Dewey Decimated, page 18
“Are you nervous about the—er, ceremony on Sunday? I told you, you won’t feel a thing.”
“I know that. I left my shell of a body some time ago.” He cleared his throat. “But just in case the experience moves me someplace else, I’d like to see Dylan. Do you think he’ll be willing to see me?”
“I’ll ask him,” I said. “If he says okay, it will have to be tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Carrie. That means a great deal to me. By the way, who was that young woman that made a mad dash to your office then flew out like a demon was chasing her?”
I chuckled at his description. “That’s Julie Theron. She’s a TV investigative reporter. I don’t know if you’re aware that Sean Powell, the man you thought you’d recognized yesterday, was murdered last night.”
Alec shook his head. “I had no idea. His construction company is doing the renovations on the building next door.”
“That’s right.”
He cocked his head as he thought. “I know it’s a stretch, but do you think the person who killed me also killed him?”
“Julie thinks the two murders are connected. She managed to convince me to join her in looking into the possibility.”
“That’s great!” Alec reached out to touch my arm. I lurched back, just in time.
“Sorry, Carrie. I want to thank you for all you’ve been doing to help me. I know I’m not the easiest person to deal with. We’ll both be glad when this is over.”
He faded away, and I decided I had one more thing to do before getting back to work. I looked up the phone number of the Clover Ridge Home for Seniors and asked to be connected to Albert Whitehead. I smiled when his croaky voice answered.
“Hello, Albert, this is Carrie Singleton. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“How would you like to join me for breakfast tomorrow morning—say eight thirty?”
“Sure. As long as the place serves French toast. I love French toast.”
“The diner I’m thinking of makes terrific French toast,” I said.
“Will Marcella be joining us?” he asked.
“Not this time,” I said carefully. “And please don’t mention it to her.”
He laughed. “It will be our little secret then. Just like old times.”
“Just like old times.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I intended to find out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was close to ten o’clock when Smoky Joe and I arrived home that evening. I found Dylan half-asleep on the living room sofa, the TV on mute. He looked up, groggy but grinning and happy to see me. I bent down and gave him a hug.
“Did you find something to eat in the fridge?” I asked.
“Yep. Leftover chicken, guacamole, and salad.”
“I had a bowl of chili at the Cozy Corner Café for dinner,” I said. “Dessert would be nice.”
“Ice cream!” we said at the same time.
Minutes later, as we sat at the kitchen table downing spoonfuls of pistachio ice cream topped with dried cranberries and chocolate syrup, I told Dylan about my various visitors during the day.
“So,” he said when I was done, “you’re joining forces with Julie Theron, our local Lois Lane, to solve the two murders she believes are connected. And Uncle Alec wants to chat with me before going up in flames on Sunday.”
I nodded. “Which would mean you coming into the library tomorrow.”
Dylan’s face remained impassive as he considered his uncle’s request. I was hoping he’d agree because he and Alec had been close at one time and this might be their last chance to communicate with one another.
“I suppose I can do it. I have to go into the office tomorrow morning, but I could get to the library around two.”
“I’m glad. It seemed important to Alec.”
“After all, he is my uncle, and I feel I owe it to him. But babe, teaming up with Julie Theron might not be a good idea.”
I nodded. “John will be furious when he finds out. If he finds out.”
“I don’t suppose you caught her latest TV appearance. The one that aired tonight.”
“No, I’ve been working.”
“She announced she was on the track of the person who murdered Sean Powell and Alec Dunmore and plans to reveal his identity very soon.”
I stared at Dylan. “The idiot! She’s asking for trouble.”
Dylan grimaced. “She’s a loose cannon, Carrie. You know I never tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, but I’m worried about you associating with Julie Theron. I’m relieved she’s never said you’re involved in the investigation.”
“She has instructions not to,” I said grimly.
“Thank God she’s followed through … so far.”
* * *
Saturday morning I drank my mug of coffee while Dylan scrambled a few eggs, which he ate with peanut butter on toast. I knew he was apprehensive about my arrangement with Julie Theron, but I wasn’t about to call it off. Her announcement about outing the murderer was foolhardy, but her investigative instincts were solid. She was spot-on thinking the two of us, with our particular skills, made an awesome duo. If only she were less pushy and in-your-face.
I stroked Smoky Joe, kissed Dylan goodbye, and climbed into my car heading for the Clover Ridge Home for Seniors. I was worried that Albert might have forgotten or changed his mind, but no, there he was waiting for me outside the entrance to the senior residence. I drove slowly around the circular drive and he hobbled up to the car on his cane, grinning as he climbed into the passenger seat.
“This is such fun!” he declared. “I never get to eat breakfast out with a stunner like you.”
“Thank you, Albert. Did Marcella wonder why you weren’t at breakfast this morning?”
“Last night at dinner I told her I planned to stay up late to watch a favorite old movie on TV and sleep in this morning. It’s something I do from time to time, so I doubt she’ll be suspicious.”
“That’s good.”
He shot me a shrewd glance. “We’re cousins, Marcella and me, and I love her dearly, but we’re not joined at the hip.”
“Got it,” I said.
We made light conversation as I drove to the diner. Albert was fun to chat with, and we got on the subject of how Clover Ridge used to be when he was young.
“There were many more farms around like the one your family owned, and the elementary school went from K through nine. Marcella, James, and I attended high school in Merrivale,” Albert said. “I made plenty of good friends there, though many of them have since died.”
“I suppose you knew my grandfather and Uncle Bosco.”
“Of course, though they were a decade or so younger than me. And I remember your dad.” Albert chuckled as he shook his head. “Jim Singleton was one funny kid. Had an angle to everything he did. One summer he sold strawberries for a crazy low price. He set up a stand close to the two or three inns where tourists came to stay. It was an especially good season, and he was raking in money hand over fist. Until his father and your uncle got wind of it. They’d been planning to sell the strawberries at the market for more money.”
I winced, figuring Albert also knew that my father had done a few stints in prison for theft. “Well, my father has a great job now, and he’s remarried—to the nicest woman.”
“Good for Jim,” Albert said as I pulled into a spot in the diner’s parking lot.
At a quarter to nine, the diner was crowded, mostly with families. Albert and I managed to snag one of the last tables. When our waitress appeared, we both ordered French toast.
As she left to get our coffee, Albert said, “I was sorry to hear that Sean Powell died. Murdered, that young reporter announced on TV.”
I nodded. “According to Julie Theron, your cousin James told you that Sean and Alec Dunmore were interested in buying the building next to the library.”
Albert had the grace to look ashamed. “Julie told you that?”
I nodded.
“Sorry. I couldn’t say anything in front of Marcella. Actually, it was Alec Dunmore who was interested in buying the building, only he balked at the large down payment James insisted on getting up front. So James got the brilliant idea to have Sean Powell and a few others join him and Dunmore in a local bar and pretend they wanted in on the deal too—at a smaller percentage. Meanwhile, James made sure Dunmore got good and drunk until he forked over the money.”
Albert laughed. “Sean said his company would renovate the place, saving Dunmore a bundle of money, and since it was well situated on the Green it couldn’t help but turn into a moneymaker.”
I frowned as I followed what he was telling me. “But why would Sean do that?”
Albert shrugged. “My guess is he owed James a lot of money. This was one way he could wipe the slate clean. So Sean asked a few of his friends to play along. Or maybe they also owed my cousin. Jamie Boy had a way of getting his claws into people and draining them dry. It’s amazing no one offed him and he died of natural causes.”
I felt my pulse speed up. “Do you remember who else was involved in this scam?”
Albert closed his eyes and thought. “Buzz Coleman. He worked for Sean.”
“Yes, I know Buzz. Anyone else you can think of?”
“There was an architect, too. Roger, no, Rafael Torres.”
“Did James ever say what Alec wanted to do with the building?”
Albert laughed. “He didn’t care as long as we got top dollar for the place. One of them—I think Sean—threw out the idea of a boutique B and B. Or was it an office building? Not that it mattered. The deal never went through.”
“Is that what James told you?”
“Sort of. When I ran into him a few days later, I asked what was happening. ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing,’ he said and rushed past me. The deal was dead. I knew better than to press the issue.”
The deal was dead, Alec was dead. “Did your cousin ever say whether or not he gave Alec Dunmore back his money?” I asked.
Albert scoffed. “James hand back money? You gotta be kidding. Not that Marcella or I ever saw a penny of it.”
Our French toast arrived. I poured maple syrup on mine while Albert opened tiny containers of blueberry and strawberry jam to smear on his. For a minute we were too busy eating to talk. I barely managed to finish half of my portion and marveled that Albert was scarfing his down to the very last bite.
“That was delicious,” he said, pushing the plate away. “Too bad they don’t serve food like this at the Home.”
Our waitress came by to refill our coffee mugs. I looked at Albert. “Would you like something to go with your second cup of coffee?”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t mind a blueberry muffin.” He glanced up at our waitress. “Very lightly toasted, with plenty of butter. And I’ll need more jam.”
When she left, Albert looked at me. “I thought I’d bring back half the muffin for Marcella.”
“That’s very nice of you, but I’d be happy to get her her own muffin.”
“No need. Marcella and I are used to sharing.”
I nodded. “Except you never told her about the one time James let you know the building had a good chance of being sold.”
“Nope. Interestingly enough, James mentioned it in passing when the three of us were together. It must have been a month or two after the deal fell through. He wasn’t angry anymore, just resigned, so I figured there was no need to tell Marcella that he’d confided in me earlier. Why hurt her feelings?”
“Good point,” I said.
When his muffin arrived, Albert cut it in half and asked our waitress for a bag to bring half of it home with him. I asked for a container for my French toast. As soon as she left, I asked, “And you really think your cousin was capable of murdering Alec Dunmore for changing his mind about the sale?”
Albert nodded, his mouth too full of blueberry muffin to speak. “Sure, if he was in a fit of anger. James had difficulty controlling his temper. And losing that sale would have sent him over the edge.”
“Then six years later someone murders Sean,” I mused.
“Makes you wonder,” Albert said.
We chatted easily as I drove him back to the Home for Seniors. Albert was surprisingly up on current events and took great interest in everything concerning Clover Ridge. He was delighted when I told him that we’d voted to keep the Seabrook property a preserve.
“Good move! People need a bit of nature in their lives. You can’t go around building houses and shops on every parcel of land.” He turned to stare at me. “Did Sean vote for the preserve?”
Though we weren’t supposed to divulge who voted for what, I nodded.
Albert pursed his lips. “That could be why someone killed him.”
I laughed. “I hope that’s not the case, since it would mean Al Tripp and I are next.”
Minutes later I pulled into the driveway of the Clover Ridge Home for Seniors. I got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side to help Albert out of the car. “Don’t forget Marcella’s muffin,” I said, reaching for the paper bag.
“Thank you so much for a delightful outing,” Albert said as he steadied his cane on the ground. He winked. “Feel free to call on me any time you want a breakfast companion. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
I was about to step back into my car when Marcella came striding toward us, walking faster than I’d imagined a woman her age could move.
“Did you have a pleasant outing?” she demanded, glaring at her cousin, then at me. The words “without me” hung in the air as if she’d shouted them aloud.
“For you,” Albert managed to say. He held out the bag containing the half muffin.
“Thank you!” Marcella swiped it from his hand. “And what did you have to tell Carrie that you couldn’t say in front of me?”
“Er—why don’t we go inside and discuss it?” Albert said.
Marcella glowered at me. “Coming, Carrie?”
Do I have a choice? “Of course.”
They both assured me that despite the No Parking sign it was fine to leave my car in the circular driveway as I’d only be a few minutes, and we headed for the entrance. Marcella walked briskly ahead, chest out, a bantam of a woman spoiling for a fight. Albert and I followed meekly at a slower pace and caught up with Marcella in the far corner of the large social room. As soon as we were seated—the two cousins in chairs, me facing them on a loveseat—Albert began his explanation.
“Carrie asked for my assistance with her investigation into two local murders. Alas, I wasn’t much help—”
“Clearly it concerns that poor man found dead in that dratted building. What can you possibly know that I don’t, Albert Whitehead?” It occurred to me that the timid, shy Marcella had inherited some of her brother’s personality.
Albert hunched his shoulders as though to protect himself from her onslaught. “James told me he was in the process of selling the building to that Alec Dunmore fellow. Estelle Avery’s brother. Only it turned out he never did buy it.”
Marcella shrugged. “We know that.”
“Only I knew about it a bit earlier than you did. I didn’t tell you at the time because James said not to mention it to you, and then I forgot about it because he told us the sale never went through a few months later when the three of us were together. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
Marcella scoffed. “So kind of you.”
“Then you’re not hurt,” Albert said.
“Hurt? No, I’m angry. Angry at my brother for his bossy ways and at you, Albert, for being so touched that he’d confided in you that you followed his instructions like a good puppy dog.”
“Sorry,” Albert mumbled. “You’re right.”
Marcella grinned suddenly. “Did it ever occur to you that I might have known something about the goings-on at the time?”
“No!” Albert said.
We both stared at Marcella, awaiting her next words.
“At the time James thought he had a prospective buyer, I knew something was up. How could I not, living in the same house with him? He’d get phone calls, jot down notes, then get back on the phone. He was careful to throw most of his notes away, but I saw one or two showing the times of day or night when he was meeting someone at the building we all owned.”
She jutted her face toward Albert. “And we had every right to know about it.”
“You’re right,” Albert said, swallowing. “James should have kept us in the loop.”
“But I knew my dear brother wouldn’t tell me anything, so I decided to follow him one night.”
Good girl! I stared at her in admiration.
“I watched from the shadows to see who James was meeting. A few men showed up. The only ones I recognized were Sean Powell and Buzz Coleman.”
I nodded, certain I wasn’t about to learn anything new. At least Albert knew that Alec and Rafe had also been present.
Marcella must have read the disappointment in my face because she said, “Hold on. There’s more.”
“Okay,” I said, mostly to be polite.
“I waited outside for at least half an hour. Good thing it was warm. I considered going into the building but was afraid someone would catch sight of me. A breeze started up. I felt chilled so I had decided to leave when the whole bunch of them, including James, traipsed outside. Okay, I thought, show’s over, when my brother went back inside the building.
“This time I followed him. He’d locked the door, but I had my own key. I slipped into the small front hall and tried to figure out where James had gone and why he was back in that ruin of a building.”
Marcella paused.
“And?” I said, caught up in the story.
“For about twenty minutes nothing happened. I was about to take off when someone knocked on the door. I had just enough time to hide in the kitchen. James went to let in whoever he was expecting. There were two people—a man and a woman.”
“Who were they?” Albert asked.
“Babette Fisher and Reggie Williams.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
