Barbara Teal finally connected with me. Friday evening after she closed her shop we shared a pizza and spent a few hours doing inventory. Barbara hates computers. She had lists of items as they were ordered and arrived, and had another list for every gift as it was sold. Her husband entered the information into a bookkeeping program for her. He had printouts we now followed to locate the items still be in stock. Most of it was there. Shoplifting had been a minor problem this year. We separated the inventory into what was to be kept for next season and what was not. The dispensable items would be put on sale at forty percent off for the rest of the season.
“Two more weekends,” my friend announced. “That’s it for this year.”
“What will you do with the leftovers?”
“There shouldn’t be much. The locals always come by when I have these end of season sales. All the confections will go for sure.” Barb popped a small white chocolate shaped like a daisy into her mouth for her dessert, assuring one less goodie to worry about. “But,” she added, after swallowing a second time, “a couple who holds garage sales every week in Springfield has offered to take the rest off of my hands for a bulk rate. That’s after I donate a couple of the nicer things to the school bazaar. And Sally, if you see anything you want, it’s fifty percent off for you before the sale, or you can pick something after.”
“Thanks, Barb.” I hid a smile. I did not help my friend for the money. She paid me a small commission on what I sold over and above minimum wage and allowed me generous discounts whenever I bought gifts in her shop, which was quite often. She carried a variety of unique items.
“Do you think you’d be interested in helping me again next year?”
“I think so, the way things are now. Ask me again in April.”
Barbara beamed happily.
“Did you do well this year?” I ventured to ask.
“Very,” she admitted. “The best year yet, and this is my fourth. If you come back I’ll give you a raise.”
“Sounds promising. I put away my proceeds from this year for a vacation. It all adds up.”
“When are you going to take a vacation? You haven’t had one since Michael died, have you?” She got up off her stool and pushed a box of carefully packed music boxes into the storage room as she asked. Attractive displays were set up for the large windows in the front of the store for the off season, with a large, handsome sign done in calligraphy announcing the first day of the shop opening again in May. The shelves behind us were being carefully cleared as we counted. Barbara believed this would discourage vandalism as well as cut down on the dust.
I admitted I had not. Until now my treks every few weeks to visit my son and his family were enough. For the first six months of my widowhood getting out of bed in the morning had often seemed like a twelve mile hike. Only lately was the idea of a real holiday holding some appeal.
“You should think about it,” she encouraged, meaning well. “Gary and I are headed out to south Texas again this year, right after Christmas. Three great weeks away from the cold and slush. We loved it last year; well, I guess you know that,” she laughed. “I’ve talked about it enough.”
There was no argument there. Without commenting I moved on to the stationary and calendars. After one trip to the beaches of South Padre Island, Gary and Barbara were dreaming about retirement. A few days after they got back, sunburned and enthusiastic, they bent my ear when we saw each other at the super market. Privately, I am not a great sun or sand worshiper. One afternoon out on the bare beaches Barbara showed me in some of her photographs would have been enough for me.
“If you don’t like the ocean or want less humidity,” Barb called back from the storeroom, as if reading my thoughts, “why not go visit your family in Arizona? That is supposed to be nice in the winter, too. Before we make a final decision, you know, about the retirement thing, we think we’ll visit Arizona.”
“I have been to Arizona,” I called back, “and if you recall I spent almost three years in the Philippines while Michael was in the service. I love the ocean but not the heat.”
“But it’s not that hot after September, is it?” Barbara queried as she joined me again, a heavy empty box in tow. I knew she was referring to Arizona, and not the Philippines. “We won’t pack any of the paper items away, Sally. Of course the calendars go, 60 percent off for those.”
“No,” I admitted, “and some parts of Arizona aren’t as hot because of higher elevations. But I don’t think my first vacation in over two years will be to the southwest. I’ll see my mother and sister at the family reunion next summer.” I loved them both, but loved them most at a distance. Once a year or so of actual contact was enough. They had come back for Michael’s funeral and again the following June.
We worked together companionably for a while, our conversation limited to the project at hand. At nine, most of the work finished, my friend and part time employer called it a night.
“I can do the rest tomorrow,” she announced, and said sincerely, “thanks, Sally. Do you want the last two pieces of pizza to take home?”
“You’re very welcome. And no, I don’t. Take it home to Gary.”
“No wonder you stay slim. I wish I had your will power.”
Barbara was always trying to lose thirty pounds, but not too seriously. Her husband liked her to eat with him.
As an after thought she added, “Does it make you nervous going home alone after dark? If it does I’ll follow you in my car. It’s not too far out of the way.”
She had never offered to do this before so I knew she was thinking of the murder. This was the first time all evening the subject had come up.
“I’m not,” I said honestly. “Thanks for asking, though.”
“I thought maybe you would rather not talk about it, or if you did, you would mention it first.” Barb gave me a sideways glance as she collected the paperwork strewn about the counter.
“That was very sensitive of you, Barb,” I said. “It was nice to have four hours without hardly thinking about it at all.”
“It gave me a turn, I can tell you, when Gary showed me the paper this morning. You not only living next door, but finding the body! That just doesn’t happen to someone you know! She came in here once, you know, that lady. I recognized her picture.” The paper had run a good photograph of Amelia Marsh in the Friday edition.
Barbara continued, “She had a face you would remember, so sweet, and all that white hair piled up on her head. She was with two other ladies, and they browsed the way people do.” Barbara chucked, “If I remember right they were pretty tight with their money. I don’t think they bought much, but they were very polite and I loved hearing them talk, you know, with those English accents.”
“It was charming, wasn’t it? I shall miss our occasional tea parties in her kitchen.”
“Are you going to the funeral?”
I said I was, but did not volunteer I was also to be included in the group which would be sorting through her personal effects. Then it hit me.
“Did you say ‘them’, Barb? More than one of those ladies had an English accent?”
“The two elderly ladies both did. I don’t remember much about the other, gosh, it must be last season they came in. I think she was heavier, taller. It was probably because of the accent I remember them at all.”
“Think hard. Can you recall anything else? What about the other lady, you mentioned three.”
Barb pondered. “Well, she was younger. That sticks with me. My age, or so. Why?”
I smiled and shrugged. “Just wondering, I guess.”
I grabbed my purse and jacket, said goodbye again, and headed out the door, my mind racing. The other lady must have been June Fisk. Who could the third one have been and how could I find her? The street outside was quiet and peaceful. A police cruiser went by as I unlocked my car door and a few customers left the restaurant across the street. I sat behind the wheel for a moment, idly watching the patterns of the streetlights on the water puddles still remaining from the heavy rain the night before. The funeral, I decided. Surely the other woman would be at the funeral. And if she wasn’t Anne Carey might know who she was.
Saturday’s newspaper moved Mrs. Marsh’s murder to page two, along with the details of her funeral arrangements. The article stated she had no known living relatives, was a member of St. John’s Episcopal Church, and funeral services would be held at two p.m. on Sunday afternoon at Sunset Chapel. It also stated she would be mourned by her friends from the church and the local chapters of the Soroptomist club and the Hanley garden club, where she had been an active member. A related article assured the public the police were actively pursuing every lead in the killing and listed a phone number any one with information could call twenty-four hours a day. It was not the same number Officer White had given me.
I toyed with the idea of asking George to join me for breakfast, but for no reason in particular decided not to. I drove ten miles out to the main highway to a family restaurant I knew, again for no special reason other than I enjoyed the drive, and perused my magazines while eating French toast. I had a new subscription to a publication specializing in crafts, gardening, and cooking. It was nice to dream and set ideals. I never get around to crafts, my garden needs a lot of improvement, cooking only happens when there are guests.
On the way home I stopped for some groceries. As I walked into my house, my hands full, the phone was ringing. It was tempting to let it ring but I answered before the answering machine would kick in, letting my bags drop onto the counter. It was Joel.
“Hey, Gram’ma, what you doing?” his cheerful little voice chirped.
My spirits soared. “Why, I am talking on the telephone to some little boy who just called me. I wonder who this could be?”
Giggles. “You hav’ta guess!”
“Oh, this could be hard. This isn’t Winnie the Pooh, is it?”
More giggles. “Nah … Winnie the Pooh is a bear, not a little boy!”
“So he is. I forgot. How about Christopher Robin? This must be Christopher Robin!”
“Wrong!”
I gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, I will guess one more time, and if I don’t get it this time you have to tell me.”
“Okay.”
“The only other little boy I can think of who would call me on a Saturday morning is a little blond boy with big blue eyes who likes trucks and trains and has a dog named Crayon.”
“That’s the one,” my grandson admitted proudly. “That’s me, Joel.”
“I am so glad you called me,” I told him solemnly, “I am missing you already.”
“Only I just don’t like trucks and trains, now, Gram’ma,” he reminded me, “I like Batman now, too.”
“So you do,” I acknowledged, “and the next time we see each other I will buy you a new Batman shirt.”
“Okay! That would be good ‘cause I got Batman underwear, now, you know.”
“No! You couldn’t have Batman underwear!”
“Yes I do. Didn’t you notice it when you was here?”
“You mean those under shorts with that guy on it with that big black cape and those batwings?”
“Yup,” my grandson said proudly, “and one pair has Robin on it, too. Do you know who Robin is?”
I confessed I did, and we talked happily for some moments about Joel’s underwear and superheroes.
“Bye, Gramma.” There was the sound of two loud kisses blown into the phone, then I heard the familiar little voice say, “your turn to talk now, Mom.”
Judy laughed as she carried on the conversation. “Still a short attention span on the phone, Sally, but he asked to call you this time. You might have held on to him longer, but Colton is at the door.” Colton was the little boy who lived down the road. He was almost five, I knew, but allowed to walk alone the short distance down the little traveled dirt road to his friend’s house, where the two of them usually played amicably.
“The best five minutes of my day,” I said honestly. “How is everything else going?”
Apparently everything was going well. Judy was not hard to read. I could usually tell if something was wrong after three or four sentences. My son was out on an errand and we chatted girl talk. She eventually came around to asking how I was, obviously referring to the traumatic events of the past week, and at the same time asked if the “man who did it” had been caught.
“It may not have been a man,” I replied.
“Really,” she sounded interested. “Do they think it might have been a woman, then?”
“As far as I know, ‘they’ don’t know who the killer is, and I don’t think they have any idea who did it.”
“That’s awful.” My daughter-in-law called out a reminder to the boys to stay in the front yard and continued, “It would bother me living next door to where a crime was committed, especially if you never find out what happened. Does it bother you?”
“I have not been nervous to be here, but it bothers me a lot that whoever killed Mrs. Marsh may get away with it.”
“What did you know about her?” I found it interesting Judy was so intrigued. But Joel was occupied, Judy seemed to have the time, and I found myself running past her everything I knew about my former neighbor and her death, including my talk with the detective.
“Wow. Somebody could make an Agatha Christie out of this,” was her comment when I had finished. “What if Mrs. Marsh had some dark secrets lurking in her past?”
“And someone from the past finally caught up with her and took their revenge?” I was amused. “Well, it could be possible. I never knew you read any Agatha Christie.”
“The Murder on the Orient Express was a masterpiece,” she said. “I liked a few of her others, too.”
Then we got onto the subject of favorite mystery writers and books, and eventually I told her I was asked to go back to the scene of the crime following the funeral to assist with going through my neighbor’s personal effects.
“Wow,” was her comment again, although Judy’s vocabulary is not usually so limited. She exacted a promise from me to call back early in the week to let her and Everett know any new developments. I could hear some evidence of disagreement among the peanuts in the background and Judy had to end our conversation.
Before I could escape to take a planned hike at the state park there were two more phone calls. I told George I would have a bite with him Sunday evening and catch him up on developments since our last meal together. I warned him not to expect too much.
The last call was from my brother Tom’s wife, Anna. They heard about the murder from Anna’s sister, a Hanley resident, and were calling for reassurance I was okay. The inference was that I had been through enough in the past two years, and should not be traumatized any further. I told her having to move again would be the biggest trauma. She seemed mollified and hung up after a few more pleasantries about family. I promised to come see them soon, rather guiltily since I had no intention of doing so until Christmas.
Since I was not scheduled to work until Monday, I got up in time to attend the late morning service at the Episcopalian church, Reverend James Southby, senior pastor, officiating. This was my first time to attend services here. The sanctuary was almost full. Prior to the taking of the offering, Mrs. Marsh’s funeral was announced. I looked about and saw a few people I knew, including Miss Carey, who was sitting several rows in front of me.
I enjoyed the service. The choir was impressive and the sermon thought provoking. The reverend had a mild voice but good deliverance. He also had a sense of humor. There is a good spirit present in this place, I thought. Perhaps I would come again. Michael and I had attended churches with a more informal worship, but I did enjoy the reciting of the creeds for a change.
Rather than wait for the funeral, it seemed to me this was a good time to ask Miss Carey what she might know about the identity of the third person present that day at the gift shop. I sought her out after the benediction, following her to the foyer where she was in conversation with another couple, both of them at least seventy. Politely waiting my turn for her attention, I smiled at the elderly gentleman who looked at me curiously, and heard enough of the earnest talk between the two ladies to know they were discussing preparations for the afternoon funeral.
“Amelia left very clear instructions, you know,” I heard Miss Carey explain to the other lady, who had some questions about the way things were going to be done, “but I don’t see a problem with the flower arrangement from the garden club …”
My attention wandered. Mrs. Southby had her husband in what looked to be a serious discussion. She looked unhappy and he looked frustrated. There were some terse, quiet words between them before he looked up with a smile to greet a parishioner. How odd, I thought. Ministers and their wives were usually pros at keeping their private situations behind closed doors. Anyone else could have noticed what I did; I wondered if anyone had. The pastor’s wife gave the parishioner who had interrupted them a wane smile and walked off.
“Sally!” Miss Carey had finished at last. Her friends pointed me out waiting for her and she turned around in surprise. “How wonderful to see you here!” Her exuberance made me wonder what Miss Carey thought the state of my spiritual life was in.
“I have enjoyed the service,” I told her honestly, “but I have a question for you. It is about June Fisk.”
“Oh?” She ushered me into a small office to the left of the foyer, which appeared to be a room used for personal counseling. There was only room for the desk with its matching chair and the two chairs in front of it. We sat down together in front of the desk.
I told her what Barbara had related to me about the three ladies in the gift shop.
“That was probably June’s daughter, Elaine,” Miss Carey decided. “June moved out here herself after she became a widow, to be closer to Elaine. I’m quite sure Elaine was her only child.”
“Does she live here now? Do you think she’ll be at the funeral, or that the police have talked to her?”
“No to the first two questions, and I don’t know to the third,” Miss Carey continued. “Not long after June came, Elaine’s husband had this wonderful job opportunity, but they had to move to Texas. The way I remember Amelia telling about it, the couple decided it was too good to pass up, they had to go. That was one reason why June was so happy to have Amelia come. She did not want to go to Texas.”
“So, you think June’s daughter was visiting here when they were in the gift shop?”
“She came up regularly to visit,” the elderly lady agreed, “feeling a little guilty for bringing her mother out to Indiana and then moving away herself. Amelia said June and Elaine were close.”
“Then Elaine may know something more about Mrs. Marsh than we do,” I mused, “and it is very possible no one has asked her about it.”
Miss Carey agreed that was so, and we mutually agreed to try to find out how to get up with Elaine. Perhaps there would be an address among Mrs. Marsh’s correspondence. At that moment Miss Carey could not remember Elaine’s married name, but she thought she would remember if she saw it.
“And if not,” she said firmly, “it cannot be that hard to find out. Elaine and her husband lived in this area for a number of years. They must have some family or friends who still do. There may be a church they attended that has a forwarding address.”
Judy, I thought, here you have your modern day Miss Marple.