CHAPTER 56
As I walked home along Westham’s main drag, I barely saw where my feet landed. Doris had a confirmed gambling problem, which could have made her desperate. Ogden was hard up for funds, too. Phil’s mom had been defensive. And as much as I hoped for her innocence, Elenia hadn’t been cleared in the least. I only prayed Lincoln had made way more progress on a resolution to this case than I had. I stopped abruptly, making a woman behind me exclaim.
“Excuse me?” She slid past and gave me a strange look.
Oops. I guess I wasn’t watching my back at all. “Sorry.” I stopped because I’d forgotten I had Mom’s phone. A bench in front of the toy store presented itself. I sank onto the seat and dug out the flip. I opened a text message, planning to ask the Cozy Capers to include Mom’s number on the thread until I got a new phone. And swore. I’d relied on my contacts list for numbers instead of my memory. Curse modern technology. I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d known Derrick’s number by heart for years—he was my brother, after all—and that kind of memory belonged in the knowing-how-to-ride-a-bike category. It didn’t go away.
I poked the number into the To box, then laboriously composed a text. I kept it as short and telegraphic as I could.
Mac here. Have Mom’s phone. Pls add num to group thread. Thx.
Once sent, I considered a call to Tim right now, but decided to wait until I’d returned home to a quiet environment. The West Coast time zone was three hours earlier, and it would be nine thirty there. Little kids in the house? He would have been up for a while, that is, if he’d already reclaimed them from Jamie’s friend. I’d barely thought of Tim’s sister. Some fiancée I was. I hastily sent out healing energies to her.
I thought back to my interaction with Rose a little while ago. She’d been prickly when I asked about the soup. Because she thought I’d accused her son of murdering his wife? Or . . .
“Oh,” I said aloud, drawing it into two syllables. A man with a leashed dog glanced toward me. I gave him a sheepish smile. What if Rose had her back up because she poisoned the soup stock on purpose? She might have been in cahoots, as they said, with Phil. Or she might have flown solo, thinking Annette was bad for her son, that he deserved someone better. Rose herself deserved a much closer scrutiny, a possibility our group of wannabe sleuths hadn’t even considered.
The phone dinged with a text from Tulia. I opened it to see Derrick had already added Mom’s number to the thread.
News, Mac? Progress?
I thought for a moment. Did I have news since last night? I texted back. Again I kept the message as telegraphic as I could. Hitting a number repeatedly to progress from R to S, for example, was the poster child for frustrating, and involved way too many backward deletions and corrections.
Failed break-in my house overnight. Found lock pick, took to stn. Perp might have head injury from flying branch.
And on the topic of head injuries, I knew I shouldn’t rule out Elenia because I liked her. She could still be a murderer, and she could have made her way mid-storm to my house with a break-in tool. And with her ever-present watch cap pulled low on her forehead, I hadn’t spied a trace of contusion.
I thought. What else should I convey to the group?
El confirms D long-time gambler.
I hit Send.
Tulia responded:
Reba all right?
Derrick beat me to the answer.
Yes.
I thought about how to convey my thoughts about Rose.
Shd take closer look at Phil’s mom. Poisoned stock on purpose? Alone or in combo with son?
Tulia wrote back first.
Stock?
Ugh. I didn’t want to have to type all that out on a flip. Maybe Derrick would. I called his number.
“Hey, bro, do me a favor?” I told him what I’d learned from Rose. “I also ran into Lincoln. He told me they know she gave Phil soup stock, and they’re analyzing the container labeled Granny D. Can you text the group, please? Mom’s flip makes it a real pain in the you-know-where.”
He said he would. “While I have you on the phone, what did you mean by the person who tried to break in might have a head injury?” he asked.
“I heard the scratches of the lock pick during the storm,” I began. “Then I heard a thud and the person swore. This morning I found a big branch that had blown over, probably from the swamp oak behind my shop.”
“And you think it might have hit him in the head?”
“Him or her, yes. I didn’t get a chance to tell you over at the parsonage.” Wait. “You saw Phil earlier. Did you notice a contusion on his head?”
“Because he was alone last night?”
“Exactly.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. “He wore a hat. I didn’t get a look at his head or even his forehead.”
Shoot. “Thanks.”
We disconnected the call, and the next group text in came from Derrick, with an explanation of the soup situation.
Norland chimed in, saying he had a contact in Pocasset who might know Rose.
I responded.
Thx.