A Stodgy Slaying, page 8
I stopped just inside the entryway. As slow as I dared, I set down the gloves, then checked my non-existent makeup in the mirror behind the “Welcome” table. I brushed my hair out of my eyes. Then I calmly turned toward the front door.
Passive-aggressiveness never felt so good.
By now, Jaime was fuming. I slowly unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.
“Yes, constable, what can I do for you?” I stood in the doorway, my arms crossed. No way was I inviting him in.
“Kat-”
“Ms. McCoy, please. I prefer not to be on a first-name basis with someone who thinks I’m a murderer.” I tilted my chin slightly in defiance.
Jaime’s eyes briefly fluttered closed in exasperation. “Fine,” he spit out. “Ms. McCoy, we’ve had a complaint about you.”
“I’m stunned,” I said. “It just gets better and better here.”
He peered at the little notebook. “It seems you have been harassing Mrs. Davies. Care to tell me about that?”
“No.” I started to step inside and reached for the door to close it. This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. Eleanor was supposed to call Jaime to tell him I couldn’t have killed Edgar Elliot Graham.
“Wait. Kat- Ms. McCoy, that wasn’t actually a question.” Jaime’s eyebrows threatened to come off the top of his head, they were so far raised.
“It sounded like a question, and I answered it.”
“Let me rephrase it then. Ms. McCoy, stop harassing Mrs. Davies. She is not a suspect in the death of Mr. Graham.”
“She was supposed to tell you about my alibi.” There, I said it.
“What alibi is that? That you were at the shop with Alex? The timing still works that you could have killed Graham.”
“But she saw him dead.”
“You could have killed him before you went to the store,” Jaime said.
“Maybe she killed him after all.”
He held up both hands. “What?”
“Is that an actual question that you want an answer to?”
He closed his eyes again. I almost smiled but bit it back just in time.
“Yes, please, answer the question. Why would you think Mrs. Davies killed Mr. Graham?”
I ticked off reasons on my fingers. “One, he gave her a bad review after he stayed there. Her income dropped off. Two, she told me about Mr. Graham and his purple scarf, but he had just bought the purple scarf that very afternoon, so she had to have seen him close to the time of his death.”
“Hmmm.” Jaime’s brow furrowed and he wrote in his notebook. I took some pleasure in that.
“Do you want me to slow down?” I asked.
His eyes flicked up at me and he glared. “Just keep talking.”
This time, the smile broke through, though I hid it as soon as I could. “Three, she has been trying to shut me down ever since I came here. She keeps tattling to the Tourism Commission about me.”
Jaime stopped writing and looked at me. “That doesn’t sound like Eleanor. What does she have against you?”
“I’m not English, I imagine.”
He tapped his notebook and wrote a little more, then looked up again. “Anything else?”
“Four, she lied to me about the scarf.”
“Lying doesn’t necessarily mean she’s guilty.”
“Maybe not of murder, but guilty of something, like stealing the flag from my front yard.”
He flipped his notebook closed, then peered closely at me, leaning toward me slightly.
“Kat, this is good information, but please leave the investigating to me. Just because I let you help last time-”
“And we caught the killer-”
“Yes, yes, you did. Be that as it may, please stay out of this one. You’re only making it harder on yourself and on me.”
I shook my head. “I can’t do that, Jaime. You’ve set out to prove I’m a killer. I’m not, and I’ll prove it to you.”
He smiled wistfully.
“What?” I demanded.
“It’s just that you’re so much like your Aunt Selma. She would have been proud.”
With that, Jaime turned and started down the front steps without turning around. Which was a good thing because if he had, he would have seen tears in my eyes.
Chapter 18
I shook it off and headed to the shed in Aunt Selma’s back yard. Murder investigation or not, chores still needed to be done.
The next thing on my list was cleaning out the rain gutters. I found a ladder just inside the shed and dragged it around to the front of the house, setting it up just under the gutters. I had searched online for the proper tools to clean out the rain gutters but in the end decided to go with a heavy-duty paint scraper I found in the shed.
I left the ladder and the bag on the ground and headed upstairs. The second-floor gutters were too far to reach with a ladder, but I thought I could step onto the roof from the third-floor windows and reach the gutters from there. Fortunately, the second-floor roof wasn’t too sloped. I figured I should start with the top gutters in case debris fell into the bottom one.
I stepped out onto the roof and immediately dropped to my hands and knees to crawl toward the gutter. More than anything, I didn’t want to go pitching off the roof to the street below. One death on my street was more than enough this week, thank you very much.
As I neared the edge of the roof, I dragged the paint scraper around me and began to push the debris out of the gutter onto the ground below. I whacked at a few tough spots with more vigor than was probably necessary. Apparently, some of my pent-up frustration with Jaime was filtering out through my DIY moment. I banged at the gutter with each syllable I uttered out loud: “Darn. You. Jai. Me. Allen!”
Pausing, I chuckled at myself. I took a deep breath and gazed down the street at the row of nineteenth-century homes and inns against a backdrop of greenery from the trees and hills. From this viewpoint, I could possibly, ever so minutely, believe that everything was going to work out all right. With that refreshing thought, I turned back to the gutter with renewed vigor.
Within a few minutes, I had finished nearly all of the gutters and felt a sense of accomplishment. I was an independent woman, after all. I could take care of a nineteenth century B&B.
As I reached for the gutter, my foot slipped, and I slid toward the edge of the roof.
“Help!” I screamed as the end approached at a hasty clip.
I smacked the paint scraper into the roof and stopped myself just inches from the edge.
My heart raced. That had been close. Apparently, I needed to pay closer attention to what I was doing.
I carefully backed myself up the roof and back to the window. Grabbing the windowsill, I pulled myself over the edge and into the room. After pausing for a few moments to calm my rapid heartbeat, I picked up the paint scraper and started downstairs.
Outside, I positioned the ladder under the gutters, then reached up and set the paint scraper on the top of the ladder. I gingerly climbed up the steps, having to stand nearly on the top step to reach the gutter. I wasn’t a big fan of heights, but this set of gutters was on the first floor of the house, so I could reach it from the ladder on the ground. It didn’t take long to push the leaves and debris from the gutter to the ground.
As I stepped back down the ladder in relief, the second step gave way beneath me. It was so unexpected that I flung off the ladder, grabbing onto the gutter. For a few moments, I balanced precariously with one foot clinging to the ladder and the other flailing in mid-air.
Hanging onto the gutter, I tried to pull the ladder closer. And watched the ladder fall over.
“No! Help!” I yelled for the second time that day as my legs flailed with nothing to find purchase on.
The gutter squeaked and I dropped a bit. I screamed again. My whole body shook as I hung next to the house, trying not to move. Glancing toward the house, I wondered if I could swing my legs to the wall and somehow crawl down the wall instead of falling straight to the ground.
Just then the gutter creaked beneath my weight and pulled away from the house, leaving me hanging in mid-air.
My heart raced and I screamed.
“Help! Help!”
I felt the gutter sag and didn’t know how long it would hold. I was pretty sure gutters were only designed to hold the weight of dead leaves, not a full-grown woman.
“Help!” I screamed again. “Corbyn!”
Then I remembered that Corbyn was off to the senior citizens centre again. He would be no help right now. Even if he were here, well, he was ninety years old. But he could call for help.
“Kat! Are you all right?” I heard footsteps, although I couldn’t see behind me.
“Jaime? Is that you?”
“Yes, what happened?”
“I’ll tell you after I get down from here.”
Jaime set the ladder back up against the house.
“Be careful,” I warned. “That’s how I ended up here.”
He climbed up the steps, stopping to check to make sure each one would hold his weight. When he got close enough, he wrapped his legs around the ladder and reached toward me with both hands.
“Step your foot over here.” He guided one of my legs onto the ladder’s step. “Good, good. Now give me your hand.”
I still clutched the gutter, because at least it felt safe. Then it creaked and drooped.
I screamed again and grabbed onto Jaime’s shoulder. He grabbed me with the other hand and pulled me to the ladder.
He stepped down first, testing each step again, then moving my feet down rung by rung.
When I got to the bottom, I collapsed in a heap.
“You’re not hurt. You’ve just had a scare.” Jaime knelt beside me, awkwardly patting me on the shoulder. “Even if you had fallen, you likely wouldn’t have done more than twist an ankle or suffer some bruises.”
Turning to sit on the small plot of grass between the house and pavement, I looked up at the gutter, which suddenly didn’t seem so far away, then over at Jaime. “I know I should thank you, but I also know you were only here because you’re spying on me.”
He gave a heavy sigh and dropped his head. “Don’t be like that, Kat.”
“Me? Don’t me be like what?” I scrambled to my feet and faced him. “Don’t call you on the fact that you’re being an idiot?”
He looked away. “I’m just doing my job. And by the way, I was on my way to Clarissa’s and just happened to see you hanging … around.”
I refused to smile at his joke. “Thank you for helping me, but I still have work to do.”
Despite my protestations, Jaime helped me sweep the leaves and debris into a large garbage bag. When I came back from putting the bag in a trash bin, he was standing by the ladder, studying the rung that had broken.
He glanced up as I approached.
“I know, I know,” I waved away whatever scolding he was going to give me. “It’s an old ladder and I should have known better.”
He shook his head. “Actually, Kat, the ladder is in fine shape. Someone sawed a chunk out of this step. It looks like it was done on purpose.”
I caught my breath. “What are you talking about? Are you saying someone tried to hurt me?”
He nodded. “That’s what it looks like. Either you or your aunt, and everyone in town knew she wouldn’t be going up this ladder. So you’re the lucky winner.”
“Who would want to hurt me? I hardly know anyone in town.”
“Well, you are fairly annoying,” he said, with a quick grin.
I glared at him. “Not the time, constable.”
The smile faded from his face. “Sorry. Who else have you investigated in my case?”
“Well, in my case, I have talked to Jonathan Moore and Marjorie Brooks and Eleanor Davies. Oh, and Geoff McPherson.”
Recognition dawned in his eyes as he held up the ladder with one hand. “Ah, that explains why Alex was so fired up to talk to me about Geoff McPherson. You put him up to it.”
“Would you have listened to me if I had told you?”
He hesitated, then closed his mouth and shook his head.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He lightly smacked the ladder. “Here’s the thing, Kat. What if someone wants you to shut up about the case?”
I straightened my spine and looked Jaime right in the eye. “Then that would make me not a suspect.”
He looked at the ground. “Yes, I suppose that would.” He looked at me sharply. “Don’t get any big ideas, though. Right now, you’re still on my list.”
Chapter 19
Feeling a sense of accomplishment, perhaps more so because it was so hard fought, I put the tools back in the shed and leaned the ladder against the outside. I wasn’t sure if the step could be easily fixed or if I needed to junk the whole ladder and, frankly, I didn’t want to think about it just then.
Stepping back into the kitchen, I was struck by how quiet it was. I wondered where Corbyn had been lately. Usually by this time of the afternoon, I could hear the faint sound of the news programs on the small television in his room, but lately he had been staying away until after dinner.
That thought gave me pause. I hoped he wasn’t thinking of moving out again. I mean, I know I was no Aunt Selma, but I did feel an obligation to keep an eye on him. Perhaps all of the painting and hammering had irritated him, but if that was it, he hadn’t said anything about it.
With a glance at the clock, I decided a brisk walk was in order. On the way out, I grabbed the book I was reading from the front counter and headed out the front door. Stopping to look both ways, I decided to walk up to the bench that Corbyn walked to every afternoon, well, until he started spending so much time elsewhere.
The weather had turned chilly in addition to the usual dampness, so I snuggled down inside my new sweater, grateful for its warmth, as I walked up the hill. About twenty minutes later, I reached Corbyn’s bench. Part of me was disappointed. I had half-hoped that he was here. But I also couldn’t imagine him just hanging around a park bench all day.
I sat down and opened the book, a biography of Beatrix Potter. The author, illustrator and conservationist was such a presence in the area that I wanted to know more about her. I relaxed as I read. Within a few minutes, my head fell back, resting on the top of the bench. I thought how different – and perhaps difficult – Beatrix Potter’s life was. She had many more societal norms to follow than I did. She was at once fiercely independent and also devoted to marriage.
I was quickly becoming the former and, at this point, the latter seemed a distant prospect. My first marriage, rocky from the start, was mercifully brief but no less painful when we divorced. When I finally thought I would settle down with my now ex-boyfriend in the States, it just never felt completely right. I often wondered if I was gun-shy after my first marriage. I had hoped that moving to England would be a fresh start and it had seemed to be, at first.
Just a few days ago, all I had to worry about was getting the inn ready. Friends had popped up from the first and I mostly felt welcomed in Windermere. Now, the inn seemed to be falling apart at the seams, I was being accused of murder, and, oh, yes, someone was trying to kill me.
Yay.
I ticked off the suspects again. Marjorie. Jonathan, Geoffrey. Eleanor. These people I didn’t even know two months ago and now here I was accusing them of murder. What was I missing?
I didn’t really think Marjorie, Jonathan or Geoff had killed him. But if the last murder case in town had taught me anything, it’s that I didn’t know a killer when they were standing in front of me.
It had to be Eleanor. I lifted my chin defiantly at the setting sun. I didn’t care what Jaime said. I was going to prove it.
Chapter 20
When I finally slid off the bench and stretched, I was surprised to see how late it had gotten. I tucked my book under my arm and hurried down the hill. I wanted to get home before Ginny came over. She had agreed to help me get the rooms set up now that Franklin and I had mostly finished repair work and painting. In return, I had promised to pay her and also provide pizza for dinner when we finished.
I felt bad for the teenager. After all, she had come to the Lake District on vacation and here she was working the whole time. To be fair, she didn’t seem to mind. Her aunt seemed to be happier that she was nearby.
As I rounded the corner of the street, I saw Ginny sitting on the front step, her eyes on her phone. She looked up and smiled as I approached, tucking her phone in her pocket as she jumped up.
“There you are, Kat. I thought you might have forgotten. Clarissa said you were hanging from your rooftop not so long ago.”
I rolled my eyes. “We have no secrets in small towns,” I told her as I climbed the steps to the front door.
“I think it’s rather quaint that everyone knows everything that’s going on,” she said cheerfully.
Everything except who murdered a rather large man on my front porch, I groused to myself. That particular mystery seemed to have eluded everyone in town. I stopped and stepped back on the front porch. Really? My neighbors seemed to know what I had for dinner the other night, but they didn’t see anything when a man was killed?
I stepped back over the threshold, shaking my head. Ginny watched me, a bemused expression on her face.
“Everything all right, Kat?” she asked.
I nodded and tried to shake off the murder. The grand re-opening was just around the corner. I needed to take care of a few things in the kitchen, so I set Ginny up in the foyer with a bucket of soapy water and rags to start scrubbing the walls in the entryway. Aunt Selma had painted some of the public areas just a couple of years ago, so a good scrubbing was all that was needed.
When I came back out into the hallway, Ginny was wringing out the rags in the downstairs washroom next to the basement door.
Then Ginny followed me upstairs and we tag-teamed running dusters and vacuums through all the rooms and wiping down cabinets and windowsills. My plan was to have all the rooms ready to go except for bed linens, which I didn’t want to put on too early and run the risk of attracting dust.
