Bad Neighbors Page 10

  I dug around in my cardboard boxes until I found the thick navy-blue wool cardigan I wanted. I pulled it on, applied some tinted lip balm and subtle eyeliner, and replaced my glasses, which were a thick-framed tortoiseshell pair that Chester said made me look like Austin Powers but made me feel grounded. I had a backup pair of contact lenses, but I didn’t feel like dealing with them. Not after what had happened to the first pair.

  I went downstairs.

  The inn was hushed. I found Aunt Effie in the laundry room, which was off the short passage that connected the bottom of the servants’ stairs to the kitchen. She was folding towels, which looked incongruous with her black pantsuit and heels. Also incongruous: the martini with extra olives sitting on the shelf between the liquid detergent and the bleach.

  “There you are, Agnes. Feeling all right?”

  “Yeah. Just … shaken up. And pissed.”

  “I don’t blame you.” She placed a folded towel inside a basket and pulled another out of the dryer. Our washer and dryer were brand-new, gorgeous, and ultraefficient. Granted, they looked out of place against the faux wood paneling someone had misguidedly installed in the laundry room a few decades back.

  Which, incidentally, would be a ton of fun to rip out with a crowbar.

  I pulled a towel out of the dryer, too. “Do you think Hank was right? Do you think the murderer dunked me?”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that it was either the murderer or someone else our questions have made feel threatened. You know, someone with something rotten to hide. Either way, I don’t feel inclined to stop sleuthing, but then, I’m not the one who was assaulted.”

  “You could be next.”

  “Bring it on. I lived through the Jazzercise craze. I’m not afraid of anything.”

  Despite the awfulness of the situation, I laughed as I placed the folded towel in the basket. “Okay, well, if the murderer is spooked, does that mean that one of the people we talked to today is the murderer?” What an icky thought.

  “One of them, yes, or someone else who knows what we talked about with the people we questioned.”

  “Like a spouse.”

  “Mm. It means something we discovered was on the right track. We just don’t know what that something is.” Effie set the last towel in the basket, picked up her martini, and sipped.

  “How did this thing get so out of control so quickly?” I said. “I mean, we were just trying to learn more about Mikey, and we stumbled upon his killer?”

  “Why not? It’s a small town. You look like you need a drink.”

  “No, I don’t. Plus, presumably I’m the designated driver tonight.”

  “Fabulous.” Another deep sip.

  I pulled the lint trap from the dryer, peeled off a grayish puffy sheet of lint, and tossed it in the trash can. “Okay. We talked to Karen, Clifford and Belinda Prentiss, Delilah Fortune, and Alexa. So these are our suspects?” It was mind-bending to picture any one of them bludgeoning Mikey to death with a wrench.

  “I suppose they are, with the addition of their spouses and anyone else they may have told about our conversations.”

  “The spouses are Karen’s clean-freak husband—whatever his name was—and Randy—I met him briefly. Man, was he in a surly mood.”

  “Hold on, don’t you remember that according to Karen, her husband—Mark was his name—was camping in Canada with their son Scootch over the weekend?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “So he can be ruled out.”

  Not for the first time, I wondered what Aunt Effie’s secret to such a spry seventy-something brain was. I’d asked her before, and she’d said something about taking fish oil supplements, but I hoped that fantastic genes I might possess were also a factor.

  I elaborated to Effie about Randy’s simmering rage when he was waiting for Alexa at the coffee shop and how Alexa seemed a little scared of her husband.

  “Ugh. I absolutely loathe that sort of man,” Effie said. “Angry and bullying and controlling. And they always seem to be able to find women willing to play their game.”

  “Yeah. Omigosh, and I totally forgot what else Alexa told me. She said that a few weeks ago, Mikey started throwing cash around, buying expensive stuff that he normally could never have afforded.”

  “How does she know that?”

  “I guess because Mikey and Randy were best frenemies? I don’t know. Alexa said Randy’s and Mikey’s moms were best friends, so through childhood they were basically forced to spend time together even though they didn’t particularly like each other. Anyway, I was thinking, if there was cash involved—serious cash—well, could that have been the motive for Mikey’s death? The money disappeared. The police told Alexa as much.”

  “Well, well, well.” Effie’s eyes were glittering. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Excellent work, Agnes. My husband Freddy—the New York State attorney general?—”

  I nodded, even though I had never heard of Freddy before, since Aunt Effie had been married an unspecified number of times over a span of nearly sixty years.

  “—he always said, ‘Follow the money.’”

  “Follow the money.” I opened the washing machine. “Can all this stuff go in the dryer?”

  “Mm.”

  I started throwing wet laundry into the dryer. Thunk. Thunk. “Except, how exactly do we follow the money? Go back to this list of suspects and ask questions about Mikey’s purported cash?”

  “Yes. And we should find out about everyone’s alibis while we’re at it.”

  “Good point. Alibis.” Thunk went another wet laundry ball. “Did Mikey steal that cash? Was someone paying him off? Did he sell something valuable that, maybe, someone thought he shouldn’t have? Was he, heck, I don’t know, working as a gigolo?”

  “Please, Agnes. Don’t make me ill.”

  “Follow the money,” I murmured, mostly to myself. I looked at Effie. “I should’ve taken Clifford and Belinda’s unopened bills when I had the chance. Why didn’t I?”

  “You were playing it safe, darling. Luckily, this is easily remedied. We can pop by there later tonight and grab them.”

  “Okay. But … we should be careful, Aunt Effie.”

  “What does being careful entail?”

  “I don’t know. But everyone knows where we live.”

  “I’m not scared. I refuse to be scared.”

  I wasn’t as seasoned as Aunt Effie, but I was old enough to know that fear-based decisions are for the birds. So I took a deep breath and willed every last speck of fear from my mind.

  It mostly worked.

  Chapter 11

  I drove everyone back downtown in the Dustbuster. Lo and Myron would be joining their Tom Clancy pals for dinner, but they needed a ride. It was a clear, crisp evening, with stars twinkling overhead and a bite of wood smoke in the air.

  It was the kind of night to be strolling hand-in-hand with your sweetie, not cruising around in the world’s junkiest minivan with your cousin and a bunch of senior citizens made noisy by cocktails in the library.

  Downtown was bright with streetlamps, strings of bulbs draped over Main Street, and light from busy restaurants, Polly’s Ice Cream Parlor, and a few still-open shops. I found a spot in front of the bookstore and parked.

  “Oh, goodie,” Lo said, unbuckling. “This spot is perfect because I want to check and see who won Gourd Queen. They said the winner’s name would be posted in the window.”

  I exchanged a look with Effie. Because c’mon. Did Lo really think she could’ve won Gourd Queen? The thought was so pathetic it made my stomach cramp.

  The metal pumpkin was still in front of the bookstore, but it wasn’t revolving. Although the bookstore was closed, the display window was all lit up. Children’s picture books shared real estate with historical novels, thrillers, bird-watching guides, and colorful cozy mysteries. And smack in the center of this was an orange sign on an easel that said:

  CONGRATULATIONS TO THIS YEAR’S

  HARVEST PARAD
E ROYALTY WINNERS!

  GOURD QUEEN: AGNES BLYTHE

  PUMPKIN PRINCESS: DELILAH FORTUNE

  * SPONSORED BY DICKENS NEW AND USED BOOKS *

  Shut. The. Door.

  “You won!” Lo screamed, grabbing my arm. “You won Gourd Queen!”

  I stared blankly at the sign as Lo shook me like a rag doll. “How is that possible?” I finally said. “Who voted for me?”

  “Most of the people, apparently!”

  Chester was smirking. Not a good combo with the smarmy little mustache.

  “That nice young lady from the cupcake store came in second,” Myron said. “She’ll look real pretty in one of those beauty queen dresses.”

  Delilah had won Pumpkin Princess. We would have to ride on the float together. Theoretically, I mean. Because I was backing out of this thing ASAP.

  Although—and I know, it is so immature and absurd and everything—I couldn’t help indulging in a smug little glow.

  I had gotten more votes than Delilah. Hahaha.

  “Aren’t you going to thank Lo?” Chester asked me.

  “For what?”

  “For spending about an hour writing your name on ballots? You must’ve gotten five hundred votes. I’m surprised the people who tallied them up didn’t notice that every ballot had the same handwriting.”

  I rounded on Lo. “You? Why?”

  “To get you the exposure you need, honey.”

  “Exposure?” My mind conjured up words like windburn and pants falling down.

  “In the town dating scene. All the bachelors out there need to know what they’re missing.”

  “I’m not doing it,” I said.

  “Oh, come on, Agnes, be a sport,” Effie said. She was standing a few paces off, smoking.

  “Why not?” Hank said. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “Why not?” I cried. “Maybe because I’ll feel embarrassed standing on that float in a big poofy dress and waving? I find enough ways to embarrass myself accidentally. I don’t need to deliberately sign up for surefire routes to humiliation.”

  “You must stop being so very cynical, Agnes,” Effie said.

  “I’m not cynical! I’m sane. There’s a difference!”

  “I gave up being cynical when I was in my thirties,” Effie said. “It was so liberating. Being cynical is simply a way to protect yourself from pain, but it also prevents you from fully immersing yourself in life—”

  “I am in no mood to listen to Effie Winters’s Philosophy Hour, okay?” I said. “Who runs the Gourd Queen thing, anyway? I need to tell them I’m out.”

  “The Harvest Festival Parade Committee,” Effie said, billowing smoke like Mount Kilauea. “You’d want to talk to the chairperson, Elaine Cruz, about backing out—but I don’t think you should.”

  “Elaine Cruz?”

  “She owns the bookstore,” Chester said.

  “Well, I think you’d be an inspiration up on that float,” Lo said, hooking her arm through Myron’s. “We’ll take a taxi back tonight, okay? You enjoy yourselves.” They set off toward the Thai restaurant.

  I trailed after the others in the other direction, feeling way hotter and sweatier than the weather warranted. Oh, I’d been in parades before. Playing my clarinet in the high school marching band.

  Gourd Queen? Me? Snort.

  *

  That’s Italiano was warm inside, with a gentle hubbub, accordion music, and simmering tomato and melty, cheesy aromas that made my mouth water. Otis was already seated at one of the white-and-red checked tables. Across the table from him, my best friend Lauren was deep in conversation with a dark-haired guy I assumed was Otis’s college buddy.

  What was Lauren doing here? And why was she in full Vintage Amazon battle regalia—i.e., Marilyn Monroe lipstick, winged eyeliner, and a wiggle dress?

  “Go ahead and sit with your friends,” Aunt Effie whispered to Chester and me. “I’ll manage the oldsters.” She said this in a way that made clear she didn’t consider herself an “oldster.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Lauren would be here?” Chester whispered to me ferociously as we wove our way through the tables.

  “Because I didn’t know,” I whispered back. “Trust me, I would’ve let you know so you could’ve put on a better outfit.”

  “Like you should talk!” Chester whisper-snarled, ripping off his terry cloth sweatband. “Anyway, I find Lauren’s addiction to epic fantasy novels a bit cloying.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And all that red lipstick … how could you even kiss her?” Chester flushed blotchily.

  “Ew, no fantasizing about kissing my best friend.”

  Loudly, to Lauren, he said, “Hello. Hi. How are you? I’m great! I’m—” Cough. “—I’m great. Doing some pretty heavy-duty demo at the inn. With a sledgehammer.”

  This was untrue.

  Lauren looked bored as she sipped water through a straw. “Hey, Chester.”

  “Hi,” I said to Otis, my hands dangling.

  Basically, Chester and I were the Awkward Nerd Brigade. What was up with the Blythe gene pool, anyway?

  “Hey,” Otis said to me. A warm smile, but no kiss. Not even on the top of my head.

  Why couldn’t I just reach out and touch him? It wasn’t like that was against the rules—this wasn’t an Edith Wharton novel, for gosh sakes.

  But I just … couldn’t. It was like Otis had this new, impenetrable force field around him. I figured he hadn’t heard about my Gourd Queen (pseudo) victory yet. I decided to leave him in the dark.

  I sank into the chair beside him. Chester took the head of the table, kind of far away from the rest of us, his bugging eyes glued on Lauren.

  Otis introduced the dark-haired guy as Jake Barbosa, a friend from college. Jake looked like one of those smooth, bronze, body-hair-less dudes from the designer underpants ads.

  “How do you know Otis?” I asked Jake.

  “We met at RIT—I’m originally from Rhode Island, though.”

  Rochester Institute of Technology was a pretty prestigious alma mater. Otis had majored in engineering there, but he needed to work with his hands and hated desk work, which is why he had taken over the family automotive shop.

  “Jake’s a brain surgeon in Syracuse,” Lauren said to me with shining eyes. “Otis introduced us this afternoon at the Kick-Off.”

  “Lauren’s shop is great,” Jake said. “Really neat.”

  “He bought that seventies windbreaker with the rainbow patch,” Lauren gushed. “It looks perfect on him.”

  Since when had Lauren been interested in doctors with Hollywood-grade teeth who said “neat”? She had always insisted that her dream man had a sensitive artist’s soul, first-edition Tolkiens, and was good with parrots.

  Lauren, Jake, and Chester started a conversation about CrossFit, which was apparently how Jake whiled away the hours when he wasn’t saving lives and stuff.

  “I wanted to ask you about something,” I said to Otis. “Earlier today, I happened to, uh, run into Karen Brown, Mikey Brown’s sister-in-law—did you know she lives right across the street from your Grandma Bee?”

  “Of course.”

  “Uh-huh, and she said something weird about your grandma. She said that your grandma has been acting…” I swallowed. “Crazy.”

  “Crazy?” Otis frowned. “Grandma’s not crazy.”

  “I know, I know—I don’t want to upset you. I just wanted to tell you, in case you need to … Your grandma is getting up there in years, so if a neighbor has seen anything that suggests maybe someone needs to go over to check on her more often…”

  “Oh my gosh.” Otis raked a hand through his hair, which stood up and didn’t lay back down. “I guess I always thought Grandma Bee, of all people, would keep her wits about her forever. Did Karen say what Grandma did?”

  “No, and I didn’t want to press her. Karen’s family is going through a tough time, so—”

  “Hold on. Why wer
e you at Karen’s house?”

  “Um.”

  “Why?”

  Did I feel crummy? Why, yes. Yes, I did. Was I going to tell Otis the unvarnished truth? Heck, no. He had specifically asked me not to meddle, so it would strain our relationship if he knew I was ignoring his wishes.

  The annoying little bug-voice in the back of my head said, This is already straining your relationship, you twerp!

  I wanted to take a can of Raid to that voice.

  “It was about Chamber of Commerce things,” I said. “The Harvest Festival and all that. Remember I gave the welcome speech to the Peeper Prize judge this afternoon?”

  “Oh. Right. Where that lady for some strange reason yelled to everyone that you’re single?”

  “Uh-huh.” This was a whisper.

  Thankfully, at that moment the waiter arrived.

  Everyone ordered dinner. I ordered the eggplant parmesan, one of That’s Italiano’s famed specialties and, I hoped, a piping hot dish of comfort. When the basket of breadsticks arrived, I got down to it. So did Chester, who sort of hunkered over his bread as he watched Lauren and Jake flirt.

  “So, I, uh, I saw you with Delilah this afternoon,” I said to Otis.

  “I was helping her move some shelving in the back of her shop. Is … is that a problem?”

  “A problem? What? Ha!” I slapped my thigh.

  Otis was watching me closely. “You aren’t … jealous of Delilah, are you?”

  “What? No.” I scoffed. “Well okay, maybe I’m a little jealous about how she gets to eat buttercream frosting all day as her job, but otherwise, no. And I mean, you’re free to do whoever—I mean, whatever—you want.”

  Cool, Agnes. Real cool.

  “Okay,” Otis said, “because I agreed to help because Delilah doesn’t know many people in town.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “She’s my cupcake supplier. Don’t tell the cops. She makes the best German chocolate, even better than Grandma Bee’s, actually.”

  I wanted to kick something so badly. Instead, I reached for a second breadstick, ripped off a chunk, and stuffed it in my mouth.