The Secret Ingredient Murders: A Eugenia Potter Mystery (18 page)

“No partnership. A one-shot deal. You shut up. I pay up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He took a swig, made a face at it. “Cheers.”

“You think it was easy for me to get this money?”

“Yeah, matter of fact, I do. And I think you ought to throw in something else, for all the trouble I’m saving you.” This idea had only just come to him, but it seemed so logical and right. “You gotta get me a place to live free. Not over a damn garage, either. I want a nice place, like you got.”

“I can’t do that much for you.”

“Why not? It’d be easy for you.”

“You’re greedy, Eddie.”

“And you’re not?” He laughed, took another swig. “You got the power to do things for me.”

“I haven’t got any power, Eddie.”

“Sure you do, and there’s lots of things I want.”

“First things first. I brought the money.”

“Where is it? Give it to me.”

“Here.”

The other person reached back, grabbed hold of something.

Eddie lifted the bottle again and closed his eyes. He had to laugh. Old Man Parker was always telling him how he ought to grab the opportunities life gave him. Well, this was it. Heaven was opening, and hell was closing up tight. In another minute, when he opened his eyes, there’d be a spread of cash in front of him, more cash than he’d ever seen outside of the cashier’s cage in a casino. He groaned out loud with pleasure and anticipation.

Some sixth sense made his eyes fly open.

He saw the arm swinging toward him, holding long, hard metal quahog tongs. There was no time for him to move out of the way. It came so fast it was a blur. He felt an instant of blinding pain when the tongs slammed into his skull and heard a terrible crunching within his own head. The champagne bottle fell from his grasp, spilling its sour yellow contents all over his pants legs, flooding the bottom of the boat with the smell of alcohol. The tongs crashed into his skull a second time, then a third and fourth, but Eddie didn’t feel those. He didn’t hear the splash when the tongs went into the dark water of Narragansett Bay, and he didn’t feel the boat rock when the other occupant stepped out of it.

Nor did he hear the words, “One more job to do.”

      18
T
OO
M
ANY
C
OOKS

Genia’s curled, sleeping body felt the noise before it registered in her mind. One of her shoulders twitched, as if it had been shoved by an invisible hand. Instantaneously, her eyes flew open.
What was that?
She shot up in bed, every nerve ending alert.

Did I hear something, or only dream it?

She blinked, fighting to see through the darkness of the bedroom. Although the curtains at the windows were pulled back and the shades were raised, no moon or starlight shone through to illuminate things for her. Either the moon was busy elsewhere, or black clouds covered it tonight. Gradually, she made out shapes of furniture, humped and inhuman in the shadows.

There’s nothing in here that shouldn’t be here
.

At least not that she could see. Genia realized she was holding her breath. She let it out quietly, and just as quietly took in another breath. Her ears strained to catch any untoward sound from this floor or the one below her. Through an open window, she heard the branches of the slender pine tree outside her windows slide against each other as a slight breeze moved them. Everything, otherwise, seemed unnaturally silent, except for the pounding of her own heart, which sounded as if it were beating in her ears instead of in her chest.

She glanced at the small round clock beside the bed: one-thirty. Long enough for her to have drifted off into a deep sleep for several hours. She had fought sleeplessness by reading Stanley’s old cookbook until her eyes drooped. Then she had closed the cookbook and laid it down beside the clock. And now a noise—actual, or dreamed?—had jerked her back to wakefulness. She reached for the light near the clock and book, but before her fingers could touch the small brass switch, she heard something. Or thought she did. A muffled sound, partly thud, partly click. It sounded distant but distinct, a real sound coming from downstairs. This was no dream.

I really heard something
.

She reached instinctively for her robe, which lay across the foot of her bed. The sound was inside the house, she was sure of that now. Something—someone!—was in the house.

Without turning on the light, she slipped out of bed and into the robe. Standing beside the nightstand, she looked frantically around the room.
Where did I leave the phone?
It was a portable, and the base that sat upon the nightstand was empty.
Where was I when I used it last?
Frantically, she tried to remember, but couldn’t. It had been so many hours ago, even before her dinner at the Yacht Club with David. Who had she called before that? Where did she leave the phone? She moved toward the bathroom—terrified of making the floor creak—hoping she had left the receiver on the counter while she was making up her face for her date.

Yes! Oh, thank goodness, there it is!

But when she punched the “on” button—and froze at the sound of the beep it gave off—the hollow, echoing silence of a dead phone line fed her fear.

Now what, old girl?

No 911. No neighbors close enough to holler out the window. No way down outside from this second floor without breaking a leg or my neck. Should I swallow my fear and go downstairs to check things out? No! Stanley was murdered! I must not take any stupid chances. Whoever killed him might be downstairs in this house at this very minute. I’ll have to hide, but where?

If she moved from where she stood, with every step, she took the risk of making noise. Another muffled
thud
from down below made her decision for her. She bolted silently into the closet but did not close the door behind her. If the intruder came up here, let him see the open closet door, let him think that meant she wasn’t in there. With pounding heart, she crept into a corner of it, covering herself behind hanging clothes.

But as she waited—
for what?
—a sliver of anger worked its way into her chest and began to grow into indignation, then fury, and then into resolve.

No! No one is going to get the best of me like this. How dare they! I will not be killed like a cowering rabbit. I will not die like this, huddled in a corner of a closet! No!

With great care she crept out of the closet, still feeling very afraid but no longer helpless. She grabbed the only potential weapon she could find, an umbrella with a leather handle and a stiletto metal point at the business end of it.
Absurd, but what else is there?
She wrapped her fingers around the handle and tiptoed toward the open door of her bedroom, taking up a position behind the door, the umbrella pointed up, ready to plunge into the chest of any intruder who entered there.

She leaned back just a little, intending to support herself against the wall. Her head pressed against the corner of a framed painting. Before she could stop the movement, the frame thudded against the wall behind her. In the silence it sounded as loud to her as a gunshot. She went rigid with fear, her knuckles weakened, and then she grasped the umbrella handle as if her life depended on it.
As perhaps it does. Did the intruder hear that? Will he come upstairs now?

Below, there was nothing but silence.

The moments stretched into an eternity. She prayed the intruder would stay below, or if he came upstairs that she would have the opportunity to stab the umbrella into his throat or his face or his groin.
I will not hesitate
. She feared she was not strong enough to do any real harm, but if she could hurt him just enough to make him pull back, she might get precious minutes to race down the stairs and out the front door to her car, to the neighbors, to the police.

I will not be a victim!

From out of nowhere came a memory: she and Lew many years ago, sleeping in their cabin in Maine. A cold night. Lew’s body curled around her own to warm them both, her back pressed cozily into his chest, his knees brought up behind her own. They’d been sound asleep with the moon flooding their bed and their bodies with light. And someone—a drifter, the police said after they arrested him weeks later—had broken into their cabin and rifled it of every radio, camera, television that could be lifted through a window into the waiting arms of his accomplice. A sound had awakened them to what was happening only a few feet away from where they slept. Lew had shot out of bed, grabbed a hunting rifle, and plunged into the living room in his pajamas. The intruders ran, with Lew firing over their heads into the cold night air. He hadn’t wished to kill anyone, just scare them off. Both he and Genia had insomnia for many nights afterward.

The grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs struck the hour.

Her arms ached from grasping the umbrella. There were no more sounds, and now the house felt empty to her. She felt alone in it again, but could she trust that sensation? What if someone were waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs? What if he had more patience than she?

For an eternity more, she stood there, afraid to come out.

My life may be at stake. I can bear this. I can wait
.

Only when the sky began to lighten did she finally move out from behind the door, so stiff and exhausted she felt like an elephant crashing through the underbrush.

There was no answering noise from downstairs.

She ventured down the carpeted stairs, pausing at each one, waiting, listening, still hanging on to her weapon. Normal noises came to her: the hum of the refrigerator motor, the tick of the grandfather clock, a drip of the kitchen faucet.

Genia stepped onto the first-floor carpet.

From there, she could see into the living and dining area.
Nobody there, unless they’re crouched behind the furniture, or lurking behind the draperies
. She moved cautiously into the hallway, checked the front foyer—
The door is still locked
—then walked back toward the kitchen. It took all the courage she had to push open the door, and then walk into that room.

Her purse still sat on the kitchen table.

She went over to it, opened it, found nothing missing.

A radio still sat on the windowsill above the sink. She had not noticed anything awry in the living room. It appeared so far that nothing was missing, nothing stolen, or at least nothing she had seen so far. Everything was as she had left it when she went up to bed. The kitchen door was bolted, just as it should be, as she had taken to doing ever since Stanley died.

Did I imagine this nightmare? Was there never anybody here? Did I exhaust and terrify myself over nothing at all?

The portable kitchen phone lay upside down on the kitchen table beside her purse, just as she had last seen it. She picked it up, listened to the same hollow sound she’d heard on the extension upstairs, and then looked at it. It was “on”! As if it had been left off the hook!
Did I do that? Did I forget to press the “off” button the last time I used it?
It was easy to make that mistake, but she thought she had been careful every time to push the “off” button after each call.

She turned it off now, feeling very foolish.

Everything seemed normal, just as she had left it.

Genia filled a kettle with water, put it on the stove, and turned it up to boil.
I need a cup of tea. Oh, Stanley, am I crazy? Did I only imagine there was someone in this house?
There was no point in calling the police now. Obviously, she had imagined everything. Thank goodness she hadn’t called them! A little self-criticism and self-pity started to creep into her mind, but then she reminded herself:
There was a murder in this little town just a few days ago. I am surely not the only person in Devon who has imagined things that might go bump in the night. We’re all afraid, it’s not just you, Genia
. She forgave herself. But now she felt tired enough to crawl back into bed and sleep for several hours.

After one cup of tea, that was exactly what she did.

      19
S
WEET
T
OOTH

Three hours later, when Genia went downstairs again to start her morning for real, something felt “off” to her about the kitchen. Even so, she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She shook off the feeling, telling herself firmly, “It’s just your imagination working overtime again.” Although she was still tired and emotionally edgy, she felt ready to tackle a necessary but unpleasant task.

“Let’s get it over with,” she told herself.

She took a deep breath and then dialed Celeste’s number.

After several rings, Celeste answered, sounding as if she had endured an even rougher night than Genia’s. Feeling it might be untactful to ask “How are you, Celeste?” Genia opted for a cheerful, businesslike briskness, instead.

“It’s Genia. I’d like to drop by for a few minutes.”

“This morning?” The Realtor groaned. “Oh, God, I have such a hangover. Did I see you last night? I did, didn’t I? At the Yacht Club, right? What did I do? Did I do anything embarrassing? Oh, God, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

“I’ll bring you some coffee, Celeste.”

“Oh, heaven! You’re an angel. Make it a latté. A double. Skim milk.”

“Sweetener?”

“I’ve got the sweetener, and it’s called bourbon.” Celeste laughed, a throaty sound that ended in coughing. “But bring me something sweet to eat, will you?”

She abruptly hung up, leaving Genia hanging on to the receiver.

She had actually sounded fairly good-humored, Genia thought with amazement, as if she truly had no idea how she had behaved last night, or how she had looked to the man whose opinion seemed to matter most to her. It appeared that Celeste had no memory of how she got home, either. Would she remember taking a brooch from Genia’s dining room?

Genia stopped by Stella’s Bakery for a cream cheese and blueberry kringle, a circular delicacy that had become her favorite coffee cake in all the world. Stella’s were only one inch high, but that single inch was sinfully buttery with a fresh fruit and cream-cheese filling set into golden brown pastry. It made Genia’s mouth water to look at it.

With the still-warm kringle in a white box at her side and two lattés propped up in drink holders, Genia drove south along the wharf area. She noticed police cars, four of them, down at the water’s edge. A crowd of people were held back by a yellow crime scene tape that brought all too vividly to mind the last time she had seen such a thing: at the site of Stanley’s murder.

Oh, dear
, she thought,
I hope those men who were fighting last night didn’t kill each other
. Her second thought was to wonder if a boating disaster had befallen someone, or if somebody had gotten drunk and tumbled into the harbor. It probably wasn’t “just” an accident in the parking lot, because surely the police wouldn’t put up crime scene tape for something like that. Even though she slowed her car to try to see what was going on, she couldn’t tell much from where she was driving.

She recalled her own fantasy of terror last night.

It seemed childish in daylight, and especially in view of the scene down at the harbor. That hinted at tragedy for someone, of real fear, and possibly real loss. She offered up a prayer for the sake of anyone who might be involved in it, whatever it was.

She drove on farther south into the section of Devon where Celeste lived. A handful of the colonial and Federal-style homes in the picturesque area boasted small brass plaques that denoted inclusion on the National Registry of Historic Places. She knew that one of them was attached to Celeste’s house. Genia had other friends with such residences and she knew how much money was required to maintain them.

Turning onto Celeste’s street, Genia admired a profusion of pink and white wild roses climbing over a wrought-iron fence on the corner. The Realtor’s home was a Federal-style brick house, old-world and elegant. When Genia had driven Celeste there the night before, she had altogether missed the stately beauty of the house, and now she admired it fully. Neatly trimmed bayberry bushes lined the gas-lit drive and a brilliant array of zinnias and begonias welcomed visitors to the front door. Genia could easily imagine the wife of a sea captain waiting inside to welcome her husband home from his journeys.

Sunlight, bright and hot this morning, reflected blindingly off Celeste’s red Lincoln, which Genia had left parked in the driveway. But clouds on the horizon told her that the weather was about to change, just as Harrison Wright had been predicting all week. She smiled to herself, thinking how much ribbing he would have to take when the rain arrived and scared off all the tourists.

Despite her smile, the clouds suited her own mood this morning.

She was worried about Celeste, about her drinking, and about the inexplicable appearance of the brooch in her jewelry box. Maybe there was an innocent explanation, but what if there wasn’t? Why would a successful Realtor, a woman who lived in the “best” part of town, take a valuable piece of jewelry that didn’t belong to her? For that matter, why did she drink so much? A recovering-alcoholic friend of Genia’s had once told her, “It’s a progressive disease, Genia, and to stop drinking is merely the first step in recovering from it.”

Celeste didn’t seem ready to take that step.

Clearly, Larry Averill thought that Celeste was about as fine a person as anyone could be. But even the mayor had acted concerned about her last night. Genia wondered if he had been watching Celeste decline over a long period of time, or if something recently had exacerbated the problem.

Like an unrequited love affair?
she wondered, feeling uneasy.

Had seeing David Graham with Genia at dinner been enough to set Celeste off on that humiliating scene?

Genia parked behind the Lincoln and then walked reluctantly up to the front door carrying the kringle box in front of her like a shield, with the lattés in their tall cups perched precariously on top. She saw a “Wet Paint” sign and carefully avoided the shiny black trim around the front door.

Framed in the gleaming doorway, Celeste stretched out her arms. “Genia, come on in! What have you got there, something delicious, I hope? I’m starving! What a marvelous way to start the day, with you dropping by for breakfast.”

Genia handed over the lattés, feeling taken aback.

Here was no hung-over, disheveled woman in a frumpy bathrobe.

This was a vivacious dynamo in a gorgeous red silky robe over matching pajamas, with red high-heeled slippers, and her hair combed and makeup on. Celeste looked exactly like the successful Realtor she was, and not at all like the shamefaced, sick alcoholic that Genia had expected to see. If Celeste had felt rotten when Genia called earlier that morning, there was no sign of it now.

As Genia stepped inside the house, she inquired a little wickedly, “Are you feeling all right now, Celeste?”

“I feel marvelous, all I needed was a little hair of the dog that bit me.”

Genia hadn’t heard that euphemism for alcohol in years. Celeste, it seemed, had already started off her day with a drink.

Moving like a woman of boundless energy, Celeste led her guest through the front rooms, where Genia silently admired a landscape painting above a wonderful fireplace and richly polished ash wainscoting along the walls. “I must have had a touch of flu last night, Genia, otherwise I can’t imagine why I reacted so strongly to just a little bit of alcohol. That isn’t like me at all! I hope you understand. I’ve already talked to Larry, and he tells me you brought me home, you sweetie. I’m sure I could have made it on my own, but it was nice of you, all the same. Let’s see what you’ve brought me from my favorite bakery!”

Following behind, Genia decided ruefully that she now had a much better understanding of the concept of “denial.” She’d never seen anyone make so fast a recovery from being so inebriated. Perhaps Celeste had started drinking again first thing in the morning—“a little hair of the dog”—or she had taken an amphetamine to counteract the sedative effects of the alcohol. Either way, these were bad signs.

“What is happening to my town, Genia?” Celeste’s tone was as dramatic as a diva’s as she got busy opening Genia’s gift box in the kitchen. “Oh, a kringle, my favorite, and blueberry, too.” She touched the coffee cake with the forefinger of her right hand and then licked her finger. “Yum. Hand me a couple of those dessert plates, will you? Isn’t it scary? People just being killed right and left? How am I ever going to sell houses if buyers are afraid they’ll be murdered in their beds?”

Genia took a seat on a stool at the counter. “One murder is not an epidemic, Celeste.”

“One? Haven’t you heard the latest?”

Intuitively, Genia thought back to the yellow crime scene tape down at the wharf this morning. “No, what happened?”

“Somebody killed Ed Hennessey.” Celeste said it with relish, as if passing on delicious news. “That awful groundskeeper of Stanley’s. It happened down at the harbor last night. Or maybe this morning, I’m not sure. Larry told me all about it, but I’ve already forgotten the details. Can you believe it? Two murders in less than a week? This one’s so disappointing, though.”

Genia stared at her hostess. “How so, Celeste?”

“I had Eddie pegged as the number-one suspect in Stanley’s death!” She glanced over at Genia as she continued cutting the entire kringle into serving-size pieces. “Didn’t you?”

Genia had to admit, “Yes, maybe I did.”

“Well, I guess it’s not him!” Celeste laughed and passed a plate over to Genia, along with a sterling silver fork. “
Bon appétit
, thanks to you. Now, tell me all about you and David Graham!”

Genia felt doubly taken aback, first by the news of the latest murder, and then by the incongruous change of subject. She looked closely at Celeste, who appeared rather studiously blasé, as if the question and the effort of hearing the answer were costing her something she didn’t want revealed. Genia felt she was rather callously dismissing a man’s death, even if he had been a reprehensible human being.

“There’s not a thing to tell, Celeste.”

“Bosh. Out to dinner together and nothing to tell?”

Evidently Larry Averill had jogged her memory quite a bit.

“No, honestly, we were just two friends dining out. We were both so glad when you joined us, and then Larry, too.”

“
You
may have been glad,” Celeste said meaningfully.

Genia didn’t want to go down that road, and neither did she want to be sidetracked so easily from the shocking news of Ed Hennessey’s death. “Celeste, how did Hennessey die, did Larry say?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was he killed in a fight?”

“Oh, I guess. I heard he was beaten to death.”

Instinctively, Genia’s hand went to her heart. She couldn’t help but feel compassion for the man whose life had been so short and so sordid. “Oh, my. Do they know who did it?”

She half expected Celeste to say it was another drunken man down at one of the bars, and was dismayed when the answer was “Well, they found him in Kevin Eden’s boat, so maybe it was Kevin, or that delinquent son of his, what’s his name?”

“Jason,” Genia said, barely able to get the name out.

“Oh, Genia!” Her hostess turned with a look of such dramatic sincerity that Genia immediately sensed it was false. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot they’re your relatives. Please forgive me.”

Genia was unable to utter any such words at that moment.

It was her definite impression that Celeste had purposely set out to be cruel. If so, she had succeeded. Eddie Hennessey’s body found in Kevin’s boat! Genia felt like weeping at the new trouble that might now be roaring into the lives of her niece and the children. And Kevin, she amended guiltily. She mustn’t forget the twins’ father, even if he was divorced from their mother.

She put her fork down on the plate, all hunger fled.

“I never should have said that,” Celeste continued in the same tone of false remorse. “And I shouldn’t listen to gossip, either, but in my line of work, I hear everything, even the stuff that isn’t true. Now I know perfectly well that your nephew wasn’t growing marijuana up in that greenhouse of Stanley’s, was he? And he certainly didn’t kill Stanley, did he, Genia? That’s just absurd, isn’t it?”

Genia felt pummeled by one shock after another as she listened to the ugly words coming out of Celeste’s mouth. She knew that Jason was growing pot in the greenhouse? Jason killing Stanley? Feeling sick, she asked, “Is that what people are saying, Celeste?”

“What? About Jason?”

“Yes, that he was growing pot, or that he killed Stanley?”

“Who cares what people say? The important thing is the truth.”

“I care what people say about him,” Genia said as firmly as she could with a trembling voice. “He’s my nephew, Celeste. I want to know who told you these things.”

“Oh!” Celeste turned her back for a moment to do something at the sink. “It was Ed Hennessey, if you want to know. He just seemed to know everything about everybody, didn’t he? Maybe he shouldn’t have.” She turned around again, an odd smile playing at her lips. “Maybe it wasn’t good for his health.”

Genia sat silently, stunned and hurt, trying to absorb all she was hearing. Celeste was implying that Ed Hennessey had been killed because of something he knew about Jason, or about someone else. Celeste was implying many things, any of which might be totally false.

“When did he tell you all this, Celeste?”

“I don’t know. Last week sometime.”

“Why would he tell
you?
”

For the first time, the other woman looked hesitant. She picked up the sticky knife they had used to cut the kringle and turned around to wash it at the sink. With her back turned, she said, “Why not me? For all I know, he told a hundred other people.”

Genia decided to drop her own bomb at that moment.

“How did my grandmother’s brooch get into your jewelry box, Celeste?”

She saw the other woman’s shoulders tense.

“Your what?”