Red Mourning, page 17
part #2 of Rosie Casket Cozy Mystery Series
I watched the cruiser disappear around the bend, the leaves whipping in its wake.
I tromped for the porch. “What a lousy, no-good, weak, little boy,” I mumbled. He didn’t have the brain power to reason past his groin. And to think, I had almost considered going on a date with that sub-adult.
But then another, even more unsettling thought made my palms feel like I was holding a tall glass of cold water. Bella had left that tube of Nightshade for me. I had been half an inch from putting it on my lips.
She had almost killed me.
And it was all my fault that Lisa Smith was dead.
I wanted to go inside and curl up on the couch. I wanted to jump into the harbor and let the tide carry me out to sea.
The only thing stopping me was the fear of Bella. She had killed two women now. And she wouldn’t stop until she got what she wanted.
Whatever that is.
All thoughts of staying at the house in the hopes of catering to potential guests and saving my business had gotten sucked right out the window as helplessly as the smoke from Bella’s cigarette.
I no longer felt safe in my own house.
If Mettle wasn’t going to run a test on the lipstick, there were only two options: I needed to convince him that Bella was the devil’s mistress, OR I needed to get the heck out of Dark Haven.
One choice was much easier than the other. But if I left town and Bella was as rich and powerful as she seemed, she would find me eventually, especially if she thought I was a loose thread in her stockings. She’d cut me off as soon as she could dig me up.
I had a vision of trembling before I started the Apache each morning, of looking behind me everywhere I walked, of inspecting my toothbrush for traces of arsenic. I’d fall asleep each night worrying about intruders, about bombs, about poisoned cereal.
I didn’t want to go inside. Not now. If I stayed in the house by myself, I was an easy target.
Instead, I pulled the keys from my pocket and climbed into the Apache. I winced as I turned the key.
The engine coughed, but started.
I breathed relief, thankful I wasn’t blown to pieces. Then I backed out of the driveway and drove to Thomaston.
On the way there, I took out my phone, navigated to the state’s website, and thumbed my information into the visitor’s form. By the time I pulled up to the security booth, it was midafternoon and the clouds had stretched to cover the entire sky with a thin, frilly veil.
I rolled down my window. If there was one good thing about the Apache, the lack of power windows was going to tone my forearms.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
The guard looked up from his computer. He was the same guard who had been on duty when I first visited the prison.
“I’m here to see Phyllis Martin again,” I said.
He turned back to his computer screen. “Rosemary Casket?”
“That’s me.”
He nodded. Then said nothing.
“Soooo…can I go in?”
“It says right here that you submitted this information only half an hour ago,” he said.
“I know. I forgot to do it sooner. It was a last minute thing.”
“We don’t do last minute,” the guard said. “The website clearly says that to be considered for visitation rights, you must submit your information at least seventy-two hours before the intended visit.”
“But it wasn’t a problem last time.”
The guard turned away from his computer and narrowed his eyes. “There was no last time, ma’am.”
“Is this because I forgot to wave to you on my way out? I’m very sorry about that. I felt horrible. I had a lot going on in my head that day.”
“I need you to reverse your vehicle and clear the lane.”
“I really need to see Phyllis Martin,” I said. “Lives depend on it.”
“If it’s that important, than you need to submit the form in a timely manner, seventy-two hours before the visitation request—as it clearly says on the website.”
“I don’t have seventy-two hours,” I said.
“Tough luck. Rules are rules.”
I squeezed the steering wheel. Apparently, the rules had changed since my last visit. But if I made a big stink about it, the guard might never let me enter. I was going to have to call for a favor. But given how poorly our relationship had deteriorated, there was no way I could ask for Mettle’s help. That would be like getting punched in the face and then apologizing for hurting his knuckles.
Still, I needed to get into that visitation room and talk with Phyllis. She was the only one who might know what was going on. I looked at the floor mat and tried not to stammer: “I’m here on official legal business. I’m part of the team representing Phyllis Martin.”
“The team?”
“The legal team,” I lied, still not making eye contact. “I’m a paralegal. I need to interview her.”
The guard crossed his massive forearms. “Which firm do you work for?”
“Slate and Bearing.”
“Never heard of them.”
“They’re based in Dark Haven.”
“Is that the town where the slaver ran aground?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I ain’t into that,” he said.
“I held up my phone. “I’m so sorry I didn’t submit the form sooner, but my job depends on this. If you don’t believe me, you can call up one of the partners.”
The guard huffed and stood from his stool. “You make the call. Put it on speaker phone.”
I pulled up my history and tapped the button for my foster father’s office. I held my breath as his phone rang once, twice, three times. God. I really should have cleared this with him beforehand.
Finally, my foster father picked up. “Hello? This is Slate and Bearing. You’re speaking with Robert Slate.”
“Dad—er—Robert, it’s Rosie How are you?”
“I’m okay, Rosie. I’ve got a lot of work to do here. What’s going on?”
“I’m here at the prison to see Phyllis Martin,” I said. “Just like you instructed.” Before he could protest, I added, “The guard won’t let me in because he thinks I’m trying to bust her out or something silly like that. He doesn’t believe that you sent me to ask her about her real estate holdings.”
There was a long pause. Please, please, please.
“Yes, of course,” Robert said. “Make sure you ask her about the lien on the house. I need to know by the time we close this evening.”
I exhaled relief.
“Is that all, Rosemary?”
“That’s it. Thank you, Robert.”
“We’ll discuss your findings later.”
I winced and hung up. Then I turned back to the guard. “You see?”
The guard sat back down on his stool. “Next time, you follow the directions on the website.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Absolutely, sir.”
But I was praying there wouldn’t be a next time.
Phyllis sat behind the glass like an animal that was tired of being gawked at and photographed. Somehow, she looked even older than before. At this rate of rapid aging, she wouldn’t live long enough to go to Mars.
She just sat there, her shoulders slumped. I couldn’t tell if she was angry at me, or at the world.
I tapped the glass and pointed to the receiver hanging on the wall. Reluctantly, she picked it up.
“What do you want, Dear?”
“What do you know about Bella Donna Beauty?”
“What’s that?”
“A cosmetic line.”
“I ain’t never heard of ’em.”
“So you’ve never heard of Bella Donley, aka Jane Donley? The supermodel?”
She tugged on the bags under her eyes. “Do I look like I’m into makeup? There ain’t enough concealer in the world to fix this mess.”
“Don’t say that,” I said.
“It’s true, ain’t it?”
She had gone from tired to depressed. I almost said that we all possessed a special inner beauty, blah blah, but in Phyllis’s case, it was a lie. She had tried to kill me. She had the same inner beauty as a rabid Rottweiler.
“I’m guessing you heard about Lori,” I said.
“Ayuh.”
I closed my eyes. Depending on how well Phyllis was keeping time—which was probably meticulously in this place—she would have figured out by now that I had known that her daughter was dead the last time I came to visit her.
The best strategy was to preempt whatever suspicions she might have been harboring. “I’m truly sorry I didn’t tell you what happened the last time I was here. I didn’t know what to say. And it looked like you were getting by. I knew you needed your strength to survive in here.”
“I wanted her to come live with us, you know,” Phyllis said.
“In my house?”
“Ayuh. She deserved it. She needed to be with people who cared about her.”
“You should have asked me. She could have come to stay with me. I have plenty of rooms.”
“I wanted to, but after I was arrested I couldn’t bring myself to face her. She thought I was the scum of the earth for kidnapping those lawyers. I couldn’t never make her believe there were forces at work bigger than me.”
“What forces?”
Phyllis shrugged. “You’re better off not knowin, Rosie.”
I sat back. “Your story doesn’t make sense, Phyllis.”
She narrowed her eyebrows. “Of course it does. It’s the truth.”
“No it isn’t. You said you sent Lori to warn me. How could you have sent her to warn me if you couldn’t bring yourself to face her?”
Phyllis leaned into the glass. “You weren’t listenin very closely, Dear. I never said I sent her to warn you. I said I told her you were trustworthy. She went to you because her father got himself in trouble again.”
“Her father?”
“Yes. Peter Hardgrave.”
Chapter 28
“Peter Hardgrave is Lori’s father?”
“Ayuh. I had an affair with Peter back when he was incarcerated at Leavenworth. I worked in the infirmary at the time. When I got preggers and couldn’t hide the baby bump no more, they let me go. This was the late seventies mind you, and since I worked ungodly hours at the prison, they determined I had cavorted with one of the inmates.”
I lowered the receiver, stunned. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts. “If all this is true, then why would Lori bring me a page from Pride and Prejudice?”
“A couple of days before you came to visit me, Lori came to see me too. This was right after Peter got arrested. She was angry at me for what I did to them lawyers. Boy was she angry. I don’t blame her none. Both of her grandparents ended up behind bars. I tried to explain the situation, how I got caught cuz Thomas Seyton had that page from Moby Dick in his pocket, but you were so smart you figured it out. She musta thought you could help her too.”
“But why Pride and Prejudice? What does that have to do with her father?”
“I got no idea.”
“Was Lori into drugs?”
“Heavens no,” Phyllis said. “That was another point of contention between us. I was a child of the sixties. She was a millipede."
"You mean Millennial?"
"Same difference."
“You have no idea who Bella Donley is?”
“Like I said, I ain't never heard of her.”
“Right now, my only lead is a connection between the page that Lori brought me and this Bella Donley woman. She's the model for Bella Donna beauty products. She showed up in town a few weeks ago and since then, both your daughter and another woman have died. Both of them were wearing Bella Donna lipstick.”
Phyllis glanced at the guard behind her, gave him a wink, and then leaned into the window. “Whoever said looks can kill was right, eh? It’s our secret weapon.”
“I’m thinking it was poison,” I said. “Bella’s been going around town with her photographer and taking pictures of all the historic buildings, including the Gold Bug Tavern.”
Phyllis sat back. “That son of a gun.”
“What?”
She smiled at the audacity of it. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“Remember when I told you back in the cruiser that I didn’t have no choice about what I did? The township was pushing me out, just as they’re trying to push out Peter. I’ll bet my left boob that this Bella woman is in on the game. She’s either workin for the township, or she’s workin for someone else, someone behind the scenes. That’s why she’s takin pictures all over town. She’s scoutin.”
“Who’s behind the scenes?”
She lowered her voice. “A puppet master.”
“Who?”
She shrugged. “We pay our taxes, right? The township don’t got nothin to gain by puttin us out on the street. But they do have the legal leverage to gobble up our property and sell it to whoever they want. Tell me, Dear, since taking over my house, has anyone ever sent you a card or somethin?”
I remembered the hospital room. When I was watching over Eldritch, someone had sent me red flowers and a postcard on a harpoon skewer. It had been a vintage condolence card for a child, an image of Strawberry Shortcake right in the middle. The words “Sorry for Your Loss,” had been crossed out and someone had written “You Always Had the Best Lungs.”
I didn’t have the card with me, but I had taken a photo of it. I pulled out my phone, swiped through my photo album, and held the screen up to the glass.
“Like this?”
Phyllis tapped the glass. “How’d you get that phone in here?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t say anything at the door.”
“Typical,” Phyllis said. She looked at the photo, glanced back at the guard, and whispered, “Put it away.”
I shoved the phone into my pocket. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“Ayuh. When did you get yours?”
“Right after I almost drowned.”
“I got one too,” Phyllis said. “It was a few weeks before you came to town. My postcard said ‘Good Tidings.’ I wouldn’t be surprised if now that you’re the owner of the inn, you get another one. Someone’s tryin to push you out, Dear.”
“The same person who made you kidnap me and the lawyers?”
She sat back and crossed her arms.
“Or suppose the devil made you do it?” I said.
Phyllis shook her head, visibly angry. “Lori was a sickly girl. She had a rare genetic disorder that affected her bones. It skipped her mother and me but it hit Lori hard. She was sick most of her life. She had limited prospects and little chance of holdin down a regular job, so I wanted her to come work at the inn with me. But then you took over.”
I thought about Pride and Prejudice. No prospects. That sounded just like Mary Bennet. In the book, Mary Bennet had little chance of marrying and no chance of inheriting.
“I was promised that if I kidnapped the lawyers, Lori’s medical debt would be forgiven,” Phyllis said.
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. A man in a suit came to see me and gave me a pile of cash. I don’t know who he worked for. I didn’t care, frankly. My daughter needed the money.”
“Did Lori buy a lot of makeup?”
“Ayuh. She wanted to be normal. She thought a lot of face paint could do it.”
“So she must have been an easy target for Bella’s products. Just like Lisa.”
“Who’s Lisa?”
“The other woman who died.”
Phyllis grimaced. “Someone wants this town, the whole dang thing. I been out of the gossip loop for a long while now, but I’ll bet my right boob that you ain’t the only land owner gettin pushed around.”
Chapter 29
As I left the prison, dusk was dripping down the sky, a gradual sinking of the clouds and a browning of the jet trails until they looked like muddy footprints disappearing behind the pointed conifers. This time as I exited, I made sure to wave to the guard, but he was so engrossed in playing a game on his phone that he didn’t bother to wave back.
About a mile from the prison complex, I stopped to get gas. I fed my credit card into the pump machine and watched the rolling digits barrel me further into debt. Now that I wasn’t getting a steady paycheck, my sense of security had become as loose as the Apache’s shocks. I kept telling myself that Rosemary “Pinebox” Casket could figure out how to keep a lid on her stomach.
With a full tank, but an empty heart, I drove straight to downtown Dark Haven. Thankfully, the old Apache was still holding up—knock on its rotten bed wood—and the only disturbing sound was a rather loud purling. Either the fuel was sloshing around a half-empty tank—or my stomach acid was doing the same.
I parked along the curb outside my foster-father’s office and got out and hustled up to the front door. The sky was dark now, the clouds piled up on the horizon like purple sandbags fortified against the coming of the moon. In the distance, Eldritch lit the lamp and the plaque with the partners’ names caught the first burst of red.
I leaned in for a closer look. A new name had replaced Thomas Seyton’s. Kyle Kendall. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps this was the new lawyer all the women at the makeup party had been drooling over.
I tried the door. It was still unlocked. The workaholics were burning the late-evening oil—or in this case, right through their clients’ pocketbooks. The hallway was as dim as if had been lit with gas lamps, but the sound of lawyers clacking away on their keyboards was pervasive.
Not wanting to disrupt anyone’s billable hours, I tiptoed down the hallway. The first door on the left was open.
I paused and glanced inside. Kyle Kendall was sitting at Thomas Seyton’s old mahogany desk. He looked up from his papers and smiled at me.
Geez. The women hadn’t been wrong. He was young, my age, had soft eyes and soft skin, and was kind of cute, kind of like really cute, in a big-salary and nice shoes kind of way.
