CHAPTER SIX
Arranging flower containers on the front porch of the pale-green Victorian with its white and yellow trim, Daisy placed a bucket of fuchsia petunias on one plant stand and a white and purple mix on another. She’d already placed a ceramic pot of rosemary and thyme on the white metal table beside a white wooden cane-seat rocker. Last night Jonas had helped her heft a three-foot-deep colorful ceramic container with arrangements of pink and white geraniums over to the corner. She believed the front porch should send a message of welcome, inviting customers inside.
She was about to deadhead a few of the purple petunias when her phone played. Outside with cars and buggies passing by, the scent of the hot summer sun on the pavement and freshly mowed grass riding the air, her phone’s tuba ring tone didn’t sound as loud. She was perplexed when she saw the ID of the person who was calling—Detective Morris Rappaport.
“Good morning, Detective. Did you call to make a reservation for our next five-course tea?”
It was a standing joke between them. First of all, Morris claimed he didn’t like hot tea. And second, he insisted those little sandwiches would hardly whet his taste buds, though he had been on a diet for the past six months.
At her question, he grunted dismissively. Without any preamble, he said gruffly, “I think I need your help.”
Did this call have something to do with Aunt Iris? Did he want her to put in a good word? “You know I’ll help however I can. What do you need?”
“First of all, I want you to keep everything I tell you to yourself.”
That, in itself, was ominous. This conversation might not be about her aunt.
His voice was deeply sober. “You know about the young man found in the creek?”
“I heard something about it.”
“He was thirty-six,” Morris informed her. “Thirty-six, and his life cut short. We had a missing person’s report, and his wife identified the body this morning.”
“I’m so sorry,” Daisy said empathetically. But she still didn’t see what this had to do with her.
“His wife’s name is Beth Ann Kohler.”
Daisy recognized the Kohler name. It was common in the area. “Is the name supposed to be familiar to me? Has she come into the tea garden?”
“That I don’t know. But I do know this, Daisy.”
Daisy could hear the detective’s deep sigh through the phone line.
“The woman is hysterical. I can’t question her as I need to.”
Little prickles rose on Daisy’s neck even though it was eighty degrees outside already. She had a feeling she knew where this was going, and she hoped she was wrong.
Morris’s next question proved she wasn’t.
“Can you come down to the station and help?” He sounded exasperated and frustrated.
“Morris, you can’t be serious. Maybe you should give her a day to process the death of her husband.”
Now his voice held the power of his position, no friendliness at all in his tone. “This is my job, and this is a murder.” His voice softened just a tad when he continued, “The chief is all over me and Zeke because the last investigation took too long to solve, according to the mayor. No credit for solving it, of course. Will you help? I don’t want to traumatize the woman any more than she’s already been traumatized. Imagine your husband doesn’t come home one night, Daisy. And then you find out he was strangled and dumped in the creek.”
Daisy sank down onto the rocking chair next to the table with the herbs. Morris knew exactly what buttons to push to target her emotions.
“When do you want me there?” she asked.
“As soon as possible.”
Five minutes later, with Iris assuring Daisy that her staff could handle whatever came up, Daisy drove her blue Dodge Journey down Market Street. After she turned into the parking lot of the Willow Creek Police Department, she took a deep breath and glanced at the Daisy’s Tea Garden bag she’d brought with her. Then she stared at the building that housed the police department.
Smack-dab in the middle of downtown, the police department building was almost as old as the town itself, which had been settled back in the late eighteen hundreds. The building had been refurbished often, but its brick exterior needed sandblasting. Maybe that could be added to the agenda at the next town council meeting. After all, a few years ago, the council had allotted funds for automated front doors and reinforcement of its only jail cell, according to the report in the Willow Creek Messenger. Daisy had been inside the building more times than she wanted to count.
She picked up the bag on the passenger seat, disembarked from her car, and trudged toward the electronic front doors. Inside, Daisy caught sight of the dispatcher, whom she didn’t know. She did know two of the others who were part-time. The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties, brown hair highlighted with violet and fuchsia. Huge pink glasses sat on her nose. Right now, she was wearing earphones and typing on the computer.
The reception area was cut off from farther back in the room by a wooden fence. The swinging door in the middle always reminded Daisy of a gate from an old-time movie. Six desks with computers sat beyond the gate, officers at three of the desks. The murder was probably keeping them all occupied. One of the officers was Bart Cosner.
He motioned Daisy inside the gate. “Follow me,” he said.
Daisy had heard those words before, too. In fact, Bart was the one who had spoken them when she had been in the police station during her very first investigation. These days she knew exactly where she was going. She followed Bart to the right and down a short hall. Detective Morris Rappaport appeared from his office.
The detective was near sixty. The grooves along his mouth cut seriously deep, and he had plenty of other lines on his face. His thick blond-gray hair never saw any styling gel. On this summer day, he was wearing brown slacks and a cream oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the neck open. His shirt was wrinkled, and Daisy supposed he might have been there all night. It was his MO when a police investigation was going on. Nothing was more important to him than solving the murder. When she’d first met him, they’d been at cross purposes. But over the past few years, they’d learned to respect each other. Hence this call today.
Morris’s shoulders slumped as he said, “She’s still crying. I can’t get anywhere with her. Zeke couldn’t either, and he’s usually good at interrogating, especially when he has to be gentle about it.”
“And what makes you think I can help with this?”
“Because you have two daughters. People talk to you. I’m sure you can do this, Daisy.”
“And what exactly is this? If I help, I need to do it my way,” Daisy countered.
Morris knew how to scowl better than anyone she knew. “And what exactly is your way?”
She lifted the bag she’d brought along. “There are some chocolate tea teabags in here and a few snickerdoodles. I’d like you to make a mug of hot water. I’ll drop in a teabag. Maybe you can bring me a paper plate?”
Morris continued scowling at her and ran his hand up the back of his neck as if it was stiff. “This isn’t a tea party, Daisy.
“You asked for my help, so let me help. You can record what she and I say, but I want to be alone with her, at least at first.”
“This is against protocol,” he muttered.
“Bringing me in to help is against protocol,” she reminded him. “Does Chief Schultz know you’re doing this?”
“No, and I want to keep it that way. He’s not here right now.”
Daisy merely shook her head. Morris was all about the rules, and for once he was going against them.
“All right. I’ll bring a mug of hot water. No paper plates, but we have napkins. Just go in,” Morris said, motioning to the door. “I kept her in my office instead of an interrogation room. Just say you want to help her talk to me. She doesn’t have to know anything more.”
Daisy wasn’t so sure about that. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“As soon as I start talking, she cries more. You can introduce yourself. When I bring in the hot water, I’ll start recording.”
As Morris hurried off to the break room, Daisy opened the office door. Morris’s office was as cluttered as usual, the old wooden desk covered with file folders. His computer and printer to the side of the desk were plastered with Post-it Notes. Three filing cabinets lined one wall. The tall, narrow bookshelf beside them was stuffed with manuals and research books. There were no wall hangings or photographs, just gray walls that she supposed were intended to promote an official ambiance.
A young woman whom Daisy suspected was a few years younger than herself was seated on the interviewee side of the desk, holding a mound of tissues in her hands. She was wearing an orange-and-white-patterned T-shirt, orange shorts, and leather sandals. Her strawberry-blond hair was tied in a straggly topknot. Her bangs were a short fringe, her brows a lighter strawberry-blond than her hair. Her face, Daisy suspected, was usually very pretty with wide-set brown eyes, a narrow nose, full mouth and a petite chin. Today, however, her cheeks were streaked with tears. They were redder than her pale complexion said they should be. The freckles spattered across her cheeks were almost blotted out by her high color. She was terribly upset, and her tears were flowing.
Scanning more than Beth Ann Kohler, Daisy spotted the gray metal folding chair against the wall. Before saying anything, she placed the bag with cookies and teabags on the desk. She went over to the chair, unfolded it, and placed it face-forward toward Beth Ann. Beth Ann hardly looked at her. Maybe she thought Daisy was another detective.
Daisy said gently, “Mrs. Kohler. I’m Daisy Swanson.”
Beth Ann looked up at her, her eyes still swimming with tears. She wiped a tissue across her nose and nodded.
Daisy wasn’t exactly sure how to start, but she explained the situation as best she could. “The detective told me you’re having trouble with his interview. I’m sort of a consultant. I’m here to help you talk to them about what happened with your husband.”
Beth Ann blew her nose and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I just can’t get it together.”
“That’s completely understandable,” Daisy assured her. “That’s why I’m here to help. I’ve been through some traumatic situations myself.”
“You lost your husband?” Beth Ann demanded.
“I did, but not in the way you have. My husband died of cancer. But I do know that lost, world-tilting feeling that nothing’s ever going to be the same again.”
Beth Ann blew her nose again, eyeing Daisy. “Are you a psychologist?”
“Absolutely not,” Daisy said with a very small smile. “I’ve helped the detectives with a few of their investigations.”
“Did you say your name was Daisy Swanson?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I’ve read articles about you. You have a tea shop or something.”
“Daisy’s Tea Garden. I run it with my aunt.”
“So, the detective brought you in to talk to me?” Through her tears and sniffles, Beth Ann looked perplexed.
“He thought it might be easier than talking to him. Detective Rappaport can be a little gruff.”
“That other one was nicer,” Beth Ann said. “But I was just too upset to talk. They couldn’t seem to understand that.”
At that moment, Detective Rappaport opened his office door and stepped inside, looking sheepish. He held out the mug to Daisy.
Quickly, Daisy procured a teabag from the bag and dropped it into the mug.
“Daisy thought you might like a cup of tea,” Morris awkwardly explained. In his other hand, he held out a napkin. “She brought cookies, too.”
Daisy removed cookies from the bag and set the napkin on the desk.
The young woman looked at the mug of tea and smelled it. “Nice,” she said.
“It’s chocolate strawberry,” Daisy told her. “I believe tea has a calming effect.”
A recording system sat on Morris’s desk in between the file folders. He set it on top of one of the stacks. “Mrs. Kohler, I’d like to record your interview with Daisy. Would that be all right?”
“I . . . I guess so. I don’t think I have anything important to tell her . . . or you.”
“I’ll decide that,” Morris said, back in his police persona.
Beth Ann’s face seemed to crumple again.
Morris said to Daisy, “I’ll give you fifteen or twenty minutes, then I’ll be back.”
After he pressed the button on the console, he gave the date and the time and Beth Ann’s name. Then he left the office. Daisy was hoping that Beth Ann would forget about the recorder once they began talking.
After Morris left the office, Daisy let Beth Ann take a few sips of her tea. Afterward she set the mug on the desk near the cookies. She eyed them but didn’t take one.
“Mrs. Kohler, I’d like to start by . . .”
With a hiccup, the young woman said, “Please call me Beth Ann.”
“Sure, and you can call me Daisy. What was your husband’s name?”
“His name was Henry.” Her tears started rolling again.
“Why don’t you tell me about Henry? Tell me what he liked to do.”
“It’s hard to say,” Beth Ann answered.
Talking about a deceased person’s life was difficult to summarize. “What was his job?” Daisy asked, starting with an easy question.
“He was a physical therapist. He worked in that building at the edge of town where doctors are moving in. He really loved his job—working with people, seeing them get back on their feet.”
“Did he have any hobbies?”
After considering the question, Beth Ann nodded. “Mostly he spent his spare time outside in the yard. He went fishing now and then. He just finished planting cone flowers for me.” Beth Ann broke down in tears again, holding the tissues to her face.
Daisy gave her a few minutes and then let her blow her nose. Morris had been right. Beth Ann was very upset, though not hysterical. She was probably trying to remember everything about her husband that she didn’t want to forget.
“I know this is hard, Beth Ann, but anything you can tell the detectives might help them, even the smallest things.”
Beth Ann ran her hand across her cheek, wiping away more tears.
Daisy took a stab in the dark. “Do you know what happened the day Henry went missing?”
“I don’t know,” she answered with a hiccup. “All I know is that Henry went out to run errands and didn’t come home Saturday night. We always check in with each other a lot. We liked to know how each other’s days were going. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. I’m engaged, and my fiancé and I often do that, too.”
Thinking about the other investigations she’d been a part of, Daisy considered what to ask next. “Can you tell if anything unusual happened in the last month or so?”
“‘Unusual’? I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Daisy didn’t want to lead Beth Ann in the wrong direction . . . or in any direction, really.
“Did Henry talk about anything unusual that happened, at work or with friends? Had he changed in any way?”
At first Beth Ann was shaking her head, and then she stopped. “Now that you mention it—” She trailed off and looked over Daisy’s shoulder as if she were thinking about the time frame Daisy had mentioned. “He’s been acting odd for the past few weeks.”
“Odd how?”
“I’m not sure exactly. His laptop had been stolen from his car, and I thought he was upset about that. He would often go to the window in the living room and look out at the driveway. I thought he was imagining who could have taken it. Whoever it was, they broke the car window, and we had to get that fixed. It was an expense we hadn’t counted on.”
“Did he act as if whoever broke in might return?”
Beth Ann thought about that. “He told me to make sure when I was alone in the house that I locked the doors. I always did. He knew that.”
“Do you think he was afraid someone would break into the house?”
“It seemed that way. Maybe something was going on that I didn’t know about. Obviously there was, or he wouldn’t be dead.”
She put her hands and the tissues to her mouth to stifle a sob. Daisy wasn’t going to keep pressing, not until this woman had a little time to grieve, and the detectives shouldn’t either. But there was one more question she could ask. “Did you know your husband had a burner phone?”
“No! The detective showed it to me, and I’d never seen it before. But he might have kept it in his work messenger bag or in his desk. I never went through his things. We didn’t have that kind of marriage.”
“I understand,” Daisy said. And she did. Apparently Henry and Beth Ann had trusted each other.
“I suppose the detective asked you for Henry’s everyday phone?”
“That was an odd thing, too,” Beth Ann informed Daisy. “Detective Rappaport told me he found it in Henry’s car, parked at the physical therapy facility. That was strange because it was a Saturday.”
That was something Daisy hadn’t known about . . . that Henry Kohler’s car had been found at the place where he’d worked.
“They’re not telling me what was on either phone.”
Whom had Henry texted or called? Had he bought the burner just for his call to Trevor?
“Have you ever heard of Trevor Lundquist’s podcast, ‘Hidden Spaces’?” Daisy asked.
“No, I haven’t. But Henry listened to podcasts all the time, all different kinds. He would have his earbuds in while he was doing yard work outside, when he took a walk, or even on the way to work, even though it wasn’t a very long drive.” Beth Ann inhaled a giant breath and picked up the mug of her tea. She took another few sips, set it down, and picked up one of the cookies.
Daisy said, “I’m going to talk to the detective. He’ll probably come back in and try to ask you a few questions. Do you think you’re up to it?”
“I’m feeling more in control. I can try.”
That was all any of them could ask of this very recent widow.
Suddenly Daisy made a decision. She took out a business card and set it next to Beth Ann’s mug of tea. “My number is on the card if you need to talk . . . about anything. Losing a loved one is hard.”
Beth Ann looked at the business card and picked it up. “Thanks.”
Daisy stepped outside of the office and left the door open a few inches. Morris was waiting, and he motioned to her to come down the hall a couple of feet so Beth Ann wouldn’t hear them. She quickly summed up her interview with Beth Ann, telling him about the stolen laptop.
Morris put his hand to his forehead as if he had a headache. “At least that’s a clue we can pursue. We don’t have much else. Forensics is still processing the evidence and the scene.”
Daisy hesitated, then expanded on the stolen laptop, telling him that Beth Ann had said Henry had been acting differently in the few weeks after it was stolen.
“He was probably paranoid,” Morris said.
“Maybe or . . .”
Morris circled his finger in the air as if to tell her to hurry up because he had a lot to do. As if she didn’t realize that.
“I want you to listen to me for two minutes.”
He slanted her a sideways glance, then looked back at the door to the office where Beth Ann was enclosed inside.
“You know about Trevor’s podcast, right?”
“Your interview?” he asked in a clipped tone. “You did a decent job, and he put you on the hot seat at the end.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. You know he received a call on his tip line.”
“Something about an auction and old chests. I didn’t bother with that one.”
“Maybe you should listen to it.”
“Daisy—”
“Someone was going to break in to Jonas’s SUV. The chests were inside, but Jonas went out and chased him off. Someone also broke into Amelia’s shed. We both had won bids on the chests. Ours were in Jonas’s SUV. Amelia’s were in her shed.”
“Amelia Wiseman?”
“Yes. She had stored three chests in there. Nothing was stolen, so she didn’t call you either. Trevor believes the old murder is connected to this murder.”
Before Morris could open his mouth again, she went on. “I’m worried about Trevor. He has sources I know nothing about, and now with the podcast and hotline, he has even more. He’s going to pursue this, you know. We don’t know if anything is connected for sure, but it seems awfully coincidental that the same phone that was used for the tip line also turned up near the murder victim. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not an idiot.” Morris scowled. “Of course, I see the connection. But we have to deal with what we have. Right now I have a body, a canoe, and a burner phone. Forensics is all over it. But I’m going to tell you something that you already know, and I would like you to reiterate it to Trevor Lundquist. He is going to put all of us in danger.”