Beware False Profits Part 8

Suddenly I wasn't quite so sure this neighborhood and those neighborly gazes were completely benign. Despite the smiling sun I got a chill down my spine. It was time to move on.

In my van again I headed toward the Victorian to see what the newest carpenter on a growing list had accomplished on our renovations over the weekend. I pulled onto Bunting Street and parked, telling myself I should sit a moment to admire what Lucy and I have accomplished.

The house that will be Junie's quilt shop was designed and constructed in Stick Victorian style at the turn of the twentieth century. Although it was easy to miss before we began our renovations, the house has always been well proportioned and gracious.

When Lucy and I got our first glimpse, the exterior was a nondescript beige. For the update, Junie suggested a color that falls somewhere between a muted mauve and lavender. Junie's psychic ability may be questionable, but her color sense is extraordinary. Now the front porch is spruce green, the shutters black, and the considerable amount of trim is a warm cream or soft rose. The effect is charming without drawing negative attention to itself on a street with a mix of residential and commercial buildings.

The tired, overly disciplined evergreens were dispensed with last month to be replaced by a variety of blooming shrubs and beds of perennials. Junie always wanted to tend a garden, and now she'll have one. Once the forsythia and j.a.panese magnolias that will block out the parking area have grown tall enough she has plans for a patio with a fountain in the back. She envisions an annual summer tea on the lawn for her best customers, and many additional happy hours with her granddaughters.

Junie will love being the proprietor of a quilt shop, and she'll love living here-if Lucy and I can only make it happen. The problem is that we never planned on doing anything as extensive as this project, so we quickly reached the point where our own efforts weren't enough. We were knowledgeable and talented enough to do simple flips, and we even a.s.sembled a list of contractors in our price range who were capable of doing required rewiring and plumbing. But despite following every lead, we have yet to find a crew who can install a kitchen, build attractive shelves and counters for merchandise, and change the basic configuration of the rooms upstairs, which will be Junie's apartment.

The first team we hired installed a bathroom countertop backwards, so the backsplash nestled against our belly b.u.t.tons. The second framed in a closet on the wrong side of what would be Junie's bedroom so that the biggest window could be curtained by caftans and poodle skirts.

Two more failures followed these, both companies recommended, both incapable of swinging a hammer without error.

Now we're praying-Lucy in her bat mitzvah Hebrew and me in Unitarian-Universalist-that our fifth try will be the last. Hank Closeur, of Closeur Contracting, seems knowledgeable and receptive. Best of all, he and a couple of his men will be moonlighting, working on weekends and evenings, and giving us a price break because of it. We don't want to stretch Junie's budget any tighter than we have to.

I realized I was sitting in the van pretending to view with pleasure the progress we had made when in reality, I was just afraid to go inside and discover more mistakes. Junie is a welcome guest in our home, but she's ready to move on to this new phase of her life, and Ed and I are ready to pack the boxes.

Conquering my sense of dread, I made the trip up to the front porch and peered in the window first. Nothing seemed amiss in the front of the house. In fact, from what I could tell, nothing was different. That didn't bode well.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Sometime toward the end of the last century the downstairs had been remodeled so the floor plan was open and inviting. Luckily Junie liked it just the way it was, envisioning bolts of fabric in what was once the living and dining area, books and patterns in what had been a small kitchen, and notions in the study. Lucy and I had hired a crew to help demolish the kitchen and haul everything away but the fridge, which would eventually go in what was now a mudroom, for the employees to use. Another crew had refinished all the red oak floors. Now it was time for shelves along the walls, an island built to Junie's specifications, and a checkout counter in the front hallway.

Hank's first a.s.signment was the island, where fabric would be laid out and cut, old quilts would be spread to determine what repairs could be done, and new projects shown off to the quilt store staff and customers. Junie said the island would be the heart of the room, a focal point for anyone walking in the door. All well and good, but Hank's vision of the island was clearly quite different. Somehow, despite every caution, despite chalk marks on the floor exactly where Junie wanted the island to go and plans and materials that were sitting on the other side of the room, Hank or someone on his crew had begun to construct it just a few feet from the fireplace. In fact, so close to the fireplace that circling the island would be impossible for any woman with hips.

And Junie definitely has hips.

There was, as always, good news and bad. The bad news was the placement. The good news was that they'd done so little work on the island I could probably pry out the poorly driven nails anchoring it to the floor and move it myself. With one hand.

I have a problem with technology. In our troubled relations.h.i.+p I'm more or less the jilted lover, constantly pleading for explanations and one more chance. I'm convinced if I try harder, read enough books, I'll win technology over.

My newest attempt to please is a cell phone. These days I'm away from home enough to need one, and Ed insisted. Seems I've had too many close calls lately, never mind I've never met a murderer willing to wait while his victim-to-be dials 911. Still, my daughters have almost lost hope I'll ever be cool, and this was a stopgap measure. So last week I bought a nuts-and-bolts version and the cheapest wireless plan I could find, and attempted to join the twenty-first century.

Anyone can punch in numbers, even the technologically challenged. Now I fished for the phone resting in my pocket and made the attempt. I punched in Hank's number, which is the numerical form of Closeur. Words instead of numbers are a plague on the universe, and I was so slow, so careful, that the first two times the call didn't go through. The robot operator got tired of waiting and cut me off.

I finally connected. The phone rang twice, then somebody answered. Unfortunately, that somebody answered in Chinese, or at least that's my best guess. I apologized in English and hung up. I hoped I'd reached San Francisco and not Beijing.

The fourth time was a charm. I was mastering this. Pocket calculators next, then iPods. Someday e-mail without Deena loading the program and retrieving my messages.

I waited until the woman who answered got Hank to the phone, then in my most professional manner I told him everything that was wrong. Just as he was about to answer, the line went dead.

I know there's a redial function on my phone. With a manual, a gla.s.s of wine, and Deena sitting close beside me, I'm sure someday I'll find it.

I found a pad and pen and wrote Hank a note detailing everything I'd said on the telephone. I left it on what pa.s.sed for carpentry and hoped that the next time I saw this room, the damage would be undone and a beautiful new island would be standing between our chalk marks.

Clearly on top of everything else, technology has addled my brain.

7.

My girls wake up early to get ready for school. Brownie Kefauver wakes up earlier. At least he did on Wednesday morning when his frantic pounding sent me toddling down the stairs in my fuzzy slippers and Ed's plaid flannel bathrobe. I was yawning when I unlocked the door, and my mouth stayed open when I saw who was waiting on the other side.

"Well...hmmm..." Having just dispensed with the vocabulary I feel most comfortable with before seven A.M., I opened the door wider and silently ushered him in.

By the time he sidled through the doorway, my brain was slowly cranking up. "Mr. Mayor." I don't think I'd ever called him that before. Maybe it was left over from an old episode of Spin City.

"Mrs. Wilc.o.x, I need help."

I nodded, because nodding is tough to screw up. I held a finger high, wordlessly asking him to wait, and went to the bottom of the stairs. "Ed." Since that emerged as a croak, I tried again. "Ed!"

Ed came down to the landing. Somehow he'd had the presence of mind to throw on sweat pants and a T-s.h.i.+rt. Of course I was wearing his robe, and my peach chenille wouldn't have suited him at all.

Although I guess it would have suited Joe Wagner.

"Brownie," Ed said, coming down to join us. "What can I help you with?"

I figured Brownie must have come about Hazel's funeral. The Kefauvers attend the Methodist church that nestles up to the Emerald Springs Oval, only a brief stroll from the parsonage. I knew the church was in the middle of a renovation project, and we had wondered if their sanctuary was ready for a funeral as large as Hazel's. Now I guessed Brownie wanted to use our church instead. To be polite he might even ask Ed to say a prayer or lead a responsive reading.

But none of my foggy musings prepared me for his next words.

"It's not you I'm here to see." He turned to me, dismissing my husband. "Mrs. Wilc.o.x, I need your help."

I glanced at Ed, wondering how he was taking this. No hogger of the limelight, he merely looked intrigued. His expression changed as Brownie continued.

"Hazel was poisoned."

I turned back to Brownie. Only then did I notice what he was wearing. Gone was the bow tie, perhaps because it was too early to insist that fingers tie or clip, but more likely because he was wearing a yellow polo s.h.i.+rt. With the b.u.t.tons undone. I was surprised I'd recognized him.

"Poisoned?" Ed asked.

"That's right!" He ran his hand through what hair was left. "And I know, at least I'm pretty sure, or almost sure at least, that the police suspect me."

Silence thrummed through the parsonage. Even the clocks forgot to tick. I cleared my throat when it thrummed too long. "Why?"

"Because they always suspect the husband, that's why!"

"Somebody told you this?"

"Please, Mrs. Wilc.o.x, I know how they work. Plus they asked if they could look through the house, just to see if they could determine why somebody would want her dead. But they did more than look. They went through her things. They even carried away some of our household cleaners, some supplies from the pantry and garage-"

"Aggie. Call me Aggie. And let's sit down."

I led him to the sofa, and to his credit, he was still calm enough to remember that he had to bend his knees and lower his b.u.t.t to the cus.h.i.+ons. Once he did, he rested his head in his hands.

"Did you just find out?" I asked.

"Last night, and I haven't had a wink of sleep." He looked up, still a little, nondescript man, but now that he wasn't dressed like Pee-wee Herman, he looked real and surprisingly vulnerable. I sympathized with all he had been through.

"Did they say how? What? When?" I asked.

He shook his head. "They refused. And I probably won't know until they charge me with murder."

"You don't know that's going to happen."

"Hazel was a wealthy woman. And now every penny will come to me. Can you think of a better motive?"

Not really, but I could think of other possibilities. Hazel Kefauver was universally disliked. Perhaps not hated, but certainly not the first person anybody thought of inviting to a backyard barbecue. If indeed she'd been murdered, then somebody had been angry enough to dispatch her to wherever it is people like Hazel go.

"You need means, motive, and opportunity," I told him, trying to help. But even as I said it, I realized the opportunity part was a done deal. I mean, Brownie lived with her. And means? Well, that depended on whatever poison killed her, and it sounded as if this was something the police were keeping to themselves.

"I saw the way Detective Roussos was looking at me when he came to tell me the autopsy results," Brownie said.

Roussos. No surprise there. The police chief wouldn't get within a hundred yards of this, not until everyone was sure Brownie was the murderer, and he rushed to take credit. No, for the moment, our chief would stay on the sidelines and turn this over to someone without political aspirations.

"Roussos always looks like that," I said. "I bet he gazed accusingly at his mother from the cradle. She probably had to hire a nanny. Did he say somebody poisoned her? Or simply that she was poisoned? Can you remember?"

Ed spoke from across the room. "Aggie, may I see you a moment?"

I'd forgotten he was standing there. I patted Brownie's hand. "I'll be right back. Think about what Roussos said."

Ed was waiting in the kitchen. And clearly he wasn't here to make coffee. His arms were folded, his eyes narrowed.

"You're helping him."

"Well, sure." I smiled innocently. "I mean, if he'd come to ask you if he could use the church for the funeral, you would have helped. Right? It's the same thing."

"I thought we had a deal."

"What deal is that?"

"You said you were going to stay out of murder investigations. Stay out. Remember?"

"Oh..." I nodded, as if I finally understood. "I'm not investigating a murder. I'm just trying to see if I can help Brownie prove he's not the murderer. Surely you can see the difference?"

"No."

"This is our mayor, Ed. You don't honestly think I should tell our mayor I can't help him because my husband thinks it's a bad idea. That'll reinforce his value system. What kind of message is that?"

"An honest one. An intelligent one."

I love my husband. I know he's reasonable, not controlling, and that he has my interests at heart on those rare occasions when he tries to talk me out of something. He knows the same thing about me. But this time I had to set him straight.

"I'm going to hear what he has to say. Then if I think I can help, I'm going to. But I'm not going to put myself in danger to protect Brownie Kefauver, if that's what's worrying you. I've learned that lesson."

"You've made up your mind, haven't you?"

"I haven't had a chance to make up anything, not even our bed." This time I narrowed my eyes. "But you have to trust me. Apparently I've found something I'm good at doing, and within limits, I plan to continue. You've been fine with me looking into Joe's disappearance. This isn't that different."

"Joe wasn't murdered."

"We don't know that." There, I'd said it, and I saw from his expression that Ed was worried about this possibility, too.

I went on before he could respond. "I don't want to have a fight with you every time I leave the house. I'll be careful, and I'll be smart. Give me some credit."

Since it was clear he was going to mull over at least some part of what I'd said before he answered, I went back into the living room and took my seat again.

I'm not sure Brownie realized I'd been gone. He spoke as soon as I was seated. "Roussos said she'd been poisoned. That's all he said. Nothing else."

"There are accidental poisonings. It would help if we knew with what." I decided to check with my detective nemesis to see if he would at least tell me if the police suspected foul play or carelessness. But I was guessing the first. Roussos would probably have told Brownie if Hazel's death seemed accidental.

"Were you and Hazel together all day Sunday, before she..."

"I wasn't out of her sight." He said this as if it hadn't been his choice.

"What about the day before?"

"Sat.u.r.day? She was away for part of the week visiting her sister. She came home Friday evening. On Sat.u.r.day we did some shopping, then a little yard work. She went to the library, and I took a nap until she got home."

I pictured Hazel rousing her husband from a sound sleep. Perhaps insisting on callisthenics or a round of tofu smoothies to get his blood flowing vigorously.

"And then?" I prompted.

"Dinner with friends. An early night. Sunday we went to church."

"I noticed Hazel's color wasn't good when I saw her at Mayday!" Now I wished I'd said something. Would she have listened? Would she have asked the medics to look her over? Would she have slugged me?

"I guess I wasn't paying much attention," Brownie said. "She just looked like Hazel to me."

I could see he wasn't going to be any help figuring out when the poisoning occurred. Hazel was lucky he noticed when she fell on the ground.

If you can call dying luck.

I touched his arm. "Just a couple of other things. Will anybody have reason...Let me rephrase. Have you given anybody reason to think that you might have done away with Hazel yourself?" I flinched at my slang. "I mean, have you been seen in public fighting? Have you confided to anyone that you wished you had a way to get Hazel out of your life?"

He didn't deny the possibility, which surprised me. In fact he squirmed, which was answer enough. "I'll think about that."

"And the last thing?" I waited until he was looking at me. "Why me? I mean, you have all the money you need to hire a real detective. So why did you come to me? I'm nothing but an amateur."

"I've heard you're nosy, and know how to find things out. And you discovered who killed Gelsey Falowell."

"Yes, well..." I didn't like the nosy part. "But why not a professional?"