Chapter Five
After Jazzi climbed on the school bus the next morning, Daisy felt at loose ends. She hadn’t received a call from the police yet to say she could reopen the tea garden. After giving their statements yesterday, she’d made sure Aunt Iris was tucked in with Daisy’s parents. It would be good for Iris to have her sister to talk to about everything, Daisy hoped.
When Daisy felt unsettled like this, as if she had to organize her mind and her heart, she cooked or baked. It was just her go-to activity to settle herself down. This morning she decided to make chicken soup and take some to Jonas. After all, he’d been a big help, and she wanted to thank him.
Daisy was just about to add vegetables to the simmering chicken when her landline rang. She dumped the carrots and corn into the pot, repositioned the lid, and then picked up the cordless phone. After her “hello,” a male voice asked, “Is this Daisy Swanson?”
She didn’t recognize the voice and was wary. “Yes, it is.”
“I’m Trevor Lundquist from the Willow Creek Messenger.”
Ever since the murder, she hadn’t picked up the phone and had just let her voice mail handle calls. Most of the calls had been from the press and interested residents of the town who wanted the scoop on what had happened. She didn’t want to give the scoop.
However, Trevor Lundquist wasn’t a stranger. Willow Creek was small enough that she’d met Trevor when the tea garden had set up a stand during the May Fling at the carnival grounds this past spring. She, of course, suspected what the reporter wanted, but she’d be polite and listen. Being friends with the local press was important to business.
“I’d like an interview with you,” he continued. “After all, the hometown paper deserves to know what happened first.”
“I don’t know any more than the report the police gave on the news,” she hedged.
“I’m sure that’s not true. This happened at your tea garden. You and your aunt were there.”
Gossip flew fast and furious in a town this size. Still, she told him the truth. “I’d rather not talk about what happened.”
“An interview could be good for me and good for you. Did you ever think about the lift it would give your business?”
“I don’t want to capitalize on a tragedy.”
“Mrs. Swanson, it’s my job to report the news. If you benefit from that, so much the better.”
“I also don’t know any more than anyone else,” she repeated.
“Nonsense. You could give me the whole background story. People saw your aunt and Harvey Fitz together. They were dating. I want to know all about that and what led up to the murder.”
“That topic isn’t for discussion,” Daisy said firmly.
“Maybe not by you, but what about your aunt? If you won’t give me what I need, I’ll get in touch with her. She’s the source. Maybe I could draw the true story from her.”
“I don’t want my aunt badgered.”
“Then give me something.”
Daisy considered what she could and couldn’t do, what she would and wouldn’t do. She’d seen Trevor Lundquist’s byline many times, and he seemed to write an honest perspective on whatever the subject was. This murder, she imagined, was his chance to write about something meaty. If she didn’t help with it, he’d find a way to do it. She didn’t want him bothering any of her family.
“How about this, Mr. Lundquist. For now, stick to the reports the police give you. I’m sure you’re experienced enough to have a contact there.”
After a beat of silence, he admitted, “I am and I do.”
“When the murder is solved, I’ll give you an exclusive.”
“What if one of those network shows come calling?”
“If I tell you I’m going to give you an exclusive, then that’s what I’m going to do. Believe me, my aunt won’t want this story blared nationwide.”
“I’ve checked around about you,” he said. “You seem to be an astute businesswoman.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“I’ve also heard that if a customer has a problem with service or any of your products, you make it right.”
“I won’t stay in business very long if I don’t please my customers.”
There was a moment of hesitation. “All right,” he said. “I won’t badger anybody right now. But I’ll tell you this. If the investigation goes on too long, I might need a tidbit or two to keep the public interested and to fill in my weekly byline.”
“That’s not our deal.”
“You’re tough.”
“When it comes to protecting my family, I am,” she assured him.
He grumbled, “It’s a deal. But if some L.A. movie producer comes calling—”
“I’ll tell him to go back to L.A. I don’t want the notoriety, and neither does my aunt. We just want the killer to be brought to justice.” She added silently—and for Aunt Iris to be cleared of any suspicion.
After Daisy hung up, she pulled a spoon from the drawer, dipped it into the chicken broth, and tasted it. She added more pepper, then pulled a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. Should she add rice or noodles?
For Jonas, she’d add noodles.
* * *
Daisy drove by the tea garden and the crime scene tape and pulled into a parking space in front of Jonas’s store. She’d dipped the soup into a mason jar, wrapped it in a navy tea towel, and stowed it in a small wicker basket. She’d also slipped a half dozen chocolate chip cookies into a Ziploc bag and added that to the basket. Now as she exited her car and took a whiff of the crisp autumn air, catching just a hint of wood smoke, she wondered if this was a good idea. It was a simple thank-you, right?
Maybe not so simple, considering their visit to the police station yesterday. Maybe, just maybe, she wanted Jonas’s advice.
Woods had a distinctive flair, if not a usual furniture store arrangement. Giant cubicle shelves lined one side of the store. In each square stood a ladder-back chair in a different color and finish—one in a pretty lemon color, another in a robin’s-egg blue, and a third in distressed green. But there were wood finishes too—cherry, dark walnut, and a chair that was unfinished. A variety of styles of tables, from pedestal to traditional to library to octagonal occasional tables, stood along the other side of the room, their finishes gleaming in the sunlight that shone through the windows. Throughout the store stood armoires, chests, and highboys, the most beautiful Daisy had ever seen. All of the furniture here was handcrafted by local craftsmen, including Jonas himself.
Jonas sat at a counter at the rear of the store, studying something on the computer monitor. He looked up, however, when the bell over the door rang and Daisy walked in. She had to admit that when she’d picked out her wardrobe today, she’d taken a little extra time. Jazzi and Vi kept her up to date on trends. Today she’d worn cranberry-colored skinny-leg jeans and a sweater with geometric shapes in cranberry and black. Although Vi insisted she should have highlights added to her hair, she preferred keeping it natural, letting the sun do its thing in the summer. This morning she’d simply brushed it, letting it wave where it wanted to, rather than confining it in a ponytail. At the last minute, she’d inserted a wooden barrette over her right temple. Her bangs were getting a little long, but Jazzi insisted that was the style. When she took her daughter’s advice, that pleased Jazzi, so she did it whenever she could.
Jonas’s gaze seemed to study her a moment longer than usual, but that simply could have been her imagination.
She set the basket on the counter. “Just a thank-you for helping me the other night. I’m grateful you saved us from that mob.”
“I don’t need a thank-you. That kind of thing is second nature to me.”
“You had to lead witnesses to safety?”
“Some of the time.”
He was always so enigmatic about his past and his work. She was sure there were reasons, so she didn’t like to pry. Whether he considered it second nature or not, she was still grateful for what he’d done.
“Chicken soup and cookies. The soup’s still warm.”
“I have a small refrigerator and microwave in the back. You’ve saved me from a burger and fries.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tell me that’s your mainstay.”
He laughed. “Along with doughnuts. Old habits die hard.”
“We have good restaurants along with fast food joints in Willow Creek.”
“Yes, I’ve seen that,” he said. “But it’s really no fun eating at a restaurant alone, and gourmet food in takeout containers just isn’t the same.”
She knew what he meant. She wondered if he’d ever had someone special to have those meals with, because he sounded as if he missed it, just as she did.
“I had another reason for stopping by, other than the chicken soup.” She wanted to be honest with him.
“You need to buy a table, chair, or armoire?”
She smiled. “Not right now.” After a moment’s hesitation, she explained, “Iris and I went to the police station yesterday to give our statements. They wouldn’t let me stay with her. They separated us and recorded everything.”
“That’s standard.”
“From what Iris told me, she was interrogated more than interviewed. They wanted to know every detail about her relationship with Harvey—how well she knew his wife, if she associated with his children, how intimate she and Harvey had been.”
Jonas’s eyebrows arched at that one, and she felt herself blush. That was not something she wanted to talk about with a stranger, but she wanted Jonas to know exactly how the police were looking at Iris.
“Iris should have had a lawyer with her. She needs to consult one immediately.”
“She just wants to tell the detective what she knows. She’s vulnerable right now and completely open.”
“Open isn’t good, not in this situation. You and Iris are honest people, not used to dealing with something like this. Rappaport and the chief of police are. No, we don’t have many murders in Willow Creek, but that’s even more reason why they’re going to go after this with a pick and shovel.”
Jonas took a notepad from alongside his computer, picked up a pen, and wrote something on the top sheet. “Marshall Thompson is a friend. He’s also a criminal defense attorney who’s worth every penny of what he charges.”
“Iris doesn’t have unlimited funds.”
“Marsh also works on a sliding scale. She needs to talk to him, Daisy, whether she hires him or not. He’ll do a free consultation if you tell him I recommended him.” He tore off the sheet of paper from the tablet and held it out to her.
When Daisy took it, her fingers brushed his. Her heart sped up, and she felt something electric when she looked into Jonas’s green eyes. That scared her.
When she was scared, she retreated in order to figure out what to do next. After slipping the piece of paper into her purse, she waved at the soup and cookies. “Enjoy. Maybe for just this one lunch you’ll forget about burgers and fries.”
“Maybe,” he agreed enigmatically.
With the scent of wood and glossy finishes still in her senses, she left Jonas’s store, not exactly sure what had just happened between them, yet certain something had.
* * *
Daisy couldn’t get her stop at Jonas’s shop out of her head the rest of the afternoon. Maybe it was because she was distracted by the fact that she couldn’t go to her place of work, the murder that had taken place there, and her worry about her Aunt Iris. Thinking about Jonas was more . . . pleasurable. Of course, when she thought about his advice, she started worrying all over again. It didn’t help that when Jazzi came home from school, she went straight to her room. Daisy had called up to her twice now, and she hadn’t answered or come down.
Her daughter hadn’t heard her? Or she was ignoring her?
It had to be one or the other. So Daisy climbed the stairs. Even though the door to Jazzi’s room was partially open, she knocked. She respected her daughter’s privacy.
Nevertheless, when Jazzi didn’t call “Come in,” she went in anyway. Privacy was one thing, rudeness was another.
Jazzi’s room was about the millennial teenager, not frills and polka dots as her own room might have been at her daughter’s age. Well, maybe she would have had a poster or two of her favorite idol on the wall. But Jazzi’s room was about empowering a girl or a woman. There was a poster of Malala Yousafzai. She’d framed photographs she’d taken of some of her favorite places—her grandmother’s house, a nearby covered bridge, an Amish horse and buggy. Jazzi might have her fingernails painted in the latest designs, but she was the type of girl who created those designs.
Now as Daisy entered her younger daughter’s room, she saw that Jazzi was so engrossed in what she was doing, she hadn’t heard or noticed her.
“Jazzi?”
Her daughter gave a startled jump and then quickly closed her laptop where she sat using it at the corner desk.
That was a red flag if ever Daisy had seen one. Being secretive as well as being sullen were causes for concern.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I called up to you twice. What are you working on?” She tried to monitor Jazzi’s computer use. She had monitored Violet’s too before her daughter had gone to college.
But Jazzi wasn’t giving Daisy any explanations. She wasn’t opening the laptop. She was looking . . . scared. What was her daughter into? Pornographic photos? Singles chat sites? E-mailing with a boy she didn’t want Daisy to know about? All of those things created chaos in Daisy, so much chaos that her daughter’s privacy was put on the back burner. She opened Jazzi’s laptop.
The screen had gone dark with Jazzi closing it, but now Daisy hit a key.
“Don’t!” Jazzi said. “I don’t want you—”
But Daisy had already seen the website. At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. But then the title began to make sense. The name of the website was Bonds Forever. After a quick look, Daisy could see it was one of those websites where children who were adopted could register to find their birth parents.
Jazzi must have seen the stunned look on her mother’s face. “This has nothing to do with you,” she told Daisy quickly. “I mean, nothing to do about you being my mom. I want to find my birth parents.”
Over the years, they’d had plenty of discussions about being adopted—how Jazzi had been a gift to her and Ryan, how she’d been a child of their hearts. But since Ryan had died, they hadn’t had any of those discussions. In fact, since Ryan had died, they hadn’t talked as much as they should have. Violet had expressed her grief and sadness over her dad’s loss much more openly than Jazzi, and Daisy had given her younger daughter the opportunity and the time to grieve in her own way. But maybe that hadn’t been the right thing to do. After all, their life had been in Florida. With Ryan gone, Daisy had moved them back here, changing everything.
At this moment, she knew she had to accept whatever Jazzi was feeling or she could lose her. “Have you been registered on this site for very long?” Her voice quavered a little, and she didn’t want that. She didn’t want Jazzi to know she was as scared as she was.
“I’ve been registered on the site for about a month. I thought about registering a few months before that.”
“You could have come to me about this.” She tried to keep her tone even, not letting any hurt show. But Jazzi must have seen some of the hurt.
“Really, Mom? You would have tried to talk me out of it.”
After Daisy took a moment to consider Jazzi’s conclusion, she shook her head. “You’re wrong about that. I wouldn’t have tried to talk you out of it, not if it’s what you really want. If you need to find your birth parents, I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”
Now Jazzi was the one who looked surprised. “You really will?”
Daisy lowered herself onto Jazzi’s bed, needing to sit before she sank like a puddle to the floor. “I really will.”
“Then tell me what you know so I can plug in the information. All I know is my birth date.”
“Your dad and I didn’t tell you anything about the adoption because we didn’t know much. Your adoption was a private one, through a lawyer. Your dad and I didn’t want to wait for an agency to find us a baby, so we pursued all of our options. He spent hours on the Internet and found this lawyer’s website. We filled out the forms, and Glenn contacted us that he’d found an unwed mother in Pennsylvania who wanted to give up her baby. He’d taken into account that I was from here and still had family here. We came to Pennsylvania to adopt you because you were born here. I know your mom’s first name is Portia, but that’s all I know because it was a closed adoption. But I’ll see if I can find out anything else if that’s what you want.”
“Since Dad died—” Jazzi stopped and swallowed hard. “I’ve just felt this big hole. It was there a little bit before he died, I guess because I didn’t know exactly where I came from. But after he died, it’s gotten really big. I thought finding my birth parents might help fill it. I want to do it, Mom. I keep checking back on the website to see if anybody’s tried to connect with me, but nobody has. It’s like waiting for an e-mail that never comes. Do you know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean. Let me see if I can find out anything else.”
Jazzi hopped up from her chair and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Thank you.”
In a way, Daisy felt as if she had her daughter back. In another way, she was worried she might lose her.
* * *
In the end, after a long discussion with her aunt the following day, Daisy made the call to Marshall Thompson and scheduled an appointment for late that morning. His office was located a few streets north of downtown, on Cherry Tree Road. It was an older section of town with row houses, cherry and blue spruce trees, and ivy crawling up the front of brick homes. His establishment was gray brick on the first floor with white siding on the second. Dark gray shutters accentuated the double-hung windows. The front stoop had two steps and no porch, though there was a sign that proclaimed the handicapped entrance was in the back.
When Daisy rang the front doorbell, a young woman answered. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with a fresh face without much makeup, just a dab of lipstick, a flowered blouse in orange and green, and slacks in the same green color.
She smiled. “You must be Daisy Swanson and Iris Albright. Appointment at eleven?”
“That’s right,” Daisy said with a nod since her aunt still seemed incapable of speech. Iris hadn’t wanted to come and didn’t want to be here.
“Come on in,” the young woman said. “I’m Olivia. Uncle Marsh will be right with you.”
The reception area was wallpapered in a thin cranberry and navy pinstripe. The receptionist’s oak desk was L-shaped. Daisy could see that the monitor sitting there was state of the art. She recognized good quality when she saw it because she had done a thorough perusal of computers to buy one for the tea garden. A set of headphones lay beside the keyboard, and Daisy guessed that Marshall Thompson’s niece transcribed for him.
Daisy could see steps leading to the second floor. To the left of them was a short hall. Now a door along that hall opened and a man walked toward them. He was tall, at least six feet two. His hair was thick, though snow white, and his dark brown suit was impeccably cut. He wore a white shirt with a tan pinstripe and no tie. He extended his hand to Iris. “I’m Marshall Thompson. And you’re Iris Albright?”
“That’s right,” Iris said in a clipped voice that said she was nervous.
After he shook Daisy’s hand, he said to Olivia, “I’ll take care of them now. You can go back to what you were doing.”
Olivia gave her uncle a smile, nodded, and went back to her desk. Marshall Thompson led them down the hall into his office.
This room was very different from the reception area. It was large, with wood paneling, a sofa, coffee table, and chairs. A long credenza lined one wall. They faced a huge mahogany desk with a matching side table that housed a computer. From the high-end coffee pot on the credenza to the oil paintings of Lancaster County farms hanging on the walls, the room shouted quality, just as Marshall Thompson did.
Instead of going behind his desk as most lawyers would, he motioned to the sofa and chairs.
“Let’s have a seat. Coffee?”
Iris shook her head, and so did Daisy. They both just wanted to get into this and find out what they were facing.
Marshall nodded as if he understood. He lowered himself to the sofa next to Daisy and across from Iris. “When you phoned, Olivia told me you said Jonas Groft recommended me?”
Daisy nodded. “His store is down the street from my tea garden. He was a big help the night—”
She stopped and hesitated. “The night the murder happened.”
The lawyer nodded, but he didn’t say how he knew Jonas or anything else about their relationship.
Aunt Iris, who had laid her purse on the sofa next to her, was now twisting her hands in her lap. “I need to know how much this is going to cost. I don’t know if I can afford you.”
“Is it Miss or Mrs. Albright?” he asked.
“Miss. I’ve never been married. I thought I was going to be—” Her voice broke.
Marshall Thompson asked, “Instead of coffee, how about a cup of tea? I always have water heating. I don’t have loose tea like you probably use in your tea garden, but I have a selection of tea bags.”
“You enjoy tea?” Iris asked.
“I do. Unfortunately, I’ve never stopped in at your tea garden. I begin my work days early, and I end them late.” He picked up a hand-carved wooden box sitting on the credenza. He opened it for Iris and said, “Pick one.”
Daisy saw her aunt pick chamomile for calming. No decision to make there.
“Miss Swanson?” he asked.
“For me, it is Mrs. I’m a widow.”
He opened the box in front of her.
She chose a green tea. She needed the antioxidant these days. If she had a cup of tea with them, maybe her aunt would relax a bit.
After he’d poured the tea and offered them cream or a slice of lemon from his small refrigerator, they both prepared their tea, and Daisy felt more comfortable. She hoped her aunt did too.
“Now fill me in,” the lawyer directed.
“We haven’t discussed your fee,” Iris reminded him.
“Let me hear your story first.”
Daisy let Iris do the telling. Her aunt needed to talk about what had happened, to empty her head of the images, to try to diminish their impact. Maybe if she said the words and described it often enough, that would happen. It could make it worse too, Daisy supposed, but she hoped it was more like a desensitization exercise.
After Iris was finished, the attorney looked thoughtful. Then he leaned forward. “I’d like to tell you that you have nothing to worry about. However, it was your tea garden, Miss Albright, and you found the body.”
“But I didn’t touch him. I could see he was . . . dead.”
“Lots of things come into consideration here, some of them accidents, some of them not.”
“What do you mean by accidents?” Daisy asked.
The lawyer looked at Iris. “You said you were dating this man?”
She nodded.
“For instance, the suit he was wearing. Had he worn that same suit when he’d been with you before?”
Iris thought about it. “He wore that blue pinstripe suit often. He might have. Why?”
“Because your hair could be on that suit. Your DNA could be on that suit, even if you had merely touched his arm. That wouldn’t mean you touched him that night, but it would be evidence.”
“Oh, my,” Iris murmured.
Daisy patted her hand.
“Could you tell what might have been the murder weapon?” he asked Daisy.
Daisy didn’t want to remember that scene either, but she called it up again. Thinking about it made her want to gag. “The way Harvey’s head was bashed in, it could have been a rock or a bat,” she offered.
“There’s a difference,” Marshall said. “A rock would mean an impulse murder, while a bat could mean it was premeditated.”
“But Iris was with me in the tea garden until she left to meet Harvey.”
“The police will work a story around that if they think they have the evidence to prove she’s the one who did it. So listen carefully, Miss Albright. This is what I want you to do. Do not talk to the police again.”
Iris appeared shocked. “But what if they call me for another interview?” she asked.
“Then you call me. I do not want you speaking to them, and I definitely don’t want you speaking to them without counsel. Understood?”
Her aunt nodded. “Will you need a retainer? I do watch crime shows. I know about these things.”
Marshall Thompson smiled. “I think Jonas probably told you my first consultation would be free. It is. So no worries about a retainer today. If you need my services, then we’ll discuss it.”
“I know lawyers like you have to be expensive,” Iris murmured.
“Lawyers like me?” he asked with a quirk of his lips.
Iris motioned to the room, to the bookshelves with law volumes, to Marshall himself. “You’re obviously successful.”
“My practice has never been just about money,” he responded.
Daisy wondered just what it had been about, but he didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask.
The criminal defense attorney stood, indicating that their meeting was over. Iris and Daisy picked up their purses and stood too.
“Put my number on your speed dial,” he directed them. “The police can sometimes take you by surprise. If I don’t pick up, leave a message. I will call you back.”
It was funny, Daisy thought. She got the same feeling around Marshall Thompson that she did around Jonas Groft. Call it woman’s intuition or whatever, but they gave off an aura of deep-seated integrity.
That was exactly what she and her aunt needed right now.