Death of a Highland Heavyweight Page 14

  “No!” snapped Ash. “It’s not all right.”

  “Maybe you should keep your voice down,” I said.

  “I will n-not!”

  “Gailynn, could you please take your cousin outside and deal with whatever is wrong?” Geoff phrased it as a question, but I knew it wasn’t.

  I came around the desk, took Ash’s elbow, and ushered her to the door, smiling reassuringly to the folks in the waiting room who, I’m sure, would have preferred we stay so they could hear what Ash had to say. Once I’d herded Ash out the door, I latched it firmly behind us, and propelled her up the street. Away from prying ears.

  “What is with you?” I demanded. “You can’t just march into a place of business and start shouting at people. If you have a problem—”

  “If I have a problem? If? Oh, that’s s-s-sweet.”

  “Stop ranting and explain.”

  “As if you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “B-baloney!”

  “Ashleigh Margaret MacDonald, stop this melodramatic twaddle, and tell me what’s happened!”

  “Josh b-broke up with me!”

  Mrs. MacPhee peered at us between her front curtains. I smiled and waved all was well. “When did he do that?”

  “This morning while I was opening your stupid Dunmaglass, he came in and said he c-couldn’t see me anymore.”

  Had he spoken to Andrew, too?

  “What’s happened?”

  She caught the tip of her index finger between her front teeth and tore off a length of fingernail. “He said you called him cheap and inconsiderate and un-t-trustworthy.”

  “Well…”

  “How could you? Josh is the b-best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Ash, he breaks into people’s houses and steals things.”

  “For me.”

  “You asked him to do it?”

  She tore a strip off another nail. “Of course I never asked him to steal kitchen f-frogs. But he’s done it because he loves me. And you’ve ruined it.”

  “I’ve ruined it?” I almost sputtered. “I’m the one who’s been covering for him because I didn’t want you hurt.”

  “So that’s why you c-called him names and threatened to go to the police?”

  “Ash.” I said her name softly, trying to damp down the anger factor. “Have you considered the possibility that Josh has done more than swipe a few dozen kitchen frogs?”

  “Like what?”

  “He was at Hunter Hall the night Claude Oui died.”

  Ash placed her hands on her hips. “S-so.”

  “There are a number of pricey folk art frogs missing from Carrie Hunter’s collection.”

  “You think Josh took them?”

  I spread my hands.

  “If he took them, he’d have given them t-to me, and he hasn’t.”

  “Maybe he’s holding them until things cool down?”

  “Since I know, for a fact, he never took Carrie Hunter’s yuppie folk art frogs, the answer is no. He’s not holding them until things c-cool down.”

  “How do you know Josh doesn’t have them?”

  “Because he told me so. And Josh doesn’t lie to me.”

  “You knew he’d been stealing kitchen frogs for you?”

  “No. But he never l-lied about it once I asked him.”

  “And you asked if he’s got Carrie’s missing collectables?”

  “He said, ‘I don’t have Carrie Hunter’s stuff.’ Direct quote. Good enough?”

  “Then why did he break up with you?”

  “Because you made him feel like he wasn’t good enough. People are always treating him like he’s less than they are. I’m not surprised when some people do that, b-but you? I thought you were different.”

  “Hold it. Are you trying to turn this around and say I’m prejudiced?”

  “If the shoe fits.”

  I stuck my finger in her face. “Don’t you ever, ever, accuse me of treating him badly because he looks different than I do. I’ve lived my entire life being different. Having people look at me and whisper.” As the only non-redhead in three generations of MacDonalds, my black hair stirred a lot of tongues, not just Phyllis Hunter’s. It wasn’t until a teacher questioned my parentage in front of my entire class that my dad pulled out some old family photos of my great-grandmother, a Mi’kmaq whom I closely resemble, that my own doubts began to fade.

  “This has nothing to do with what he’s like on the outside and everything to do with what he’s like on the inside. You”—I poked her—”you deserve a man you can trust. Anyone who sneaks into people’s houses, and takes things that don’t belong to them, I don’t care what their reason, is not trustworthy.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “But I love him.”

  “Then convince him to do the right thing.”

  “You want Josh to t-turn himself in?”

  “I want Josh to be the kind of man God intended him to be—an honest one.”

  She swiped her tears away with the back of her hand. “I’ve got to find him.”

  “Head back to Dunmaglass, and by the time you close up tonight, I’m sure he’ll have reconsidered.”

  She hiked her purse up on her shoulder. “You’ve got my resignation. I’m not coming back to Dunmaglass unless Josh and I get b-back together.”

  “But I need you.”

  “Now you know what it feels like.”

  31

  Between patients, I explained the crisis to Geoff. He wasn’t as concerned as I about Dunmaglass’s closure. “We’ll work it out,” he promised.

  I nodded. Four days. That’s how long I had to convince Ash to come back to work. And if I didn’t, Dunmaglass would be closed during Hum Harbour Daze, and the shop’s bottom line would be so low I might as well bury it.

  ****

  Once the clinic closed, I spent the afternoon manning my shop. I had half a dozen walk-ins and three sales. Not bad.

  Reverend Innes dropped by to say he’d been unable to find a new space to house Hum Harbour Daze crafters’ and farmers’ market. He’d tried the church hall, the Legion, and the community center—all were too small by themselves, but he thought if he divided the vendors between all three buildings, it might work.

  Unfortunately, all three had been spoken for by other festival participants.

  Reverend Innes tugged his dress Stuart vest. “I’ve run out of options. I’m afraid we may have to cancel the whole market.”

  I gaped in disbelief. “Cancel? The craft sale and farmer’s market’s almost as big a draw as the lobster boat races.”

  “We’re running out of time, and I don’t see an alternative.”

  “Why can’t we rent a tent?”

  He looked doubtful. “How? Where would you even begin to look?”

  “The internet.”

  “I can barely figure out emails. And I can’t very well ask Vi. Between work and her Steering Committee activities, I can’t expect her to do this, too.” His eyes brightened. “But you could find out.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re chair of the Steering Committee.”

  “I chaired one meeting to oversee the parade marshal decision.”

  He patted his vest. “Apparently you were promoted.”

  “I mean, I’m OK with helping Carrie, but I’m not in charge.”

  “You should talk to her. Because that’s the clear signal we’re getting any time one of us has a question or a detail that needs ironing out. She says ‘Ask Gailynn.’”

  “That’s insane.” I checked my watch. Running over to Carrie’s now would mean closing the shop early, which I hated to do. But I needed to sort out this misunderstanding pronto. “I’ll talk to Carrie and get back to you.”

  “As long as I don’t run out of the time needed to notify the vendors they shouldn’t bother coming because there’s no place for them to set up, I really don’t need the details.”

  “Of course you do,” I said. “You’re the e
vents coordinator.”

  He tilted his head, a weary expression on his face as he studied me. “You don’t understand, do you, Gailynn?”

  I must have looked blank.

  “The committee’s a formality. The Hunters do all the work for Hum Harbour Daze. It’s always been that way. It always will be.”

  I felt my stomach plummet. “Carrie can’t handle it this year. Not after losing her husband.”

  “That’s why she picked you.”

  ****

  As soon as I locked up, I made a beeline for Hunter Hall.

  Carrie’d hung the CLOSED sign in the front door’s window, meaning both Hunter Monuments and Toys were unavailable for business. I tried the door knob—locked—and rang the bell.

  Cupping my face against the glass, I could see clear through to the back of the house, where Carrie sat at the kitchen table. “Carrie, it’s me. We need to talk.” I tapped on the widow and waved.

  She jumped, as though surprised to see me. Pushing back her chair, she walked unevenly to the door and let me in. She glanced up and down the street then locked it behind me.

  “You’ve closed Dunmaglass early? No wait, your cousin is looking after it for you.”

  “Not at the moment,” I said. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

  She stooped, bringing her eyes level with mine. “Why are you here?” She pushed her uncombed hair out of her eyes.

  I sniffed discreetly, wondering if I would detect the smell of liquor on her breath. I didn’t. But I thought I scented cigarette lingering in the air.

  “I haven’t been drinking,” she said. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Of course you were. Just like people thought Claude drank.”

  “I know he didn’t.”

  “Good for you, because I wasn’t always sure. And I’m the one who was supposed to believe in him.”

  I’d been hearing a lot of people talk about Claude, good things and bad. Despite all the recent press Post Concussion Syndrome was receiving, they were still unfamiliar with PCS symptoms. They misinterpreted what they saw, and drew erroneous conclusions.

  I took Carrie’s elbow, and led her back to the kitchen table covered with invoices and bills. I also recognized Claude’s leather-bound journal. Good. Perhaps I could learn if it mentioned Claude’s absentee family.

  “Can I make you some tea?” You’d think it was my kitchen, not hers.

  She braced her head in her hands. “I’m sick of tea. I’m sick of charity casseroles. And I’m sick of sympathy baking. I wish everything would just go back to the way it was.”

  “You miss him.” I took a breath. “Does reading his journal help?”

  She ignored my question. “I thought I loved this place, you know? The great Hunter Hall with all its heritage. It’s a mausoleum. I know people say that.” She shrugged. “So I fill it with frogs. Frogs are quirky. Frogs are cute. Frogs make the place…better. You know?”

  I nodded, even though I didn’t agree.

  “Claude was good with my frogs.” She raked her fingers through her hair and twisted it into a messy knot at the back of her head. “Your brother and that French inspector were here this afternoon.”

  I sat in the chair opposite Carrie.

  “They’ve decided Claude was killed with my frog candlestick.” She shook her head back and forth, back and forth. I’m not sure she realized she was doing it.

  “Did they say he was killed with the candlestick they took from the house?”

  “That one was clean.”

  She obviously knew more about the official investigation than I did. “Then the murderer took the other candlestick with him?”

  “And some of my frogs to cover up the loss.”

  “Is that what Andrew said?”

  “Your brother wouldn’t say anything. Just the inspector.” She looked at me sharply. “Why do we need to talk?”

  I dragged my brain from discussions of murder to Hum Harbour Daze and the reason I’d come. “The members of the Steering Committee seem to be under the mistaken impression that I’m in charge of the festival.”

  “Mistaken? I thought you agreed to take over.”

  “I agreed to chair one meeting.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “I distinctly recall asking you to assume responsibility for overseeing things this year. You did say you’d do anything.”

  “To help you. But now people are expecting me to do their jobs, too.”

  “So you want me to do them?”

  “No.” I stared at the scattered papers and Claude’s journal in consternation. “But I think people should do the jobs they agreed to do.”

  “So do I.”

  I was caught. How could I demand others hold up their end of things if I didn’t hold up mine? Although I still wasn’t convinced I’d ever committed to holding up my end. I looked at her closely. Was she really putting me in charge?

  “You mean I have final say on any issue that arises?”

  “You’re responsible.”

  “If we have to rent a tent for the crafters?”

  She spread her hands. “As long as you stay within budget.”

  I vaguely wondered what would happened if I didn’t. “Is there a checklist of all the things you’ve done in past years? It’d help if I had something like that.”

  She riffled through the papers on the table, maybe expecting to find a list among them. “Must be upstairs. I’ll see what I can find.” Before she left me, taking Claude’s journal with her, she shoved the papers into a manila folder, and stuffed the folder into a drawer.

  I seemed powerless to tear my gaze from that drawer. Why did she hide her papers before leaving the room? For privacy or secrecy?

  The French doors opened onto the patio and her beloved garden beyond. The plants she moved the other day drooped in their new location. No doubt she’d be moving them back to where they started. Or the compost pile in the back corner.

  I squirted dish soap and water into the sink and washed the stack of dirty dishes. I dried them and put them away.

  I spotted a loose paper on the floor, part of the bill collection she hadn’t wanted me to see? I crawled under the table to retrieve it and slid it into the manila folder in the drawer. In the process, however, I inadvertently saw what it was. Phyllis Hunter’s monthly statement from the Inverness Arms. $7500 per month. Is that what people paid to live in a seniors’ care facility?

  Carrie reappeared with my list. I’d arrived at her door anxious to dispel the idea that I was in charge of Hum Harbour Daze. Instead, I now held a seven-page document detailing—I scanned it quickly--everything from stocking toilet paper in the portable toilets to stocking snack foods for the band—that I was responsible for.

  “Gai--” she’d never before shortened my name to the familiar “--I have one more favor to ask.”

  I swallowed. Look what the last favor had turned into.

  She handed me her precious necklace. “I snagged it somehow when I pulled off my sweater last night. I broke the clasp. With your jewelry skills, can you repair it for me?”

  Snagged it on her sweater? Last night? I studied the clasp, hoping she didn’t see the disbelief on my face.

  “It’s not the kind I usually work with, but I don’t suppose it should be too hard to fix. Or I can replace it, if it’s not repairable.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at me for the first time since I found her doing CPR on Claude’s lifeless body.

  32

  With Carrie’s gorgeous necklace safely stowed in a little velvet bag in my jeans pocket and the mega-list rolled up in my hand, I took the beach way home. There was a strong chop in the water, the kind that smashed loudly against the shore, drowning out any sounds from town or the wharf. It gave you a false sense of being alone, which I appreciated.

  I had much to ponder.

  If Claude had been bludgeoned with Carrie’s candlestick in the midst of a frog robbery, the chance of
the thief being the murderer jumped a thousand percent. Thank goodness it wasn’t Josh. He swore he’d never been inside Hunter Hall. Thing was, I really didn’t believe him. Which meant Josh lied and could still be our killer.

  On the other hand, I honestly couldn’t picture Josh as a killer. Even if Claude caught him red-handed, I couldn’t see the kid lashing out like that. As for Claude, if he’d caught Josh stealing, he would have talked the kid into giving everything back and probably had him praying the sinner’s prayer before he went home.

  Would Andrew and Inspector LeClerc see it that way? Or would they haul Josh in as their most likely suspect? Maybe they already had.

  No wonder Ash was furious with me.

  The sun beat hot on my head. I found a log that had washed up on the beach and sat on it. I needed to find a way to prove Josh’s innocence. Not that he’d trust me after I called him cheap, inconsiderate, and untrustworthy. I’d meant it in love.

  I snorted. Who was I trying to fool?

  I poked at the sand. If I convinced Ash that I wanted to help, maybe she could convince Josh. Except Josh had broken ties with Ash, might even be in custody at this very moment, so how would she convince him of anything if she couldn’t even talk to him?

  Man, I’d made a mess of things. Tears of self pity stung my eyes.

  Geoff would help clear things up. I know I had only to ask, but I hated to go to him, to admit what I’d done. To see the disappointment in his face.

  I scrubbed at my tears.

  And what if Geoff couldn’t fix it? What if the evidence, circumstantial though it was, satisfied police enough that they quit hunting for Claude’s real killer and set their sights on Josh?

  What if poor Josh ran away because he knew police were about to charge him with murder? Or, what if he believed he’d be arrested and did something worse? He was just a kid, after all. Kids did dumb things. They reacted; they didn’t think about consequences. The police could use all those reasons to justify their case against Josh.

  This wasn’t good.

  Cresting waves smashed against the beach, sending spray into the air.

  I wiped my nose with the front of my t-shirt.