The Pumpkin Thief: A Chloe Boston Mystery Page 9

  “Boston, the town council has asked that the police field a choir for the annual singing in the park event. I guess the fire department and nurses and all the service people have choirs?” The chief’s voice wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t discreet either.

  I nodded, sensing someone had come up behind me and was hovering near the door.

  “Do you perhaps sing?” he asked hopefully.

  “I do. It’s okay, chief. Just post a sign-up sheet in the break room. We have lots of good voices in the department and we do this every year. Officer Bryce is usually our choral director. We know what to do. You may also want to put up a sheet so people can get signed up for building the float.”

  “Float?”

  “We always make a float for the Christmas parade. Usually we just decorate a hay wagon with some garlands or something. The choir rides on it and sings. The parade is only five blocks. No big deal. After singing, we have a bean feed.”

  “It sounds like a real Bacchanalia.”

  “Not really. At least no one has ever gotten arrested. You don’t have to worry about us being off duty all day either. It takes only a couple of hours at most.”

  “Thank God. I have to tell you that we never did this kind of thing in Chicago— except Saint Patrick’s Day.”

  “No? Well, it’s pretty fun. You’ll get used to judging contests and doing community stuff. If you decide to stay.” The chief looked doubtful. “The town folks like it and it pays to keep them happy and on your side. My dad always says that you have to take people as they really are and not as you want them to be. You get tolerant or you get bitter.”

  “I wouldn’t want that,” the chief said solemnly.

  “Me either. I’m just glad you aren’t trying to get me involved with the Thanksgiving pageant.”

  “Well….”

  “No— not for anything on earth. Last time I volunteered I got attacked by a hysterical turkey.” The chief looked helpless but I stuck to my guns. “No. Never again. I will bring you a pumpkin for your desk, if you like. The office is kind of bare.”

  “Thank you for the thought. And I’ll send Dale Gordon to work on the pageant. He should be good with turkeys,” the chief said and scribbled himself a note. “You wanted to see me about something else?” His voice was lower and I sensed the eavesdropper had moved on.

  “Yes. I’ve located Ryan Endicott, the deceased’s half-brother. He has one hell of a motive for murder— if we can prove he had advance knowledge of his brother’s existence and their shared inheritance— and I think we can. David Cooper can help with dates when he notified people and stuff.” Even if we had to tie him up and beat him with rubber hoses to get that help. “But Ryan also has an alibi for that night.” The chief’s gaze was sharp and I was glad when he looked away to examine the paper I handed him.

  “One hell of an alibi?” he asked. “Or just an alibi—because this looks like a damn fine motive to me.”

  “That remains to be seen,” I said and then started explaining about the radio show. I met the chief’s eyes as I ended with: “I feel a cold coming on. I might need some time off.”

  “Does Alex have a cold too?” He asked after a long moment. This was another turning point for the chief. My ‘help’ was going from fairly passive information gathering to active investigation in another city. He would have a hard time defending this if it ever got out. But the fact was that though Lawrence Bryce was competent enough at routine investigation, he hadn’t found the things I had. He also could not go off detecting in another city without getting permission from the San Francisco authorities— which could take forever. The chief wanted Hope Falls’ only homicide in a decade solved and quickly. The elections were only a week away. His job was on the line.

  To confirm my thoughts, the chief said: “The autopsy results are back. Knife to the heart. From the back. Hector was taller than his killer. You called it.”

  I nodded, waiting.

  “We’ve contacted the police in San Francisco about the Sayers murders but there is no enthusiasm there. Ditto the Oregon police in reopening the Burns case. A couple tourists died in a fire. They are okay with that.” The chief was frustrated.

  “Would it help you say yes to my leave if I told you that Alex was definitely feeling sick too?”

  “If he is then you take a couple days off. And Chloe?” He said gently: “Be careful. I know you’re competent and strong and scary bright, but a stranger might not—”

  “Might not find me formidable even if I carried a shotgun and a badge that said I worked for the IRS?”

  The chief smiled briefly.

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s what Alex is for. I don’t plan on being brave. I’m just the private eye’s girlfriend,” I assured him blithely. “There won’t be any danger.”

  “Give me your cell phone. I’m going to plug in my number anyway. If there’s trouble, you call.”

  Chapter 12

  Alex booked our flights online. He got some good last minute deals, but it was still far from cheap and I doubted the department would reimburse me.

  While he arranged to pay for our torture at the hands of the airlines, I called Dad to ask him to watch Blue while I was gone. He got an update on the case as well. Then I called Mom to ask if she’d watch the cats (parity for the parents— can’t ask for help from one and not the other). Mom didn’t get an update on the case, which left her to assume that I was going down to meet Alex’s family. An amusing idea I shared with him after I had hung up.

  “We could do that, you know.”

  “Do what?” I asked, an idiot echo, but the idea was so foreign I couldn’t process it.

  “See my folks. They’re curious about you. Mary Elizabeth has been singing your praises.”

  That was a shocker. I didn’t think Mary Elizabeth praised anything but sunblock and moisturizer.

  “Well…” I turned off the oven and pulled out the last sheet of cookies. The gas sputtered and flared then finally accepted death. When I can afford it, I am getting an electric oven. The open flames of the stove scare me (ditto candles) and electric ovens are better for baking anyway.

  “These cookies are excellent— addictive even,” Alex said, grabbing three more off the cooling rack and going to the refrigerator for more milk.

  “Well, I guess there are some people who should never have that first smoke, that first drink, that—”

  “—first espresso chip cookie? But it’s too late now. I’ve had them and I want more.”

  Alex being goofy made me smile.

  “Okay. Let’s meet your parents. But just a short visit? We’ve got work to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” It would have sounded more respectful if he hadn’t had a mouth full of cookie.

  * * *

  We had to leave early Friday morning to drive to Seattle. We had to depart from Seattle and not Spokane— the trouble with last minute tickets. That meant dropping off pets before the sun was up. Blue didn’t whimper when I left, and I appreciated her being brave. I was suddenly having doubts about the trip. Blue could end up having an emotional gastritis or something and I wouldn’t be there.

  “Call me when you get in,” Dad said.

  “I will.” And I meant it. It was silly, but suddenly I felt like I was an immigrant setting off for the new world, possibly never to see my family again.

  There was no sign of Halloween or Thanksgiving at the airport. Probably there was some federal regulation about not having any pumpkins that could hold bombs inside the airport. The seasonless nature of our surroundings was disorienting after the beauty of Hope Falls and I felt like I was going some place that was farther away from home than could be expressed with mere miles.

  Alex closed his laptop just before they called us to board. “The janitor who was working Halloween night is working tomorrow night as well. His name is Esteban Nunez. I think he’s our best bet for finding out if Ryan E was actually at the station.”

  “Good,” I said and mea
nt it, though I was getting increasingly nervous about getting on the plane.

  Alex waited until we were strapped in to tell me that we would be having dinner with his parents that very night and that it would be at his sister’s house. We would be going there straight from the airport.

  I looked at my casual travel clothes and wanted to protest. We had agreed on his parents, not his whole freaking family and not right off the plane, but I bit my tongue. Maybe it would be best to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. I was in town solely for the purpose of finding Ryan Endicott. But, relationships are not just about rearranging your interior life. It sometimes involves the exterior one as well. As happens eventually with all relationships, sometimes you have to do things you don’t want. Dinner with the family was one of them.

  * * *

  San Francisco’s airport was a lot like Seattle’s. Busy, characterless and dark. We had had a long layover in Portland when a landing gear light went on and we were late getting in. Alex had to call his sister and move dinner back an hour.

  “I told her five was too early, but a prophet is never loved in his own land,” he muttered. “I said we might be delayed by weather, but does she ever listen?”

  We got his car out of long-term parking and were finally on our way. Street lamps made streams of light, so close, so bright that there were no pools of darkness between them, and cars moved in them constantly. Day, night. It didn’t matter. The not so subtle background din pressed on my ears and I remembered why I hate visiting big cities. It is funny, given how much I love Blue, that I am really a lot more like a cat than a dog when it comes to facing new situations. I don’t like change. It makes me nervous.

  The weather in San Francisco was lovely; the visit with Alex’s family was— predictably— not.

  I had not been enthused about meeting the parents, Rosemary and Bob, and was even less so about doing it at the home of Alex’s sister. I knew Alex adored her and her kid, but Gwen sounded like the world’s most spoiled brat and lived down to my expectation by demanding another round of apologies for being late the moment we stepped in the door. I let Alex handle it. I wasn’t about to apologize for something that couldn’t be helped.

  I had an image of Alex’s parents culled from various reminiscences he had shared, but the reality was so distorted from Alex’s description that I might as well have been looking in a funhouse mirror. Alex’s parents seemed nice enough, though Rosemary was the driving force and the husband just a suit of clothes that did her bidding, but Alex’s sister Gwen and the hand puppet she had married were another matter. We had barely taken our seats at the table—and by we, I don’t mean Zack, Alex’s cherished nephew who ran around the dining room for the entire meal throwing Legos at everything and everyone— when Gwen began describing her Thanksgiving plans, without ever once suggesting that I might like to join them for the holiday. Alex’s mom had the grace to look uncomfortable and finally leaned forward and interrupted her daughter’s monologue.

  “What are you plans for the holiday, Chloe?”

  My first response— obviously not having it with you— couldn’t be uttered. I considered various answers carefully, which worried Alex, and then I said: “I’m having Thanksgiving at my place this year. It will be my folks and a few orphans who have no one else.” If this story was good enough for my mom, it was good enough for Alex’s rude family. “If Alex is up my way then I’d love to have him too, of course.”

  “But he can’t! He always has Thanksgiving with us. Zack would be just crushed if Alex wasn’t here.” The furrows that suddenly bracketed Gwen’s mouth and dented her brow looked as deep as scars and I wondered what emotional wound had left them. Certainly she had worn this expression a lot over the years to make it so strong. Gwen struggled to produce a few crocodile tears but failed to so much as dampen her eye makeup.

  Secretly I was relieved. If she had cried I would have had to offer some gesture of comfort. As it was, I could go on thinking nasty things about her without being outwardly rude.

  “Alex is supposedly an adult.” I felt Alex flinch as I spoke, but believed it was time that someone scrape the scales off his eyes. “I’m sure he can figure out plans for himself.”

  Rosemary let out a gasp and then quickly changed the subject.

  I ate as quickly as I could and said next to nothing for the rest of the meal. It was easy; Gwen talked almost nonstop. About how precious and precocious Zack was. The men never said a word. I couldn’t get a read on how Alex was taking this, except to know that he was increasingly uncomfortable. He was smart enough not to suggest in any way that Gwen’s increasingly bad mood was my fault and therefore my responsibility, but he didn’t seem to be at the point of suggesting that it might actually be her responsibility either. I guess everyone has their role in the family. Gwen was the terrorist.

  Though I hate to cop to it, I have inherited many of my mom’s traditional social values. Good manners while breaking bread and the pretext of enjoying it— and the company of those who prepared it— was one of them. That part was a struggle on many levels. Gwen aside, there were more croutons than salad on our plates— because Zack would eat them but not lettuce and the meal was designed to cater to his tastes. I hate the toasted abominations. It’s cruel thing to do to perfectly good bread. The pork chops were tough and over-salted— deliberately over-cooked, I bet, to inspire guilt at our late arrival— and I think the green stuff used to be spinach. Picking at my food, I decided that I had been unnecessarily self-critical about my own cooking.

  I wasn’t the only one suffering, but we masticated manfully. The only one to tell the truth was Zack who shouted ‘yuck!’ when his mom suggested that he might want to eat some dinner.

  “You must try my strawberry rhubarb pie. Everyone loves it,” Gwen insisted as her husband cleared the dinner dishes away. I heard a Lego break as he trod on it and bobbled the dishes in his arms, but he never said a word to his son about picking up his toys.

  “Just a sliver then,” I said because though I am polite, I am not at all fond of rhubarb, no matter how much strawberry you mix into it. Making nice was okay because we were almost out of there.

  But either over-developed good manners or a certain clairvoyance mixed with a desire to make me ill prompted Alex’s sister to hand me a ‘sliver’ that was roughly one quarter of the pie. Her smile was a lot like Althea’s when she was ten and double-dog-daring me to do something stupid. I was really beginning to hate Gwen.

  “Here,” I said to Alex. “This piece is for you. Don’t cut any for me, Gwen. I’ll just nibble off Alex’s plate.”

  I knew Alex didn’t like rhubarb either, but too bad for him.

  “Don’t be silly—” she began. Her voice was getting shrill and her husband and parents froze in their seats. I checked to make sure she still had hair instead of snakes. Apparently it isn’t the Medusa’s locks but rather her voice that turns people to stone.

  “I don’t want any. I hate rhubarb,” I said flatly, the last of my manners giving out.

  Alex stood up hurriedly.

  “Daryl, have my piece,” Alex said, shoving the plate at his brother-in-law. From Daryl’s expression, I gathered he didn’t like rhubarb either. “We really have to be going. As I told you, we have business meetings in the morning and we haven’t even unpacked yet.”

  I didn’t make any polite protests. I did refrain from sticking my foot out and tripping the little ape, Zack, as he careened by hurling another Lego at me. Usually there is some milling in the doorway, some hugs and goodbyes. Alex and I made it out in record time. We didn’t even begin pulling on coats until we were on the sidewalk and headed for the car parked a block and a half up the street. The silence was what Tara Lee would call fraught.

  The trip back to Alex’s place was quiet. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me anything about what was on my mind, because if he did I would be honest and it was too early in our relationship to have a full frontal family discussion. Heck it was too early
to sneak one in the back door. Because this wasn’t a family I wanted to acquire or even see again and there was no good way to say that. My mom could be trying. She thrived on minor emergencies and having occasions which she could arise to, but Gwen was on a whole other level. It probably wasn’t reasonable to hope that Alex would be willing to give them up for adoption, so the less said the better. But in the end, he couldn’t let it go.

  “I guess that could have gone better. Gwen is sometimes a little…” He trailed off. What was there to say? His baby sister was a rude brat who needed her mouth duct-taped closed?

  “Well, I did learn two things,” I said, looking out the window and seeing nothing but headlights. “I’m glad I have no kids. Or sisters.”

  That should have sounded humorous, but it didn’t. Probably because I meant every word. I had actually learned a third thing, but this I didn’t share.

  The first time I had encountered Alex he had made me cry, and the instant I had showed tears he had backed off and become conciliatory. Now I knew where he’d gotten his training. This could be useful information if the day came that I decided to be manipulative. Of course, I hoped that if that day ever came that I would just walk away.

  Maybe we should have apologized for something or other just to make nice, but anything that was said that night would have been spoken under duress and meant nothing except that we were cowards about facing the truth.

  Alex’s apartment was very clean and very plain, resembling most a business office. There was no sign of a woman’s touch and that was reassuring. There was some point at which he said no to his sister. Perhaps there was hope after all.

  I called Dad at once, letting him know I was safe. I left the room while we talked and asked in a hushed voice to speak to Blue, but Dad said no. She had just settled down and he didn’t want her all riled up again.