Going Through the Notions(19)

I watched her leave, deep in thought. She was definitely a loose cannon, and there was something very odd about this whole situation.

Was she connected to this suspicious estate company that had done the dirty on Jimmy? Or had she stolen the pens herself, and was only cleverly making a fuss now to draw attention away from herself as a suspect?





Chapter Four





Betty opened the door an inch and peered outside. “Is that horrible woman gone?”

“Yes, don’t worry. I’m sure we’ve seen the last of her.” I hoped I sounded convincing enough as I picked up the cigarette butt and threw it into the trash can. “Betty, I want to talk to you about something important. About legal representation for Angus.”

“Oh, we already have a lawyer. Warren Zeigler.”

“Yes, but don’t you think you might need a good criminal attorney instead?”

“Why? Angus is innocent.”

I sucked in a breath. “I know that, Betty, but—”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that to Warren. He’s like family to us now.” She patted my hand. “He’s very good, Daisy. I trust him completely. And in the good Lord. He will take care of everything. You’ll see.”

I didn’t want to contradict her, but I thought He might need us to step up and do our bit, too. I glanced at my watch. “Yikes. I’d better get back. I have to grab a shower before opening the store.”

I hugged Betty and pedaled back to Millbury. Damn it, I’d wanted to go see Cyril Mackey this morning as well, but I’d run out of time.

Less than an hour later, breathless and hair still damp, I’d barely opened the door to Sometimes a Great Notion when Martha waltzed in.

“Good God, that doll—”

“Martha!” I cut her off before she could launch into the usual routine. “Could you do me a huge favor? I need you to take care of something for me.”

“Sure. You want me to babysit Chris Paxson for you?”

“No, but how about the store? For a few minutes. Please?”

A look of panic spread across her freckled face. “But I don’t know the first thing about sewing. I can’t even sew on a button, for Pete’s sake. What about Eleanor? Can’t you ask her?”

“She has her own store to look after.” I took the plate from Martha’s outstretched hands and hurried to the door.

“Wait a minute—”

“Call me on my cell if anyone comes, or if there are questions you can’t answer. I’ll be right back. Thanks, Martha, I owe you one!”

I ran to the house to pick up the car so I could get to Cyril’s place and back as fast as possible. As I drove down Main Street, a few raindrops spattered the car’s windshield. A couple of minutes later, I turned off onto the dead-end road that led to the salvage yard, where the rusted gate was propped open by a giant iron rooster. I drove in as far as I could until the jumble of wooden porch posts, church pews, painted shutters, gargoyles, and what looked like an old barber’s chair blocked my way.

Cyril ambled out of the building, wearing his flat cap and tweed jacket, looking a bit like a bookie who’d fallen on hard times.

The smile on his face faded when he saw it was me who stepped out of the Subaru, and not Joe.

“What are you doing here?”

This guy didn’t need a junkyard dog. He was meaner than a whole pack of them.

I kept my smile firmly in place. “What can I say? Guess you drew the short straw today.” I knew Cyril liked Joe because Joe could never stop here without buying some rusty relic to bring home and fix.

As he continued to glower, I proffered my peace offering—the plate of Martha’s famous oatmeal cherry cookies. “Look, Cyril, I just want to chat for a minute. About Angus.”

“That bossy boots woman isn’t with you, is she?” he asked, with a furtive glance beyond me back toward the car.

“No, I came alone,” I said, feeling as though I was in some kind of low-budget gangster movie.

Raindrops were falling harder now, dotting the plastic cling wrap as Cyril took the plate from my hands. “Well, I suppose you’d best come in.”

The mobile home–type building had two doors on the side of it. He walked past the first door, and opened up the second one at the back.

I followed him in and stopped stock-still. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but this wide, bright kitchen definitely wasn’t it. Next to the window at the end sat a white table covered by a lace tablecloth, with a vigorous Boston fern hanging in the far corner. On the table, a tea cozy snuggled around a brown ceramic teapot, and a silver rack held several pieces of toast. I’d only ever seen one before in a hotel. The fragrance of freshly toasted bread still hung in the air.