Murder & Sullivan Read online

  It’s all right, she thought. Ellen will tell him, or whoever ends up doing the repairs.

  She wondered suddenly whether the faulty wall could have had anything to do with what happened to Henry. She relegated it to the back of her mind until midmorning, when she saw Charlie Nikirk, a retired carpenter, arrive for a rehearsal of the center’s barbershop quartet. He was early—the quartet wasn’t due for half an hour yet.

  “Got a minute, Charlie?” she asked him.

  “Oh, sure. Time’s what I’ve got too much of these days.” There was a bitter edge to his voice. So far, at least, Charlie and retirement were a poor match. Joan thought his failing vision and gnarled joints had probably forced it on him, though he’d never said much, and she hadn’t wanted to pry.

  “I want to pick your brain.”

  “Such as it is.” This time a half-smile softened his words.

  “About building.”

  “That’s different.” Charlie eased himself down onto a chair, and his smile broadened. “Shoot.” Joan sat down, too.

  “A specific building, actually, Henry Putnam’s house.”

  “What about it?” Charlie and Henry were buddies. Another reason he might be feeling bitter.

  “Well, I was watering some flowers over there last night, and it seems I watered his basement, too. There’s a crack in the wall.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I just wondered, could that have anything to do with why Henry got hurt?”

  “Henry? Naw, a leak in the basement isn’t gonna make the floor collapse. Not unless it was so bad it made the whole house collapse. Anyhow, didn’t a tree fall on that house?”

  “That’s right. A big old silver maple.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “How would a tree do that much damage?” She was skeptical.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe if it hit something that was nailed in a half—” He caught himself. “In a slipshod sort of way. Or maybe if something was measured wrong. People get in a hurry. They don’t slow down and do it right.”

  Joan thought suddenly of Tony Ucello’s experiment. Was that what had happened there? Was Professor Ucello more slipshod than dishonest? Or was there all that much difference, when it came right down to it? But Charlie was talking about Henry’s house.

  “You mean it could be the carpenters’ fault?” she asked.

  “It could. There are men I wouldn’t let touch my house.”

  “I’m lucky to have a good one.”

  “You building on?”

  “Just a new porch. The tornado blew mine off.”

  “Seems like anybody who knows one end of a hammer from another is working this summer, and some who don’t.” Charlie’s rheumy eyes twinkled, and Joan rose to the bait.

  “Zach’s not like that.”

  “Zach Yoder? Young feller works for Virgil Shoals?”

  “That’s the one. You know him?”

  “Knew his father, and his grandfather before him. Couple of stubborn old Amishmen.”

  “Were they carpenters, too?”

  “You could say that. They could frame you a good house, but you wouldn’t want them to finish it.”

  “Why not?” She pictured Zach as she had left him, patiently smoothing her railing.

  “You hear about how the Amish are craftsmen—how their quality work is their reward, and all that—well, I’ve worked with them, and I’m here to tell you that’s a line of bull. They work cheap, all right, but they’re primitive.” She’d never heard Charlie talk so much at one time. His vehemence made her wonder whether he had lost out on jobs to Amish carpenters willing to work for less.

  “David Putnam recommended Zach,” she said quietly. and David would have known. He was a carpenter, too, she thought, but she didn’t say so. Somehow she doubted that Charlie would consider him anything but a rank amateur.

  “Maybe so. He got out, of course.”

  “He what?” What a thing to say about a murder victim.

  “He broke away from the Amish.”

  Oh.

  “Married a Jordan, didn’t he? Ask Annie. She’ll know.”

  Joan didn’t doubt it.

  The rest of the barbershop quartet arrived then, and the four of them greeted each other with cheerful insults. Watching Charlie among them, Joan was sure that he missed the company of other men as much as he missed the work itself. She could picture him swapping stories on the liars’ bench in front of the hardware store before long.

  Benches. Now there’s a thought. I wonder whether Charlie would be up to making us some benches for the sidewalk out in front of the center. With the shade from the tree plot, it’s pleasant enough to sit out there much of the year. I’d better make sure the board of directors would fund it before I ask him. Maybe he could even teach some of the other men. They make jokes about the women and their quilting bees, but I’ll bet they’d love working together on a project like that. That ought to convince the board, even if they don’t think benches are essential in and of themselves.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  Joan jumped. It was Annie Jordan, who had sat down in Charlie’s place with her knitting. Today she was clicking around a sock on four needles.

  “Hello, Annie. I was thinking.”

  “I noticed. You didn’t answer the first two times I spoke to you.”

  “I’m sorry. Funny thing, Charlie Nikirk just said I should ask you something. Now what was it?” Not benches.

  Annie shook her head. “You’re gettin’ old, Joanie.”

  “I’m afraid so.” Times like these, I get an inkling of how it must feel to have Alzheimer’s. “Oh, I know. He was talking about Zach Yoder’s wife. He thought she was a Jordan, and said I should ask you.”

  “Susie Yoder? Her mother was a Jordan. Susie’s my second cousin twice removed.”

  Joan let it go. Genealogical terminology mystified her. “So you don’t know her very well?”

  “I know her. You’ve probably seen her yourself. She works right down the street from here, at Esther’s.”

  “Esther Ooley’s?” Much farther from the plain Amish people than Esther’s bridal shop would be hard to imagine. But then, it was Zach who had grown up among them, not his wife.

  “Sure. She does alterations and fancy embroidery, too, when it’s called for. And sometimes Esther lets her dress the window.”

  When she passed Bridal Delights at lunchtime, Joan wondered which of them had dressed it today. Instead of the usual jumble of formal wear and lingerie, the window was dominated by a full-length ruby-red nightgown, cut to the waist from above and slit almost as far up from below, and displayed against a white satin drapery. The matching negligee lay crumpled elegantly on the white satin floor, as if it had been discarded in a moment of passion. On an impulse, she went in.

  “May I help you?” Esther came toward the front of the small shop, which had several fragile-looking chairs covered in white velvet, and only a few dresses on display. No wedding gowns. It was plain that Esther would keep yours secret from the world until the moment you walked down the aisle.

  “Oh, I’m just looking.”

  “Something for yourself?” Esther raised her carefully penciled eyebrows. The light in the shop was kinder to her face than the light in the theater had been, but she was still no ingenue.

  Joan’s eye fell on a tray of embroidered handkerchiefs.

  “Actually, I was thinking of a small gift for an old friend. These handkerchiefs are lovely.”

  “They are, aren’t they?” Esther smiled warmly and held one out to her. “Feel this fine Irish linen. They’re all handmade, of course, and we’d be happy to add a monogram.”

  This would be just right for Margaret Duffy, Joan thought, stroking it. I’d love to give her something, after all she’s done for me. A handkerchief shouldn’t be so big as to embarrass her.

  She took her time over the choice. Here in the shop, Esther displayed the patience and gracious manner that had been sadly missin
g during rehearsals. By the time Joan had decided on the subtle white-on-white design she liked best, she could only gulp and take out her charge card when Esther told her the price.

  “That includes the monogram, of course?” she asked, as if she always paid twenty dollars for a handkerchief.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Spencer,” Esther said, glancing down at the card. “And we’ll be happy to gift wrap it for you at no extra charge.” She swiped the card through a slot and handed it back. “When would you like to pick it up?”

  “I’m in no hurry. But I’ll want to see the monogram before you wrap it.”

  “Of course. Let me show you how it will look. Susie,” she called into the back room. “Bring us a sample, please.”

  Susie had clearly been close enough to hear what was needed. She came through the velvet curtains with a single white handkerchief, so beautifully embroidered that Joan would have thought the letters had come from the same hand that had worked the flowers and edging.

  “I chose this style of lettering,” Susie said. “But if you’d prefer something different …”

  “No, that’s just right,” Joan said, and smiled at the fresh-faced beauty that put Esther’s careful cosmetics in the shade. Zach had picked a winner. “Aren’t you Zach Yoder’s wife?”

  Susie looked startled.

  “Yes, I am,” she said. “You know Zach?”

  “I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself. I’m Joan Spencer. Zach’s been putting the porch back on my house.” Already Susie was nodding and smiling. “And I’m in the pit orchestra for Ruddigore.”

  “Oh, forevermore,” Esther said. “I thought your face looked familiar. Wasn’t that a terrible thing?”

  Joan had no trouble following her. “Yes, it was. It was David Putnam who sent Zach to me,” she told Susie. “I’m so grateful to them both.”

  “The judge was a good man,” Susie said.

  “Even though he wouldn’t let Zach drive without the slow-moving vehicle emblem?” Joan asked. She’d been wondering about that.

  Susie laughed. “That wasn’t Zach. That was his grandfather. Even his dad gave in on that issue, though he’s pretty strict. I guess he and Zach’s brothers had to drive the old man around a lot after that. He would ride in their buggies, but he wouldn’t put that devil’s triangle, as he called it, on his own.”

  “I don’t know much about Amish ways. What’s it like, marrying into an Amish family?”

  “Oh, I’m not in the family—Zach’s out of it. It’s hard on him, but he’d already made the break before I came along. He can’t go home again. We take the children to visit my parents, and they love Zach, but it’s not the same. I know he misses everyone. He still sees his brothers once in a while when they come to town, and he subscribes to the Budget, the Amish newspaper, just to hear about his family and old friends.”

  “You never told me all that!” Esther said.

  “You never asked.” Susie said it simply, with no defensive bristling. Nor did she play it for laughs. Joan liked her for it. It was time to leave them.

  “I’d better get back to work,” she said.

  “We’ll have the handkerchief for you in a day or two,” Esther said. “And I’d be happy to give you a demonstration of our line of skin care products. They’ll take ten years off your face.”

  If they took ten years off your face, Joan thought, it’s amazing you still have a voice at your age. But she didn’t say it. On her own turf, Esther was likable enough.

  25

  You booby dense—

  You oaf immense,

  With no pretence

  To common sense!

  A stupid muff

  Who’s made of stuff

  Not worth a puff

  Of candle-snuff!

  —CHORUS, The Grand Duke

  By the end of the day, Joan had forgotten all about Virgil, and she was surprised to see his panel truck in front of her house when she was half a block from home, and when she came closer, to see him on her new porch chewing Zach out. She couldn’t hear his words, but he waved a clipboard in Zach’s face and punched at it with his forefinger. Zach just stood there, not arguing back. By the time she got within earshot, though, Virgil had stopped his harangue, and Zach was packing up his tools.

  I don’t want to know about this. Joan climbed Zach’s steps, feeling them solid under her feet, and slid her hand along the satiny railing. He’s been doing a beautiful job. David was right about him.

  Still silent, but with a face like thunder, Zach tipped his cap when he passed her on the steps. She watched him go down the walk to his pickup.

  “See you tomorrow, Zach,” she called after him, hoping it was true. Zach didn’t answer, but she took his raised hand to mean yes. If Virgil drives you away, she thought, I’ll have something to say to Virgil.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Virgil said from the porch. He was smiling an apologetic sort of smile at her. It stopped short of his eyes.

  “I didn’t, actually.” And with luck, I won’t. “Isn’t he doing a lovely job on the railings?” She stroked the one around the porch.

  “Oh, sure.” Virgil didn’t even look. “Zach loves wood. That’s why I keep him on.” He fiddled with the clipboard, but made no move to leave.

  He’s going to tell me, she thought. She held onto the railing to stand up for Zach.

  “I appreciate the care he takes,” she said. “He’s conscientious with every little step.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, I use Zach a lot—he was chief carpenter on your neighbor’s house.” Virgil pointed to Henry’s. “Trouble is, he has no sense of urgency. He should have been done with your job last week. There are houses down and damaged all over town, and I’m bidding on the new nursing home. I’ve got work lined up for him like you wouldn’t believe. But do you think I can get him to do it? He takes his sweet time, and nothing I can say or do will persuade him to work any faster.” The words were pouring out of him now, and his knuckles had tightened on the clipboard. “He doesn’t care how backed up I am. He works when he wants to and not a minute longer, no matter what I offer to pay. In fact, I can’t pay too much, or he’ll cut his hours. The man doesn’t have a shred of ambition. You’d think with a family, he’d want to get ahead.”

  With Susie and their children to go home to, Joan thought it was no wonder Zach didn’t want to work any more than he had to for Virgil, who bad-mouthed him to his face and behind his back, too, though maybe Zach didn’t know that part. She wondered about Virgil, who was sounding a little like Charlie Nikirk.

  “So you’re working long hours these days,” she said.

  “You better believe it.”

  “And your wife doesn’t mind?”

  “No time for a wife.”

  She let it hang in the silence, but he didn’t seem to notice. “No family at all?” she asked finally.

  “Just my mom.” His face warmed to a real smile, and his startlingly blue eyes suddenly reminded her of Fred’s, the way they squinched up at the corners. “Mom’s a peach. She’s getting on in years, but she’s always there for me.”

  “Does she live here in Oliver?”

  “No, I built her a little place down near Lake Monroe when she gave up the store.”

  “What kind of store?”

  “Oh, you know—groceries, beer, bait, firewood.”

  “Your mother ran it?”

  “Not alone. After Dad died, she couldn’t understand why the profits went down. Mom had no head for business.” He grinned a lopsided grin and shrugged one shoulder. “She always said she never wanted to shortchange anyone. Dad was a natural. He knew just how many logs to tie in a bundle with kindling for the city folks, and exactly how much he could get them to pay for it. He’d buy a rick of firewood for forty bucks and end up selling it for at least ten times that.”

  Unsure what he expected her to say to that, Joan thought she’d better stick to his mom. Lake Monroe was only a little more than half an hour to the sou
th. With his workload, though, he might consider that an impossible distance.

  “Do you see your mom often?” she asked.

  He shrugged again. “I don’t get down there as much as I’d like. She’s doing okay, though. We talk on the phone almost every week.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said, and meant it. Her daughter was so far away. Since her good visit last year Rebecca hadn’t called even once a month. And she still hadn’t given Joan her phone number.

  “Well, you know how it is,” he said. “She won’t be around forever.” Now those blue eyes focused on something in the distance, as if he were embarrassed to have revealed a weakness.

  “Yes, I do know,” she said quietly. He looked at her then, but she didn’t feel like telling him about her own mother’s death.

  Eventually he said he’d have to let her go, although she was at home, and he was the one who left. Joan made friendly noises and watched him down the front walk before going into the house. It felt strange to be using the front door again, even if only temporarily—the porch would need painting when Zach was finished.

  “Andrew?” she called, heading for the kitchen. “Anybody home?” No answer. She checked the refrigerator. Good. He hadn’t been home to raid the leftover beef stew. Grateful for food that improved with age, she dumped it into a pot with a little water, gave it a quick stir, and turned the burner on low before going upstairs to change into jeans and a T-shirt.

  When she came back down, Andrew was lifting the lid and sniffing.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she said.

  “I just got here. Smells great. When do we eat?”

  “In a minute. Set the table, would you?” She made a green salad while he did, and soon they were sitting down together. She hadn’t realized how tired she was, or how tense, but suddenly Andrew was looking at her expectantly. A dim echo registered—he’d been talking to her, and she hadn’t heard a word.

  “What did you say?” she asked him.

  “You must be beat, Mom. That was twice.”

  “Sorry. Try me again.”