Aunt Lydia had arranged to pick me up after work on Tuesday so that we could attend the craft session at Zelda’s house. As we drove the short distance from the library, she mentioned a memory she’d forgotten the day before.
“You were talking about Nate Broyhill and his family, and it totally escaped my mind that I met Glenda Lance once, at some fundraising event for the garden club,” she said. “When we were introduced, she was quite interested, at least at first. Apparently, Kurt had sold her one of Andrew’s paintings, and while she knew he’d been a local artist, she didn’t realize that his wife was still living in the area. She became quite animated when she discovered I still owned numerous examples of Andrew’s work.”
I cleared my throat. “Was she looking to cut out the middleman and purchase another painting directly from you?”
Aunt Lydia cast me an amused glance. “How did you figure that out?”
“I don’t know. Seems like something a wealthy person would do. They don’t remain rich by wasting money,” I said. “I suppose you told her that you didn’t intend to sell any of the paintings in your possession?”
“After which she immediately lost interest in me.” Aunt Lydia parked on the street in front of Zelda and Walt’s charming, one-story brick bungalow.
“What was your impression of Ms. Lance?” I asked as we strolled toward the covered front porch, which featured white-painted railings and trim. I paused on one of the concrete steps to admire the lush baskets hung above the balustrades and the wooden flower boxes overflowing with cascading purple petunias, silver dusty miller, and trailing ivy.
“She’s a very attractive woman in her sixties. A Katherine Hepburn type—tall and lean and quite sporty. She was the typical image of an older equestrian, the kind that looks elegant in riding clothes.” Aunt Lydia shrugged. “She seemed nice enough. Rather aloof, but perhaps that’s the shell she’s had to develop to keep people at bay. I’m sure she gets asked to fund every manner of thing in this region.”
“No doubt,” I said as I pressed the bell beside Zelda and Walt’s wooden front door.
Zelda met us with a beaming smile. “Oh good—I was hoping you two would show up,” she said as she ushered us into the house. The living room, a long, narrow space with a wall of windows opening onto the porch, looked somewhat different from the last time I’d visited. I attributed the changes to Walt. Citing his desire to allow Zelda to remain in the home where she’d cultivated an extensive garden, Walt had sold his townhouse and moved in with her after their marriage. Although he insisted on replacing some of her furniture with his favorite pieces, I thought, remembering the arguments this had initially caused. I’d heard all about the situation from Zelda, who was one of my most loyal library volunteers. Fortunately, these disagreements had blown over, as they always did where Zelda and Walt were concerned.
“Everyone’s in the back,” Zelda said as she led us through the living room, where I noted two leather recliners instead of the previous cream-colored armchairs. There were also photos of Walt’s children and grandchildren decorating the moss-green walls, and in place of a seashell painting, Zelda and Walt’s wedding photos hung over the white-painted brick fireplace.
Zelda trotted through her blue-and-white kitchen, her short, expertly dyed golden curls bouncing with each step. Like me, Zelda was shorter than average and curvaceous. Unlike me, she tended to wear extravagant, flowing clothes. Today it was a silky lounge dress in a bold tropical pattern that included vividly hued parrots peeking through palm tree leaves.
“Look who’s here at last,” she called out as she led Aunt Lydia and me into a newer addition to the house. An expansive, open rectangle, the room was painted a bland white and featured a row of windows across the back wall. It was set up as Zelda’s crafting space, with two large worktables and storage cabinets. At one end of the room, metal shelving under grow lamps and a potting bench provided a space where Zelda could start seedlings for her garden.
“Sorry we’re late,” Aunt Lydia said. “Amy had to work until five.”
Zelda turned to us, her light brown eyes sparkling with good humor. Although at sixty-eight, she was the same age as my aunt, the color in her full cheeks made her look younger. “No problem at all. The rest of the crew has been working diligently, so we’ve already knocked out quite a few things, although we can always use another pair of hands.”
There were several people working at the two tables, mostly younger women, although I noticed a few men. Probably dads of the dancers in Karla’s studio, I thought, also spying a couple of older women I assumed were grandmothers, and two of the university dancers.
My attention was piqued by the presence of Janelle DeFranzo, who had isolated herself at the end of the far table. Spotting Sunny working at the other end of that table, I crossed to join her. “I didn’t know you were coming, especially since this is your day off.”
Sunny looked up from the mask she was decorating. “I promised to help a while back, and you know I never renege on my promises.” She adjusted one of the pins securing the crown of braids she’d wrapped around her head. “Besides, this is fun.”
I looked over the supplies scattered across the table. Simple fabric masks that would only cover the upper portion of a face lay amid heaps of artificial feathers in shades of green and brown. “Oh, this must be for the ensemble in the Owls Variation.” I picked up one of the completed masks. “I didn’t realize we were making costume pieces along with props.”
“Originally that was true, but the costumer is swamped, as you can imagine,” said the blonde woman standing beside Sunny. “She’s had help from some of us with decorating leotards and things like that, but not everyone’s a seamstress, so we agreed that the larger group could work on the masks.”
“I see. Well, you’d better show me what to do. How many of these do we need, anyway?”
“A lot more than we have,” Sunny said. “Anyhow, you just glue the short feathers on in layers, like this”—she pointed to the mask she was assembling—“based on the sketch on the table. It doesn’t have to be perfect; just match it as close as you can.”
“Okay, I’ll give it try,” I said, glancing across the room, where Zelda was showing Aunt Lydia how to decorate some polished tree branches that I assumed would be used in one of the forest scenes.
“You’re artistic. You should be good at this,” Sunny said, shooting me a grin.
“Excuse me, I studied art history. I can understand and appreciate art, not make it,” I replied as I grabbed one of the blank masks and a tube of glue. I waved the glue at Sunny. “I think I’ll head to the other end of the table. Looks like there’s more space to work there.”
Sunny widened her eyes. “I suspect you have an ulterior motive,” she said under her breath.
“Bingo.” I also kept my voice low before saying more loudly, “Let’s see what I can do with this. Probably won’t be as successful as you guys.”
Marching to the end of the table, I found a spot right beside Janelle and set the mask and glue down in front of me, then reached over to grab a handful of feathers. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you,” I told her as I pulled back my arm. “I’m Amy Muir, by the way. Richard’s wife.”
The confusion clouding Janelle’s brown eyes cleared. “Oh, okay—I knew I’d seen you at the theater, but wasn’t sure why you were there. I didn’t think you were one of the dance moms, because I’ve never seen you at Karla’s studio.”
“No mom of any kind,” I said with a smile. “Not yet anyway.”
“I have three kids,” Janelle said. “Two of them are already in college. Quinn’s the only one still at home. She was a late baby,” she added, turning her attention back to gluing a row of feathers to her mask.
“She and Shay Green are friends, right?”
Janelle shot me a questioning look. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Samantha Green is a library assistant at the Taylorsford Public Library, where I’m the director, so I know both Shay and her mom.” I picked up a feather and twirled it between my fingers. “Samantha mentioned Quinn being part of the corps when I was at the theater the other day.”
“I see.” Janelle bit her lip as she drew a fine bead of glue across her mask.
“Are the girls here?” I asked, looking around the room. A few of the younger dancers were working with Samantha at the other table, but I didn’t see Shay or Quinn.
“Yes, but they went outside to play in the garden. They were helping earlier, but”—Janelle swept a straggling lock of hair out of her eyes with the back of one hand—“Quinn got a little overexcited, and I thought it best for them to burn off their excess energy outside.”
“Makes sense.” I side-eyed Janelle, observing her down-turned lips. She obviously didn’t want to discuss Quin’s autism, which I totally understood. I was a stranger, after all. “And Zelda does have the most magical garden.”
That lessened the tension tightening Janelle’s face. “Apparently. Quinn even ran back inside for a second just to tell me she thought it was like Narnia. Then she dashed back out again and I haven’t seen her since.” Janelle cast me a quick look. “Of course, she’s with Shay, so I’m not worried about her being out there by herself.”
“I doubt there’s anything dangerous in the garden. No White Witch for sure,” I added, with a smile.
“Quinn loves those books,” Janelle said. “I don’t know how many times she’s read them. She’s an excellent reader,” she added, meeting my gaze with a look that dared me to challenge this statement.
So she does suspect I’ve heard about Quinn being on the autism spectrum, I thought. I guess she encounters a lot of people who think that means her daughter is intellectually as well as socially challenged. “She should come to some of our library programs, then. We have a monthly book club for our young adult readers. Shay’s involved, so Quinn would know someone in the group.”
Janelle stared into my eyes, as if looking for some sign that I was pranking her. Apparently convinced of my sincerity, she finally offered me a warm smile. “Thanks, I didn’t know about that program. Quinn would probably enjoy talking about books. Maybe too much, sometimes.”
“I don’t think anyone can talk too much about books they love,” I said, dropping the feather I was holding onto the table. “We aren’t hosting sessions over the summer, but during the school year we meet every third Thursday at four o’clock. After school but before dinner.”
Janelle sighed. “That’s good timing. The only thing is, sometimes Quinn doesn’t do so well in groups.”
“I bet she’d be okay, especially with Shay there. And trust me, it’s not like everyone in the club is perfectly well behaved. Anyway, she seems to be doing fine as part of the Folklore Suite ensemble.”
“Some people didn’t think so,” Janelle said, her eyes darkening as suddenly as a summer storm. “Sorry, I know it’s terrible that Meredith Fox was killed, but honestly … Well, let’s just say maybe she had it coming.”
“She wasn’t the easiest person, that’s for sure.” I fought to keep my tone pleasant, not wanting to display my shock over Janelle’s cavalier dismissal of Meredith’s death. Like she’s truly happy the woman is dead, I thought, forcing myself to maintain a neutral expression.
“She insulted my daughter. More than once.” If looks could kill, Janelle’s expression would’ve wielded the same damage as the knife that had stabbed Meredith. “We even had words about it.”
“I guess that meant the detectives had to check you out? I’m sure that was a pain,” I said.
“They definitely grilled me, even though that Vogler boy was found standing over the body, so you’d think that would be that.” Janelle pushed her completed mask to the side and turned to face me. There was a defiant gleam in her eyes that made me take a tiny step back. “Thankfully, I’d left the theater long before that harpy was murdered. Plenty of people could vouch for that, so the detectives finally left me alone.”
“That’s right, the rehearsals for the younger dancers were over long before the dinner break,” I said, speaking to myself as well as Janelle.
“Yes, I had to get Quinn home. She gets very upset if her meal times are changed.” Janelle shrugged. “It can be a challenge, especially dealing with rehearsals, but I try to keep to her schedule as much as possible.”
“Anyway, it’s good you have a solid alibi,” I said, mentally striking Janelle off my personal suspect list.
“Yes, thank goodness.” Janelle spun around as a girl’s voice called out “Mama!”
A slight preteen with dark hair pulled back into a tight bun bounded across the room, stopping right in front of Janelle. Quinn, I assumed.
“Can we go home now?” she asked in a plaintive tone. “I want to go home. It’s almost dinnertime.”
Janelle cast me a “see-what-I-mean?” look. “All right. I think I’ve done enough for today.” She placed her hands on Quinn’s shoulders and spun the girl around. “Let’s go, my little rat.”
The blonde woman working near Sunny turned her head sharply at hearing this, but since I’d learned that young dancers in the French ballet world were often called les petit rats, I simply smiled. It was clear that Janelle deeply loved her daughter. Perhaps enough to kill for her. But she has an alibi, I reminded myself as I wandered back to where Sunny was stacking up the masks she’d made.
Sunny stared at my empty hands. “You don’t have one to contribute?”
“Not yet. But I promise to make a few before I go home,” I said as I watched Janelle and Quinn leave the room. “I did accomplish something, though.”
“By questioning one of your suspects, you mean?” Sunny shook her head. “You’re incorrigible, Amy.”
“As if you wouldn’t do the same thing if you thought it would help an innocent person,” I said.
“You mean Conner Vogler? But you don’t know that he’s innocent. Not for sure.”
“It’s true.” I exhaled a gusty sigh. “And from what I just learned, Janelle is off the list of suspects, which doesn’t help his cause at all.”
As Samantha and her daughter strolled across the room, I heard Shay mention something about Quinn. Something about her friend being worried. “What’s that?” I asked the girl when they reached Sunny and me. “Why was Quinn upset? I hope no one was being rude to her.”
“Nothing like that.” Shay, who was only an inch or two shorter than me, met my inquisitive gaze with a tilt of her chin. “It’s just that she doesn’t understand why her mom is lying about something.”
“What do you mean?” Sunny looked from Samantha to me before focusing on Shay. “What would her mom lie about?”
“Maybe Quinn is just confused,” Samantha said, laying a hand on Shay’s shoulder.
The girl shook her head. “Nope. She says her mom didn’t tell the police the truth.” Shay looked up at her mother, her dark eyebrows drawn together. “Well, it wasn’t the police, but you know what I mean. The day after Miss Fox was killed, Quinn overhead Mrs. DeFranzo tell the deputies that she drove Quinn home and stayed there the rest of the evening.”
“But she didn’t?” My hands clenched until my fingernails bit into my palms.
“Nuh-uh. Quinn says her mom went out somewhere right after she dropped her off at their house. Didn’t say where she was going either. So now Quinn’s really confused because she doesn’t know why her mom would tell the deputies a lie like that.” Shay squared her broad shoulders. “Quinn hates lies. They make her more upset than anything.”
“Rightly so,” Samantha said. “But I don’t think Quinn, or you, should worry about this. I’m sure she just heard things wrong.” Her fingers tightened on her daughter’s shoulder. “Come on now—let’s go. I need to get dinner started for the two of us.”
As Samantha and Shay walked off, stopping to say goodbye to Zelda, I turned to Sunny.
“I know, I know,” she said, lifting her hands. “Back on the list.”