Читать книгу A Country Gift Shop Collection: Three cosy crime novels that will keep you guessing! - Vivian Conroy - Страница 17

As they arrived at Claire’s cottage, the scent of spicy lasagna already wafted out of the window. Vicky had opened it a crack before her walk with the dogs. As she stepped in, she tilted her head. Was that Mom’s voice talking from the den? To the dogs who ran to greet her?

No, a voice replied. A male voice.

Surprised, Vicky walked into the living room. Everett Baker sat on the sofa with a plate full of lasagna on his knee, a napkin tucked into his shirt collar and a fork in his right hand. He flushed as he saw Vicky. He tried to rise, then thought better of it and stayed seated. “Good evening.”

Mr. Pug waddled up to him and sat down on his left shoe, glancing up with big pleading eyes for some lasagna. The dog was drooling seriously, and Vicky snapped him up before it could get on Everett’s neat gray suit. “I’ll put the dogs in the pen in the kitchen, Mom, until we’re finished eating. Michael is here too, for a bite.”

Claire frowned at her. “The lasagna stood too long and got sticky, I bet. I don’t know why these walks have to last forever, Vicky. The dogs look bushed.”

Coco was indeed panting as if she had run the marathon, but Vicky knew Claire suspected her of having met Michael Danning by design and whiling away the time gazing into his deep brown eyes. But the unexpected visitor prevented her mother from being more explicit in her disapproval.

“Well, when I got my share, it was perfect,” Everett said with satisfaction, checking his watch. “Of course it’s been half an hour since then. I recall the eight o’clock news was just about to start when I arrived.”

“Oh, all that bad news, just depressing.” Claire waved a hand. “I’d rather talk about something interesting like the new houses they are building on the other side of town. I guess you are handling the sales?” She cast a look at Michael as if to ensure he was going to hear all about Everett’s success.

“One moment, I’ll get our dinner.” Vicky quickly made for the kitchen. Everett not only handled all sales of property around these parts, but he could also talk about it forever. That and chess. He had been a county champion, who showed his trophies off at school. She had always been surprised he had never made grand master. That would have given him an awesome chance to travel. But his mother probably wouldn’t have let him. She had been known to guard her only son like a tigress. Poor Everett had never had a dime of his own to spend, as his mother controlled his allowance and decided what he could buy and do.

Vicky bet he missed his mother though, who had passed away three years ago. That had to be the reason he stopped by every other week and spent an evening with Claire, playing checkers or backgammon. It was something so…social for a man as intensely businesslike as Everett. Out of character.

But the company it provided for Claire had been very welcome when Vicky had lived abroad, and now that she was back, she’d simply have to put up with Everett’s fortnightly visits and his real estate successes.

The phone against the wall rang, and Vicky went for it, but she was too late. Claire had already answered the cordless in the den. As it was her main source of information, she always had a phone within reach.

Vicky could hear her say, “Really? When did they discover that?”

Her mother’s voice sounded shocked. Could it have anything to do with the sirens they had heard earlier?

The cold sensation returned full force and, forgetting that she wanted dinner, Vicky walked into the den to hear what was up. She glanced at Michael, who also seemed to sense some tension. He stared at Claire in concentration, listening to her answers to the caller on the other end of the line.

“No, I had no idea. But I’ll turn on the television to see if any local station reports it later tonight. Thanks for calling.”

Claire put the receiver down and looked at them, one by one, stretching the suspense before she shared her news. “There’s a big fire raging, at Perkins’ home. Seems his barn caught fire. The firefighters are keeping other properties wet to make sure it can’t spread. Perkins is out fishing, and his wife was with a friend for the evening, so no harm done to any people.”

“If there was nobody home, how did they discover the fire?” Michael asked. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Nobody has called me yet.”

Claire shrugged, gratified that she had been informed first. “A neighbor saw the flames I guess. The barn is all wooden and stuffed with paperwork, so it probably burned like dry tinder.”

“Paperwork?” Vicky repeated. She glanced at Michael. He had wanted to look through old police files that Perkins kept in a barn. Had those files burned tonight? It would be an enormous coincidence if they had. “It’s odd that a barn would just catch fire. There was no lightning tonight. Nothing to set it off as far as I can see.”

“Well, they do say,” Everett said, “that fires can start when products that are stored get hot. I suppose that in a barn there’s always paint or other chemicals.”

“Yeah, I’ve reported on a case where spray from an air freshener hit a hot light bulb and caused an explosive reaction,” Michael said with a nod. He tapped his fingers together a moment, then rose. “Sorry to be walking away like this. The lasagna smells great, but I better go see if I can get a half decent picture of the burned-down barn and a comment from the person who first spotted the fire. Maybe a nice quote from a firefighter? If I’m fast, it can still make tomorrow’s paper.”

Vicky stopped him in the doorway. “Do you mind if I tag along?” She wanted to ask him in private if he really believed this fire had just started by itself.

Claire hitched a brow at her. “I thought you always said you disliked people who go watch disasters. That it is sensationalist and inappropriate.” Her voice rose with each word.

Vicky flushed. “I do, but…”

“Well, I can keep your mother company,” Everett said, comfortably stretching out his long legs. “I don’t mind another portion of that great homemade lasagna.”

As Michael and Vicky arrived at the scene of the fire, it was all over. The barn had been reduced to a blackened carcass that stood up against the darkening sky, illuminated by a huge light the firefighters had put up to facilitate their work. A group of people watched from a safe distance, the excited buzz of their combined voices filling the air. There were no casualties and no damage to Perkins’ home, so the locals felt free to view this as an event. And Glen Cove always liked an event.

“You were right about one thing,” Michael said to Vicky. They had halted away from the crowd so they could speak privately. “There was no real reason why a fire would suddenly start in this barn.”

She held his gaze. “You said something about a chemical reaction, right?”

“Perkins didn’t keep chemicals like paint in his barn. He kept those in the attic of his garage. His barn was meant for one thing only. Storage. Of their old furniture, his wife’s book collection.”

Vicky said it before he could, “And…his old police files.”

Michael held her gaze. “You understood right away. I couldn’t believe it when your mother said what was burning.” He rubbed his hands as if he was cold. “I guess nobody will be reading the old files anymore, huh?”

He lowered his voice as he turned to face her. “I was about to let it go, Vicky, I told you tonight. But if I can prove that this was arson…”

She hoped with all of her heart it was not. Diane was already convinced everybody in Glen Cove was hiding something. And Mortimer Gill had wanted a look at those old files as well. A hustler like him might now be convinced that he had been onto something big. One anonymous call to an out-of-town news station that there was a relation between the fire and a cold case involving a missing college sophomore, and journalists would be descending upon their little town to dig up anything they could find. It could turn very ugly, fast.

“Where are the police when you need them?” Michael whispered to her. “They have to look for traces of arson. The site has to be guarded overnight to make sure nobody can tamper with the evidence.”

His voice rose in intensity. “If Cash Rowland screws this up, because he doesn’t take it seriously, I will personally ensure his career as sheriff is the shortest in the history of the Glen Cove County police department!”

“Michael…” Vicky placed a placating hand on his arm. The tight muscles vibrated under her touch. “You don’t even know yet if it was arson.”

“Hello!” Marge Fisher popped up by their sides, apparently oblivious to the tense moment. “Come to see the excitement too? I know it’s terrible, but my sons wanted to come and look at it. They’re fascinated by firefighters. My husband will have to have a serious talk with them when we get home, or they will try to burn down something themselves. They don’t listen to me when I try to explain dangers. They just say girls are scared of everything.”

“Excuse me, I want to talk to some people who saw what happened.” Michael nodded curtly at Marge and walked off.

“Short fuse,” Marge said. “Or did I interrupt something important? I’m sorry if I did.”

“No, no,” Vicky said vaguely, following Michael’s movements. He mingled with the onlookers, exchanging a few words here and there, foremost listening to what was being said. Locals were still arriving on the scene, notified by their friends that something was up. Scanning their curious expressions, Vicky was reminded of Diane’s words about a criminal returning to the place of the crime to see the result of his action. Was the arsonist among the crowd? The idea put goose flesh on her arms.

Gwenda Gill was in the back of the crowd, watching the blackened remains with a thoughtful expression as if her mind was working out something. Knowing her ex had been so interested in those old police files, Vicky wondered if Gwenda knew why.

Too bad she was on such bad terms with the former beautician, else she could have gone over and asked some innocent questions about it. Now she need not even try. Gwenda wouldn’t give her the time of day. She firmly believed that Vicky had stolen her beauty parlor away from her.

A sheriff department’s Jeep came tearing up, and Cash Rowland climbed out with a young deputy in tow. He said something about having lent assistance at a bad bar fight in a nearby town. His tone was emphatic as he said, “Sad how violent some people get when they have had too much to drink.”

He barely seemed to notice Vicky as he marched past Marge and her to go talk to the firefighters’ commander.

“I had no idea we had bar fights around here,” Vicky said.

Marge shrugged. “I suppose that there are those roadside cafes with beer-for-a-buck nights that draw in a certain type of crowd. Once they’ve spent their twenty bucks for the night, or the bartender says they’ve had enough, the furniture starts flying.”

“Before ten in the evening?” Vicky was skeptical.

Marge looked her over. “What are you thinking?”

Vicky sighed. “I don’t know. I’m probably just tired.” She hoped Michael wouldn’t go on ram course with Cash, trying to prove he wasn’t taking appropriate action to safeguard the scene of the fire for investigation into the possibility of arson.

Marge leaned over and whispered, “My guess would be that our good sheriff doesn’t want to admit he’s late to the action because he and his deputy were playing cards with friends. But anyway…I’d better go round up the boys. They should have been in bed by now. You want to say hi to them and my husband? They’ve already heard a lot about you and your store.”

“Sure.”

They found Marge’s boys—two redheaded bundles of energy like their mom—entertained by a firefighter who demonstrated his protective suit. A giant of a man with dark curls was watching the scene with a wide smile.

Marge introduced him as Kevin, and he shook hands with Vicky. “Nice to meet you.”

“I also sat in the cabin of the fire truck,” the youngest boy called triumphantly. “I held the wheel!”

Despite Marge’s reminder of bedtime, they were reluctant to leave their new hero, and Marge had to promise that they’d come to the open house at the fire station soon, to see all the trucks and get a chance to handle the hose themselves and try to hit a moving target.

At that prospect the boys immediately wanted to go home to call their grandmother about their exciting experiences. They grabbed Marge’s hands and tried to pull her along. “I’ll be at the store the next few days to help out,” Marge promised Vicky. “Kev could lend a hand too, painting those walls.” She nodded at her husband as if giving him a cue.

Kevin Fisher said, “Oh, yes, of course. I’ll bring my own gear. No need to buy any new stuff.”

“Great,” Vicky said. “I have a student who cleaned the oak beams for me and I have paint for the walls, but I was reluctant to buy all the gear. If you bring yours, you can both use it.”

“Kev can do the pantry a nice ocean blue,” Marge said.

“Great idea,” Vicky agreed. “But I really want to tackle that fireplace first. The breaking will cause a lot of dust, which isn’t practical with wet paint around, you know.”

“The breaking part of the job can’t take more than a few hours,” Kevin said.Marge supplied, “If Mortimer starts on it at eight, he can be done by lunch break and continue with the restoration bit after lunch. Kevin can start painting around one-thirty, I guess. Tomorrow is your afternoon off from work, right, honey?”

Without waiting for a reply she continued to Vicky, “And didn’t you say you were expecting some delivery tomorrow at five?”

“Yes, my sideboards. I decided to take two matching ones. And some leather chairs to go in front of that fireplace once it’s done.”

“Fabulous. If that student helps out, they can be done painting by the time the sideboards and chairs arrive. Of course you can’t put anything into place as long as the walls are wet, but at least you won’t have to worry about painting anymore.”

Vicky nodded. “That would be a relief. There’s still enough left to tackle.”

Marge stretched her neck as if spying for someone. “Why don’t you ask Mortimer right now?” she urged. “There he is, just arrived on the scene.”

She pointed to the dented van that halted along the road. “I suppose he is not in the loop anymore, or he would have heard about the fire sooner. Uh-oh. Gwenda saw him too and is sailing down on him to give him an earful. Those two can’t be in the same room or they are at each other’s throats. We’d better go over quickly, before he flees. Kev, you take the boys to the car. I’ll be with you soon, OK?”

Kevin nodded and took the boys along, while Marge and Vicky made their way over to the former spouses.

As they came up on them, Vicky overheard Gwenda saying in a hiss, “Trust me, if I find out you made a dime off this scam, I will make sure it goes to me. The easy way, or the hard way. Your choice.”

The viciousness behind the words made it sound a lot like a threat.

Spotting Vicky and Marge, Gwenda straightened up. “What are you looking at? Mind your own business!”

She stalked away to where her blue mountain bike lay against a tree trunk. Her poodle waited beside it, nervous with the stench of smoke and the crowd nearby.

Gwenda was known to cycle around town every night to exercise her dog and burn calories. She grabbed the bike, jumped on it and sped off, not once looking back. The dog ran after her, wagging its pom-pom tail.

Mortimer jerked open the door of his van. He looked ready to dive behind the wheel and go after his ex-wife to run her down. His jaw worked hard, and the veins on his temples stood out.

“Seems like Gwenda is steamed about something,” Marge said innocently.

Mortimer shrugged. “Nothing new. As soon as I’ve got a job someplace, she comes over and tries to squeeze me for money. She never thinks she’s getting enough alimony, you know. Complains she can’t even afford to buy dog food. But I’m not giving her another dime. She accused me of having written those letters about her product doctoring, and people blamed me for it and don’t want to hire me no more. That’s her fault. She’d better find herself another sucker to take care of her and that ugly mutt she calls a show dog.”

Vicky smiled politely, but to her mind Mortimer’s explanation didn’t exactly fit with what Gwenda had said. She had not been talking about a normal job she wanted money off, but about a scam.

Marge was already asking Mortimer if he could do the fireplace and start on it the next morning. Mortimer suddenly seemed reluctant to accept a job in the store right under the apartment of his ex. “She’s bound to see me and come after me again.”

Vicky was surprised that he had first been pressing her to hand him the job and was now eager to avoid it. Did he feel like he didn’t need to work anymore because he had money coming from this scam Gwenda had just referred to?

“Nonsense, Gwenda is never out of bed before nine,” Marge said encouragingly. “If you can be there at seven-thirty, you won’t run into her.”

“You always think I have to rise early and work all day to make a living. But you will see something else. Soon.” Mortimer sounded smug.

“Sure,” Marge said unperturbed, “Seven-thirty it is then. And make sure you’re done breaking around noon. Kevin is coming in to paint and he can’t work in a dusty room.”

“All right then,” Mortimer agreed and grinned at Vicky. There was a gleam in his deep-set eyes. “I knew that you’d go with me eventually. Everybody has to.” He got into his van and dragged the door shut with a bang. The engine broke into life.

Vicky glanced back at Cash, who had taken off his hat and was raking a hand through his hair as he spoke with the firefighters’ commander. He always did that when he was at a loss what to do next.

Judging by his expression he was hearing something he didn’t like.

The next morning Vicky was curious how the Glen Cove Gazette would cover the fire, but having promised Mortimer to be at the store around seven-thirty, to avoid a run-in with Gwenda, she couldn’t wait for the Gazette to be delivered to her cottage.

There were only two or three newspaper boys active in Glen Cove and the time at which they delivered the paper varied widely with their chosen route for the day. She’d have to go out and buy something at Jones General later that day to sneak a peek at the newspapers sold there.

Upon her arrival at the store Mortimer was already there, with red-rimmed eyes and an unshaven chin as if he had just rolled out of bed and into his van. He complained about having had no breakfast at all, and Vicky felt obliged to go over to the baker’s, the only one open at this early hour, to get Mortimer something to eat.

The bakery was filled with warmth from the ovens in the back and the sweetness of fresh muffins. On the counter the jars of honey sat with their cute handmade labels of buzzing bees. The friendly baker’s wife told Vicky that it was a design of their granddaughter who studied arts in Boston and added in the same breath that Perkins had broken off his fishing trip and had hurried back home early that morning. “He is making a big fuss about the team that are going over his things.”

“Team?” Vicky asked in surprise.

“Yes, several men looking for traces it was lit,” the baker’s wife said with wide eyes. “At least I suppose that is what they are looking for. They seem to think somebody set fire to that barn.”

The baker appeared out of the back for a moment with his hands full of flour. “For the life of me I wouldn’t know why. People usually set fire to their home to get insurance money. But this barn was worth nothing. And the stuff in it…”

He shook his head. “Now me, I’m just glad it was not living things in there, like chickens. Or bees. I’ve had enough trouble with mine lately. Mysterious disease killing off dozens. Has to be either pesticides or parasites.”

He sighed sadly. “The two P’s—they are the bane of the beekeeper’s existence.”

Vicky expressed her regret about the situation, promised to direct her customers to his store for the Keep The Bees Buzzzy bread to support him and left with four muffins, still warm, in a paper bag.

Mortimer accepted the biggest two, one apple-cinnamon, the other double chocolate, and devoured them, blowing crumbs all around him as he mumbled how delicious they were.

Curious for his response to the appearance of a team looking for evidence of arson, Vicky shared that Perkins was back in town and that his barn was allegedly lit.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Mortimer mumbled. He swallowed and continued, more audibly, “Must have been about those old police files. Nothing else of value in that barn, I reckon.”

Vicky eyed him sharply. “You mean that the barn was set on fire deliberately to destroy those old police files?”

Mortimer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The smug smile of the night before was back on his face. “Of course. I even bet whoever lit it now thinks all the evidence is gone and he can’t be touched no more.”

His smile intensified as if he knew better.

Vicky stared at him. “How can you be so sure?”

Mortimer ignored the question and pulled out his measuring tape. He started for the wall where the fireplace was hidden. “I’d better get cracking if you want me done breaking by lunchtime.”

Not a word of thanks for the muffins. But maybe she should be grateful he wanted to get started. They were on a rather tight schedule.

As Mortimer tapped on the wall to search for the fireplace, Vicky spied out of the window and saw the boy who delivered the Glen Cove Gazettes to the general store to be sold there. He simply left the bundle of them, secured with string, in front of the store door. In a place like Glen Cove nobody would get it into his head to go over and take one without paying for it.

Vicky wanted a look at the Gazette’s coverage of the fire and perhaps to investigate what was going on at Perkins’ place, with that team looking for traces of arson.

“You know,” she said to Mortimer, “I have some errands to run. I could be gone a while. Do you think you can manage without me?”

“I’ll turn the key in the lock behind you.” Mortimer waved a hand. “As long as Gwenda can’t get to me, I’ll be fine.”