Our collective amnesia about Penelope’s death and the potential that an artist we loved had killed her was short-lived, however, when a reporter from the Easton paper showed up to interview me about our newest acquisition for the store.
We would generally put a press release out about the new addition, so on a typical day, I would have been thrilled to get the media’s attention. But given the situation, I found myself standing tongue-tied and dry-mouthed by the painting while a very nice young woman—who looked to be about thirteen—asked me questions.
She wasn’t probing with deep questions or working an angle, and it was clear this was going to be a lifestyle piece, not a revelatory article of investigative journalism. Yet I found myself overthinking everything I said about the reason I had bought the art, the symbolism of the books, and even the artist herself because I was so afraid I was going to slip and say something about how she was a suspect in St. Marin’s latest murder.
Not for the first time, Marcus saved me by coming over to talk about how the piece reflected the general aesthetic and mission of the store—a deep love for books and a desire to give as many people access to them as possible.
“Like a library,” the reporter said as she made a note in her very official look steno book.
Something about that expression snapped me back into focus. “Yes,” I said, “although we could never want to take the place of our local libraries. They are the heart and soul and safety of a community.” I took a deep breath and tried to put into words something I had been thinking about for a long time. “We are the public space that allows you to curate your own library. Here, you can come, browse, explore, taste, and then take home what you want to have near you forever. We want to be the place that helps you build your book collection wisely.”
Marcus grinned at me as the reporter scribbled furiously and then looked up with a smile. “So, this piece by Toggle is meant to show how your store intersects with people’s homes via the books?”
I just looked at this bright-eyed young woman for a brief moment and then smiled. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”
We exchanged a bit more information, and I assured her that she was welcome to contact me via email if she had any more questions, and she left.
Then I took myself to the backroom and cried just a little again. The reporter had captured precisely why I loved that painting, and now, I couldn’t enjoy it as much because it was possible the artist had killed a person.
“But possible is the thing here, isn’t it, Harvey?” I said to myself as I wiped my eyes. “It’s only possible that Toggle did this. And if she didn’t, you deserve to enjoy her painting with abandon.” I stood up straight and took a deep breath. “Time to solve a murder,” I quietly said as I returned to the floor.
I made my way to the pets and animals section since it appeared that Marcus had the register covered, hoping that maybe a good alphabetizing session with lots of creatures might spark something in my mind. So I set myself down on the floor and began with the “Cagey Critters,” as I had dubbed the section dedicated to hamsters, gerbils, guinea pigs, chinchillas, and anything else that lived in a cage.
Inspiration about the murder did not strike as I slid All Things Guinea Pigs For Kids into place, but I did have the idea to consolidate the shelves and do a guinea pig picture book display at the top. We had some great titles, and as I went to retrieve The Three Little Guinea Pigs, The Adventures Of Marshmellow, and other titles, a twinkle of an idea came to mind. Maybe we needed to look wider than customers of Penelope’s pet spa. Perhaps we needed to consider her competitors or even her colleagues.
As I set each of the display titles on the top shelf, being sure to angle them so parents could see the titles when they came to get their children, or themselves, guinea pig handbooks, I began to make a mental list of other business owners who might have worked with Penelope. We didn’t have any other pet spas in town, but we did have two vets, a pet store, and a traveling dog groomer. Maybe they’d have something to add to what we knew.
With the display set and a text request sent to Cate to ask her to please draw a guinea pig on card stock for me, I stepped outside for a bit of fresh spring air and called Jared. Instead of saying hello when he answered, I began with the charming opening, “We need to talk to animal people.”
“Hi, Harvey. How is your day?” he said, and I could hear the laughter in his voice. “Fine, Jared,” he added, making his voice slightly higher and far more sing-songy than mine. “Just selling books and drinking coffee. How about yours?”
I chuckled. “All right, how is your day going?” I said, feeling the urgency that I now realized was part of my newly diagnosed ADHD, threatening to make me terse or cold and repressing that possibility. “Things okay?”
My fiancé laughed. “Things are more than okay. I’m marrying you this week. How could they be bad?” He let that statement settle into the airwaves between us and said, “But I’m guessing that it’s not because we’re getting married that we need to talk to animal people, is it? Unless, of course, you’re expanding the wedding party to include alpacas and teacup pigs. Are you doing that? Because if you are, I have to say it will be hard to find them matching attire at such short notice.”
I was now grinning at the image of animals in our wedding party, and the tightness in my chest about this new murder research angle had subsided. “Now that you mention it. . .” I said, letting my voice trail off. “But no, as fun as that idea sounds, I don’t think I’m up for holding my bouquet and a tether during the ceremony. I need to have one hand free for yours.”
“Fair enough. So then, what’s with the animals?”
I explained how I thought the people who did business with Penelope might have some light to shed on the situation and asked what he thought.
“That is a good idea,” he said and then paused. “But I’ve just brought in our other two suspects from the reviews, and Tuck is wrapped up in a Board Of Supervisors budget meeting all day.” He stopped speaking and let the silence spin out.
“Are you asking me if I can do a little investigative work on the police department’s behalf, Sargent Watson?”
“Did you hear me say that, Harvey Beckett?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“No, of course not,” I said. “This is serious police work.”
“Yes. Yes, it is, and it has to be done with the utmost caution. And any serious investigation requires two witnesses to statements, so if I were to do it, I’d have to wait for Tuck to be free.”
“Understood. You and Tuck are not available today.” I laughed quietly. “I will not update you at dinner tonight,” I said with a laugh and hung up.
Time to see if Mart had a few hours to go sleuthing with me.
One of the wonderful things about being a consultant like Mart or a business owner like me was that we had flexibility in how we spent our time. Sometimes, people mistook that flexibility for constant availability or lack of work ethic, but the truth was that Mart and I both worked more hours than most people who had a typical eight-to-five job. But while we had flexible time, we didn’t have sick time or vacation time. These were trade-offs we were happy to make, especially on days when we had something we wanted to do—like interview animal people—but they didn’t come without a cost.
Yet a certain zip went through me when I double-checked to be sure Marcus was good to cover for the afternoon before I then ducked out. It felt like those days when my mom took me out of school early to go to the dentist, but then we still had extra time before everyone else got out of school to get ice cream or go to the bookstore or something. Clearly, Mart felt the same way because when I texted her, her response was only, “Give me thirty minutes!!!”
I grinned as I slid my phone into my back pocket and finished my walk home. That gave me just enough time to make notes and check in with Mom about wedding stuff, something I both wanted to do and dreaded, mainly because it meant I had to hear about many of the details I didn’t really care about, like the rehearsal schedule. As far as I was concerned, if the people I loved were there in a place I adored with the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I was good.
Fortunately, Mart’s knock on our door meant I had an excuse to end the call with Mom just as she began filling me in on the rehearsal dinner menu that she and Jared’s mom had created. I managed to hear something about a nacho bar before I said, “You have it well under control, Mom. Thank you. But I have to go now. Talk to you later,” and hung up before she could protest. It was a bit rude, but it was also more than a bit necessary.
Mart still knocked at our front door when she came over, something I had assured her she could stop and just come on it. “Never know what I might see with you two love birds,” she said every time, but I knew it was more than potential embarrassment that kept her knocking. She and I had been roommates for a long time in her house, and while she had assured me I’d always have a place with her if I needed one, I knew she was glad that her boyfriend, Symeon, could move in and expect the same privacy she afforded Jared. This boundary was a gentle, quiet thing but an important one for both of us.
So, as soon as I hung up with—on?—Mom, I came out to the front porch with a list of vets, groomers, and one farrier that I hoped we could see that day, and Mart snatched it out of my hand.
“You drive. I’ll navigate.” Before we even got in the car, she was typing addresses into her phone to plan our most efficient route.
Our first three stops, at the farrier’s house—since he lived further away from town—and then at the two vet offices on the way back, had proven fruitless. While one of the vet techs had heard of Penelope—or rather, her reputation—no one had any particular interaction with her or the spa.
“This is a little frustrating,” Mart said between reading the directions to our next stop, a grooming shop on the east side of St. Marin’s. “Do you think people are holding back because they know about the murder?”
I shrugged. “Could be. But I didn’t get any sense anyone was hiding anything. Did you?” When she shook her head, I said, “Plus, have you ever known small-town folk to avoid gossip, even if they have to say, ‘I don’t usually talk about people like this’ before they talk about people like that?”
Mart chuckled. “Well, you have a point there. And when we first moved here, I hated that. It felt like everybody was up in my business. But now, I kind of like that people keep tabs on me. It means they care.”
“They do, sometimes just about the best story to tell at the diner on Friday, but they do care,” I said, laughing. “Okay, so what do we know about this groomer?”
“She’s young, maybe early twenties. Grew up here. Went to beauty school but decided she wanted to work with animals.” Mart was staring at her phone. “She has some great photos of dogs with some wild hair-dos here.” She turned the phone toward me as we reached a stoplight. “Look at this pink mohawk on this Scottish terrier.”
“Oh, we’ll need to tell Cate and Luke that Sasquatch needs a new do.” Our friends had the most laid-back, warm-natured Scottie I’d ever met. Somehow, a pink mohawk felt like an awkward fit for him, and I said so to Mart. “Maybe she could wax his mustache instead?”
“That would be perfect,” Mart replied. “This is it.” She pointed to a classic Winnebago set back from the road and surrounded by pots and flower beds. “Looks like she’s a gardener.”
“Good,” I said. “We can talk plants to break the ice.” Jared and Elle had taught me a lot about gardening over the past two years, and as I scanned the planters while walking to the door, I saw that Annette, the groomer, had the remnants of a great cottage garden.
“Good afternoon,” a tall, thin black woman with long braids said as she opened the door and extended her hand to Mart. “I’m Annette Gooden.” She glanced behind us and paused. “Do you have an appointment?” Her eyes darted to the small Annette’s Animals Grooming sign beside the door.
I stepped forward and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. We don’t. I’m Harvey Beckett. I own the bookshop in town. We were hoping we could ask you a couple of questions about Penelope Fisker. Do you have any space before your next appointment?”
Annette’s previously open face had gone completely rigid at the sound of Penelope’s name, but she nodded and let us into a very stylish single-wide, complete with a waiting room and a coffee bar. “Please take a seat,” she said, pointing to the banquette on the far wall as she sat gracefully in the driver’s seat in the cab next to the wash station, which was a waist-high walk-in tub custom-fit to the place where the passenger’s seat would have been originally.
“Your workspace is so inventive,” I said with genuine enthusiasm. “Wow. A small space with all the necessaries.”
My compliment seemed to re-warm Annette a bit, and she said, “Well, it’s all I really need right here.” She gestured around the camper. “Not everyone wants to live and work in the same space, but I like the simplicity of it.”
“Oh, you live here, too?” Mart said as she glanced toward the back of the trailer. “I can see how that might be nice.” I knew Mart was lying through her teeth. That woman could not survive in such a small space for even a day, but still, I appreciated her effort to keep the congenial conversation going.
Annette smiled. “Yeah. You said you wanted to talk with me about Penelope?” Her face got guarded again. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. As she saw it, we were competitors, so I didn’t have much interaction with her that wasn’t business-based.”
“You didn’t see her as your competition?” I asked, curious about her phrasing.
“Not at all,” she said without pause. “She definitely gears her business toward the tourists and such, maybe some of the folks who live in town, but my clients are old St. Marinites, country people mostly, who want a good price on good service.”
“With an occasional pink mohawk thrown in,” Mart said with a smile.
“Ah, you’ve looked at my website. Yes, sometimes, we’re able to give our pets more care than we give ourselves,” Annette said quietly. “I try to do new cuts and even nails for people who pour themselves into their pets but can’t afford the fancier salons.”
There was definitely a tinge of something in Annette’s voice. Jealousy? Animosity? Something, but she was also right. I had known a lot of lonely people who took great joy in gussying up their dogs and cats, even one guinea pig, as a mood lifter for both of them. “That’s a great service,” I said, “and probably something Penelope didn’t offer.”
Annette laughed aloud. “Are you kidding? Penelope wouldn’t have ever deigned to do anything but the most traditional, pretentious grooming job. She was not inclined toward whimsy.”
“Say more about that?” Mart asked, picking up, I’m sure, on the touch of what I now saw was scorn in Annette’s words.
The groomer took a deep breath, and her voice was a bit softer when she spoke again. “It’s just a difference of purpose, I guess. I want people and their animals to feel good about themselves. Penelope seemed to want to help people make their animals a showpiece for their lifestyle.”
“Like Best In Show?” Mart said suddenly. “Have you seen that?”
Annette grinned. “One of my favorites. And yes, just like that.”
“You’re more of the Christopher Guest and the bloodhound type, then?” I added.
This made Annette’s smile broaden even more. “Exactly. I’m much more a Harlan Pepper and Hubert kind of groomer.”
I sighed. “I can see what you mean. Penelope leaned more toward the Parker Posey type?”
“Oh my goodness, I’d never thought of that, but yes.” Annette grew quiet. “I’m sorry she is dead, just as I’d be sorry for anyone who died. But I can’t say it won’t make my life a bit easier.”
“How so?” Mart said.
Annette sighed. “She was always trying to undercut me. If I offered a special, she’d offer the same, at just a few dollars cheaper. When I started offering herbal treatments for my customers and their pets, she did the same.”
“Ah, yes, the garden out front. I saw the remains of echinacea and mint, some sage,” I said. “You grew the herbs yourself?”
“I did, mostly because I love to garden, and it’s cheaper that way. But she brought in a trained herbalist and started offering special packages that took away some of my customers. Ever since she’s opened, I’ve had a hard time making ends meet.” She paused and looked at her hands. “Still, no one deserves to be killed.”
I glanced over at Mart, who met my gaze. The fact that Penelope had been murdered was all over the news, so it wasn’t that surprising that Annette knew. Still, there was something weighty about the fact that she’d brought up the murder specifically.
“I hear you,” I said, “and while we never wish anyone misfortune, of course, there is nothing wrong with making use of this time to build our business . . . if that’s what you want to do.”
“That is what I want to do, but I feel horrible about taking advantage of someone’s misfortune that way.” Annette’s voice was scratchy as she spoke.
“I think,” said Mart, “that the idea of ‘taking advantage’ has been maligned. You are doing nothing wrong to fill a void, to offer people who need a service that service. Unless you killed Penelope, you have nothing to feel terrible about.”
I suppressed a wince as Mart flat-out mentioned the possibility that Annette had committed murder, but Annette didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she smiled gently at Mart.
“Thank you for that.” She glanced over at me. “Was that all you wanted to ask? If Penelope and I got along?”
“No, actually. We figured you didn’t. She didn’t seem to get along with anyone,” I said. “We were wondering if you knew anything about anyone who really had a bone to pick with her. Anyone who was really angry or such.”
“You want me to tell you if I know who might have killed her?” Annette said, her eyes wide.
I could have hemmed and hawed and tried to downplay my intention, but I already knew that Annette was too savvy for that. “Yes, we do.”
She sighed and said, “Check with Steve Sutton. The last time I saw him, he was going on and on about how Penelope had injured one of his patients during one of her treatments. He was pretty livid.”
“Steve Sutton, the vet?” Mart asked. “Do you think he’d do something to Penelope?”
Annette shrugged. “He’s definitely got a temper, especially when it comes to how people treat animals.”
“Don’t we all,” I said quietly.
“Of course,” Annette said, “but do you slash the tires of people who don’t care for their pets like you think they should?”
I had to admit my disgust for animal neglect and abuse wasn’t strong enough to drive me to vandalism. “No, I do not.”
With a tilt of her head, Annette stood. “It was nice to meet you both, but I have a cocker spaniel who needs a good ear cleaning on her way. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
Mart and I stood and followed her to the door. As I stepped onto Annette’s small stoop, I said, “I like how you’ve left the stalks and seeds standing for winter.”
“Got to feed the birds, you know?” Annette said before waving and closing the door.
“That was interesting,” Mart said as we got into the car.
“Sure was,” I said. “Sure was.”