn’t believe it was anything but an accident. Nor could she accept the possibility that someone may have killed Genna while under the impression it was her.”

Ina Mae nodded. “A difficult concept for anyone.”

“I don’t know,” Loralee said, her scissors poised halfway through a shimmery sheet of pink. “I mean, about Genna not being the intended victim. I’m still very suspicious of Pete, Genna’s boyfriend.”

“I am too, absolutely,” Deirdre agreed. “That violent temper of his, and all.”

“Bethanne told me Pete is devastated. She’s convinced his grief is genuine and that he could never have done anything to harm Genna.”

“Well, I still say,” Deirdre insisted, jabbing her calligraphy pen about for emphasis, “that Pete—oh!” Deirdre’s pen caught an open bottle of green ink next to her, knocking it over. She quickly righted it, then grabbed for the paper towels Jo always kept handy, and frantically blotted.

Mindy helped, after first whisking her own materials out of the way of the creeping spill. “Be careful,” Mindy warned Deirdre, “don’t get ink on your ring!”

Jo hadn’t noticed Deirdre’s ring, and, as they all pitched in to change the worktable’s protective papers, she glanced at it. Worn on her right hand, it was a lovely and unusual piece.

“Is that new?” Jo asked. “It’s beautiful.”

Deirdre wiped at her green-smudged fingers and held her hand up, smiling as she looked at it. “Not too new. I probably haven’t worn it to the workshops before. Alden picked it up on one of his trips.”

“He has very good taste.”

“I think so too.” Deirdre looked pleased.

“My mother had a lovely collection of jewelry, some of it rings,” Loralee said. “Before she died she divided it up among the daughters. I have some nice pieces with amethyst that I haven’t worn for years. I should bring them out.”

“Oh, I love old jewelry,” Mindy cried. “If I could afford it I’d have scads of it. Billy’s afraid to let me anywhere near an antique shop.”

The ladies chatted on, but Jo had tuned out. She moved over to Deirdre’s scrapbook, which had been pushed aside during the cleanup, and flipped back a few pages until she found what she was looking for. So absorbed was she that apparently, at first, she didn’t hear Deirdre speak to her.

“Jo!”

Startled, Jo looked up. “What?”

“I said, did my book survive?”

“Yes.” Jo flipped through several pages. “I don’t see any ink splotches, Deirdre.” She held the scrapbook out to her.

“Well, good. Wasn’t that lucky?”

Jo nodded. “Yes. Very lucky.”

Jo felt her head throb painfully, and, thinking about what she had just seen, wished she hadn’t left her prescription pills at home.

Chapter 27

Jo drove up the country club’s drive, past maple trees whose red fall leaves shone like glowing embers in the sunlight. It was Wednesday, Jo’s day off, and the one day of the week she closed the shop. Though she was dressed in jeans and a light sweater, topped with her red cap, she wasn’t coming for a round of golf. Jo had murder on her mind.

She had spent a restless night tossing and turning between her sheets as worrying images jostled about her head, all including Deirdre and Alden Patterson. Jo had hidden her observations last night at the workshop, hoping somehow she was wrong. It could all simply be coincidence, and Jo could be jumping to the worst possible conclusions. On that slim chance, she was coming to the club with questions for Tracy. The answers she found could settle her mind, one way or the other.

Jo thought about the ring Deirdre was wearing, which she said had come from Alden. It had a beautiful design that was simple as well as elegant, and Jo had recognized it immediately as a Roberta Sawyer—the same woman who had designed Bethanne’s pendant. Coincidence? Certainly possible. Except for the man Jo had passed in the hallway of Bethanne’s apartment. He had seemed so familiar, but she couldn’t think why until Deirdre’s ring stirred up the memory.

Jo had never seen Alden in the flesh, but she had seen photos of him. A check through Deirdre’s scrapbook had confirmed his identity. There he had been, posing side by side in several shots with Deirdre, often with an arm around her, smiling. Alden Patterson was definitely the man in Bethanne’s apartment building. Was it too much of a stretch to assume he had been at Bethanne’s
apartment
and that Bethanne’s pendant had come from him? Though not long stretches, they were painful ones, and if correct, the worst was yet to come.

Jo parked and headed up the walk to the tennis shop. Several courts were occupied on this perfect tennis day, and the
thunk
of racquet against ball reverberated soundly. One yellow missile flew over the green fencing, landing near Jo, and she picked it up to toss it back to the player, who waved gratefully. As Jo approached the shop’s door, two people pushed their way out, a woman in a blue warm-up suit and a man carrying racquets and a basket of balls. Was this Bethanne’s temporary replacement pro, Jo wondered? They smiled at Jo, the man holding the door open for her before moving on.

Walking in, Jo found Tracy occupied with a customer at the front counter, and Jo caught her eye as she moved toward the clothing racks. She thought she caught a glimpse of Ryan in the back employee area, and was glad. Of the two, Ryan was definitely the more forthcoming, and Jo needed straightforward answers today. She waited, biding her time among the T-shirts and hats, and then came over to Tracy’s counter as soon as her customer left.

“I have some important things to ask you,” Jo said, getting straight to the point.

“Okay,” Tracy said, her eyes blinking somewhat nervously.

“Is that Ryan back there?” Jo asked. “I’d like him to be in on this too.”

Tracy, obviously sensing Jo’s gravity, turned and called, “Ryan, can you come out here?”

Jo heard the sound of boxes being set down, and then Ryan, dressed in shorts and the country club’s signature green polo, came through the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“Mrs. McAllister wants to talk to the two of us. About Kyle, I think.”

Jo nodded. “That’s right. And about Bethanne.”

“Bethanne?” Ryan asked, his eyebrows going up. “She hasn’t been in for a while.”

“I know. I’ve been to talk to her.”

“You have?” Tracy said. “How is she?”

“Hanging in there. But this is what I need to know. I have reason to think Bethanne has been involved with Alden Patterson. Can you confirm that for me?”

Tracy’s face flushed pink, and she and Ryan exchanged looks.

“I’m not asking for frivolous reasons, believe me. This could be very important. You told me before that Kyle had been watching people here at the club, and speculating on affairs between them. Were Bethanne and Alden two of those people?”

Tracy looked unhappy, but Ryan smirked. Tracy spoke first.

“Kyle never actually said that to me.”

“Yeah, me neither. But I wouldn’t have been surprised if he did.”

“Ryan!”

“Oh, come on. You don’t think there was something going on? You knew about all those extra lessons. You’ve seen the way they always look at each other.”

“It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Mr. Patterson was always nice to me. He wasn’t a flirt or anything.”

“He’s smart enough to pick the ones he knows will flirt back.”

Tracy frowned but didn’t argue.

“Those extra lessons,” Jo asked, “did they happen to be late at night?”

“Uh-huh,” Tracy admitted. “The courts are lighted. Bethanne explained to me that Mr. Patterson had a very busy schedule, but that she didn’t mind staying late. She said he took his game very seriously.” She grimaced, as though realizing how lame that was.

“Who was on duty here at the shop when the lessons were going on?”

“Probably Kyle, right?” Ryan said. “He liked being the only one around here.”

Tracy agreed. “I think it was usually Kyle.”

Jo nodded. “Thanks. I guess that’s all I need to know. I appreciate your help, but keep this to yourselves for now, okay?”

As Tracy was nodding, the shop door opened and two players walked in, mopping at their sweaty faces. Jo turned to leave, and Tracy asked, “Did Bethanne say when she might be back?”

“No, she didn’t.” She paused. “But I have a feeling it won’t be soon.”

Jo headed back toward her car, so deep in thought over what Tracy and Ryan had said that she nearly missed hearing her name called. It was the woman with the half glasses from the front desk. She had run outside, eager to catch Jo before she left.

“Mr. Gordon saw your car here. He wonders if you could stop in and discuss a few things about the craft show.”

Jo winced. Right now she felt she had far heavier things to deal with than the craft show. However, she doubted she should say, “Don’t bother me now; I have a murder to deal with,” so she followed the woman back toward the main entrance of the club. On the way, Jo caught sight of Hank Schroder’s white pickup coming in their direction. She wasn’t sure if he saw her, but his truck made what looked like a sudden right turn onto one of the drive’s offshoots.

Bob Gordon popped up from his desk as Jo entered his office.

“Mrs. McAllister,” he cried, jovially, “great to see you.” He then peppered her with a variety of questions on the status of the craft show, which Jo answered as best she could without her notes at hand. All the while she tried not to stare at the framed photo hanging on the wall beyond his head—a photo of Gordon and his wife, Alden and Deirdre, and Bethanne.