Murder Above the Fold Page 9

  “How’s that oatmeal cream working out for you?” She asked, hoping the mention of his erratic behavior at Marsha’s funeral would dampen his spirits.

  Instead, it only seemed to bolster his spirits when, with a grin and a wink he retorted, “Like magic.”

  Without a suitable reply, Clara made an excuse to exit the conversation, and with a sigh of relief, parted ways and headed in the direction of home.

  She had just rounded the last bend in the road when the slap of tennis shoes on pavement drew close behind her. Clara silently cursed the gods, wondering what the good mayor wanted now. Instead of the rosy-cheeked Norm McCreery, she came face-to-face with a jogging-pants-clad Bryer Mack.

  “Oh, hello there.” He stopped just short of running her over, executing a last-minute hop-skip combination that nearly landed him in a prickly bush.

  “Hello, Bryer. Beautiful day for a jog.” Clara indicated the azure blue sky.

  Bryer looked up at the cloudless dome as if seeing it for the first time. “Sure is, I thought I’d take advantage of it, but I’m having an off day. Usually, I take the footpath by the bridge and run through the woods. Of course, since Marsha…well, I thought a new route might be in order.”

  “Understandable,” Clara said, sighing. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to walk that path again without seeing her there. So tragic. On a good note, Leanne says they’ve managed to pull the paper together, so at least Marsha’s final project will see the light of day. I imagine she’d be happy about that, though of course, I barely knew the woman.”

  Bryer’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. “They’re still releasing the paper?”

  She nodded. “Sounds like. I guess they’d finished the layout and sent it to the printers just before, you know…it happened. Leanne’s determined to honor Marsha’s memory by putting out the final paper even if she’s doing it without pay. Poor girl, everyone thinks she’s a ditz, but I rather like her.”

  “Leanne is a character, but she’s loyal. And you’re right, she’s sharper than anyone gives her credit for.” Jogging in place to keep his heart rate up, Bryer seemed impatient to get on with his exercise, so Clara wished him well and sent him on his way.

  Chapter Ten

  “Get out the phone book, Clarie, and find out where Perry lives. It’s about time we had a private conversation, don’t you think?”

  Clara grinned and held her cell phone aloft. “Nobody uses phone books anymore, Maggie, unless they’re missing a sofa leg or something. See, so much faster.” She tapped on the screen and read aloud, “Weatherall, Perry and Linda. 102 Church Street. Bingo.”

  “Well, that’s handy, I suppose,” Mag admitted begrudgingly.

  Clara withheld the I told you so bubbling into her throat and instead summoned Pyewacket, who entered from the backyard with Jinx on her tail. A few stray leaves in her hair when she morphed out of cat form proved the two of them had been enjoying some proximity to nature, and Clara doubted there was a live field mouse within a three-mile radius.

  “Mind the store for us while we’re gone, please. We shouldn’t be long.”

  “And keep Hagatha away from the greenhouse, or else,” Mag said, narrowing her eyes.

  “We know, we know—kitty kibble for a month.” Jinx finished with an uncharacteristic eye roll.

  Mag followed Clara down the cobbled path, through the backyard, and onto the trail leading into town. Church Street, which as its name suggested, was home to not one but two different houses of worship: the ambivalently-named Church of God, and a Unitarian Universalist congregation that touted acceptance of all religions.

  Mag wasn’t exactly sure how that worked out in practice, but they did celebrate the solstices and pronounced Samhain correctly, so she figured they were on the right track when it came to modernized Paganism. She’d have suspected old Haggie had something to do with it, but slowly introducing the beliefs of witchkind into popular culture was too subtle for the Hagatha she knew.

  Why use a candle when you could light the whole sky with a fireworks show worthy of the Fourth of July?

  The winding path through the woods would deposit them near the front of the clock tower. From there it was a hop, skip, and jump through the cemetery, where the eastern exit opened onto Church Street. Faster than walking through town, but their chosen route was rife with déjà vu. Mag couldn’t tamp down the image burned into her brain of the expression on Marsha’s face when Chief Cobb had pulled her out into the light.

  “Creepy, huh?”

  “No matter how many times I come face to face with what one person can do to another, it’s always unsettling.” Mag shook her head sadly.

  By the time they’d reached the far end of the graveyard and spilled out onto a provincial, white-birch-lined street, sunset pinked the sky. Mag and Clara had managed to shake off most of the lingering heebie-jeebies and were raring to confront their prime suspect.

  “102. It’s that Victorian with the wrap-around porch.” Clara pointed, her steps quickening, and left Mag tottering two paces behind. She jabbed the bell, and the door opened with a whoosh just as Mag caught up.

  “Hello. Can I help you?” A woman in her early forties—not their intended interrogation subject at all—answered the door. She had a nondescript yet pleasant face that lacked the symmetry to be considered pretty. Had she been a character in an eighteenth-century novel, the assumed Mrs. Weatherall would have been described as handsome.

  “We’re looking for your husband, Perry. I’m Margaret, and this is my daughter, Clara. Town celebration business. Is he home?”

  “I’m Linda. You must be our newest additions,” she smirked, “because everyone around here knows he hasn’t lived here since last summer. I suggest you check his apartment; it’s right above the Harmony Holler office.” Linda bade Mag and Clara a bitter ‘good day’ and clicked the door shut in their faces.

  “Well, isn’t that convenient?” Mag crowed while the pair made their way back down Church Street and into town. “We’ve already established that Perry had a motive, and he’s strong enough to have done the damage and dumped the body, so he had the means.”

  Clara’s mind had taken another track when she heard the news that Perry and his wife were estranged, and she wanted to think through the possible implications.

  “And he lives right upstairs, so there’s the opportunity,” Mag finished, not noticing her sister’s preoccupation. “Lends more weight if Leanne was correct, and the man she bumped into that night was Perry after all. Now, we just have to crack his alibi. Or crack him; whichever comes first.”

  In spring, dusk fell early, so in the glowing light from the second-story window, a flickering, shadowy outline indicated that someone was moving around in Perry’s apartment. Just as Clara reached out to press the intercom system’s doorbell button, a gray and white tabby cat pounced onto the open window ledge and stared down at her through slitted eyes.

  When the bell pealed, he jumped a full foot in the air, spun around, and took off into the apartment. A loud crash, followed by a bang and an ungentlemanly expletive preceded the buzz that unlatched the downstairs door so Mag and Clara could enter.

  When Perry appeared at the door, his normally impeccable hair looked mussed, and he limped a little on his left foot. For the first time, Clara took a good, long look at the man’s face. She’d studied him while Mag had asked probing questions in the square a few days prior, but this time her gaze held a level of scrutiny her sister would admire.

  If the man was a killer, he hid it well. Even annoyed as he was by whatever calamity the cat had caused, he seemed affable enough. And he was a cat person. Even if people don’t recognize evil, cats do.

  They also recognize witches. Or this one did, anyway. He pranced right up to Mag and tried to climb her like a tree.

  “Stop that, Max. It’s not polite. I’m sorry, he’s not usually like this.”

  “Max is it?” Mag reached down to give the tabby a scratch behind the ears. “He’s
a handsome one, isn’t he?”

  How can I help you, ladies?” The questioning look on his face spoke volumes: clearly, they were the last people he’d expected to find ringing his bell. The undertone of uncertainty in his voice probably had something to do with the nature of the interrogation he’d received last time he’d talked to them.

  All of a sudden, Clara wondered whether approaching him privately, so close to the place where they suspected he’d already committed murder, had been the best idea. Of course, she and Mag could protect themselves, but depending on how much they might need to use, resorting to magic could blow the top off the secret they’d been sent to Harmony to keep under wraps in the first place.

  It was too late to do anything about it now, and any excuse other than the truth for their unexpected visit would fall flat. Clara thought about Marsha, and how her life had been cut far too short, then resigned herself to whatever outcome the universe had in store.

  “You can answer a couple questions for us. About Marsha Hutchins.” Perry turned away, leading them to a pair of sofas near the front windows to hide the pained expression that flitted across his face.

  “This again? You two are awfully concerned about someone you didn’t even know. Why are you poking your noses in where they don’t belong?” He asked, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

  “Because we know Marsha was murdered, and so do you.” It wasn’t an outright accusation, but Mag let a hint of power echo through her voice. Magic danced along her arms, lifted the tiny hairs into quivering attention and slid toward Perry like mist.

  He gestured toward one of the sofas, waited for Mag and Clara to settle in.

  His defiant expression deflated like a week-old balloon as he sank into an armchair and held his head in his hands. “The truth is, Marsha and I were dating. No, it was more than that. We were in love, and I would never have hurt her. But, you’re right; I think someone else did. She was supposed to meet me at Derby’s Pub out on Route 15—that dive bar with all the pool tables—after she put the paper to bed that night. It was our six month anniversary and, for a dive bar, the food’s good.”

  Over the next half hour, Perry talked about how his marriage had ended, not with a bang, but a whimper. The assets he’d been selling had gone to pay alimony, and he’d become involved with Marsha only after trying to evict her in order to sell the building that housed the newspaper office.

  “She fought back. Tracked me to Derby’s where I was drowning my sorrows in cheap whiskey, and pinned back my ears. Asked why I was such a miserable excuse for a human and told me she’d haul my ass to court if I didn’t back down.”

  He swallowed hard a couple of times, then continued. “Next thing I know, I’m pouring out my heart to her, and she’s slugging down my drink and one-upping me with her own tale of heartbreak: an affair that derailed her career. We got drunk and ended up at her place for what I thought was a one night stand, but it turned into more.”

  “You kept it quiet, though? Even after she died? You must have told someone.”

  “It was what she wanted. Marsha was a private woman, and she wasn’t ready to go public with our relationship, so I respected her wishes. It was the last thing I could do for her.”

  “When was the last time you heard from her?” Clara asked gently.

  “She left me a voicemail.” Pulling out his phone, he dialed his mailbox, tapped the speaker button, and let them listen.

  “Hey babe, we hit a snag, and I'm going to be late. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Happy anniversary.” Marsha sounded distracted.

  “I waited until eight or so, ordered a couple burgers to go, and when she didn’t show, I figured she was still tied up at work. The office was dark when I finally made it back here. I took a spin past her place, which was also dark, and her car was parked out front. That was around 9 o’clock.”

  “That didn’t strike you as odd or unusual?”

  “It might have, but we’d had a minor disagreement over that stupid printer and her refusal to use it for the special edition. I figured she was still annoyed with me, and the stress might have triggered one of her migraines, so she went home to sleep it off. If only I’d been here, I could have saved her life.”

  Perhaps it was human nature to wish for the ability to change the past, to be able to go back and prevent a wrongdoing—but if it was, the sentiment wasn’t exclusive to those without magic. Mag would have given her eye teeth to tweak a few things and rewrite history—for her own sake, as well as Clara’s.

  “Life is full of shoulda woulda couldas, you can’t dwell on them, or one day you’ll wake up and be wishing you hadn’t spent so much time with your best friend, Regret,” Mag chided as gently as her gruff nature would allow. “What you can do now is honor her memory, and help us figure out who would have wanted to kill her. Maybe then, she can truly rest in peace.”

  “How do you know Marsha was murdered?” Leanne hadn’t asked the one question Clara wasn’t sure how to answer, but Perry keyed right in on it, and she wished Mag hadn’t been so blunt in opening up the discussion.

  “It’s more of a suspicion, I suppose. Have you mentioned your concerns to the police?” she deflected.

  Perry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “No evidence. That’s the wall I keep hitting, too. It looked like an accident.”

  “Except for the fact that someone allowed Leanne to think she was speaking to you out on the street that night. It’s not enough to spur an official investigation, but it’s enough for us. Does anyone else you know use Paco Rabanne? Leanne distinctly identified the fragrance.” Clara left out Leanne’s unkind comment about Perry’s choice of cologne.

  “Only half the men in town. The five-and-dime only sells three different scents. It could have been anyone.”

  They asked a few more questions but gleaned no new information. Perry’s confession filled in a few gaps, but provided no new evidence and raised more questions than it answered.

  Once back on the street and strolling in the direction of home, Mag said, “It all makes perfect sense now. How could I have been so blind? Don’t ever tell me you envy my clairvoyant talents again, Clarie, because they’ve done absolutely nothing to help us figure out who the real killer is.”

  She huffed out a breath and shook her head as she shuffled along. “Marsha and Perry might as well have had pink neon hearts flashing above their heads, and all the clues seem so glaringly obvious now, I feel like a fraud.”

  Mag verbally abused herself for a solid quarter of the trip from town back to their home.

  Clara recognized the familiar signs of Mag’s impending downward spiral. She felt somewhat defeated too, but there was another part of her heart that smiled knowing Marsha had, in fact, cultivated several healthy relationships during her time on this earth. That was more than a lot of people could say.

  “I know it seems dismal now,” she said, “but we’ve eliminated two suspects, and that’s an accomplishment—especially considering we don’t have a government-sanctioned dossier on the history of every Harmony resident. We started out with a handicap, and we’re that much closer to finding the real killer. All we need is a little bit of ingenuity and a dollop of good luck.”

  Mag considered Clara’s statement for a moment, and though it didn’t completely lift the doldrums, she felt somewhat heartened as she began mentally sifting through the evidence. “Let’s add what Perry told us and run the timeline again. Marsha told Leanne they would be working late. She called Perry and told him the same thing.”

  Clara picked up where Mag left off. “Leanne left at seven and ran into someone coming into the office as she was leaving. I think we can both agree that it was likely Marsha’s killer. If not, that person was the last to see Marsha alive, and if he wasn’t the one who murdered her, there would be no reason to lie about it. Especially considering the police aren’t even investigating.”

  Mag scowled when she made the final assessment. “That leaves us with one unanswer
ed question: Who did Leanne run into outside the office? All we know is it was a man, and he wore the same cologne as Perry. Looks like we’re back in busybody mode.”

  “That’s fine,” Clara said, lifting a shoulder. “When it comes to this I can forget my scruples. What do you think about splitting up tomorrow? You mind the shop, and I’ll go into town and get to know our neighbors a little better. If you happen to accidentally charm some of our customers into spilling their guts, so be it.”

  “Whooee, you mean I can finally cut loose with a little magic?”

  “I meant with your charming personality, sister mine.”

  Mag cocked a brow at her. “You do know who you’re talking to, right?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Complain though she might, Margaret Balefire enjoyed every little nuance about selling antiques. Fascinated by the style and craftsmanship of things built to last centuries, she would rather die than step a single toe into IKEA. Spending a morning among the smell of beeswax polish and old furniture, even overlaid by the clean, herbal scents of Clara’s concoctions, put a smile on her face.

  “You have papers? Provenance?” A customer wearing pink pearls and cashmere demanded.

  “You have money? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Pink pearls meant doodly-squat to Mag when it came to having cash to put in the register. Or that pernicious plastic money everyone used these days.

  “I’ll give you two hundred.”

  “That’s a Tiffany Studios Nautilus lamp. Mint condition. A steal at three-fifty.”

  “Throw in the Firestone ashtray, and you’ve got a deal.”

  Mag heaved a sigh, but inside she danced as she calculated the profit and rang up the sale. Jinx swathed the lamp in paper and bubble wrap, then carried it to the car. On his way back in, he held the door open for a customer who shoved past like he wasn’t even there.

  “I need more of this.” Practically pocket-sized compared to Jinx’s solid form, the woman waved one of the samples Hagatha had charmed. Or cursed depending on how you looked at it. “You have more, right? Can I buy it by the gallon? Or by the case?”