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The funeral for Tina LeMann would be held in the chapel at McKinsey and Sons Funeral Home. I planned to go out of respect for Tina, whom I had considered a friend, but I also wanted to be there to support Carleen. She was clearly still shaken by the murder, and I couldn’t blame her. It was always sad to lose a friend or family member, but it was absolutely unnerving when that loss was the result of murder, especially one that remained unsolved.
I woke early and read the morning’s newspaper while drinking a large mug of hazelnut-flavored coffee. On the front page, a below-the-fold story told about the reward fund Carleen had sponsored: Local Shop Owner Pledges $1,000 for Info Leading to Arrest of Killer. The story recapped what had happened on Friday and gave a police department tip line number for readers to call if they had any information that might help lead investigators to Tina’s killer.
Miriam was content to play at my feet, and I let her paw at the fuzzy bedroom slippers I was wearing. A little fun never hurt anyone. Then I typed a quick text to Jen: Nice article on the reward fund today. Thanks for getting that in!
After a light breakfast of fat-free Greek yogurt with some granola sprinkled on top, I showered and dressed for the funeral. It was another beautiful spring day outside, yet I felt a sense of gloom. I dreaded going to the funeral, but then I supposed no one ever liked going to a funeral. I chose a simple outfit consisting of a classic black-and-white geometric print blouse paired with black slacks and black pumps. I debated whether a long strand of vintage jet beads might be too much but finally decided to wear them. Funeral or no funeral, my outfit needed a little pizzazz.
Shortly before time to go, I opened a can of Miriam’s favorite cat food, the shrimp flavor. When she finished eating and wandered into the living room, I gave her sleek coat a quick finger brushing. I was about to head out the door when I remembered I’d never shown that possible Miriam Haskell brooch to Carleen for her appraisal. I retrieved the piece from the small antique oak cabinet in the living room, where I stashed my “For Sale” jewelry, and tucked it into my purse just in case the topic came up later that afternoon.
Since Carleen and I had decided to meet at the Silver Squirrel before the service and walk over to the funeral home together, I knew we would arrive in plenty of time. The funeral home was located only a couple of blocks off Main Street.
I drove downtown and found it unusually busy for a Monday morning. Cars filled all the spaces in front of the stores, so I pulled around back to see if any parking was available there. A few spaces behind Carleen’s shop remained empty, so I pulled in and parked. As I walked past the corner of the building and headed around front to the Silver Squirrel—the idea of entering through the back spooked me—a sparkle on the ground near the shop’s back door caught my eye.
I paused to be sure I wasn’t simply seeing a reflection off a piece of broken glass. A glint was definitely coming off something on the ground. I walked over then reached down and picked up what appeared to be a grimy, mud-covered stone. Probably just a shard of broken green glass. I rubbed the surface of it, and even more of a bright-green color shone through. Its oval shape convinced me I wasn’t looking at glass. A vintage rhinestone, maybe? I’d rarely seen a green one that large. Maybe someone had stopped by to sell some jewelry to Carleen and dropped it along the way.
I reached into my purse for a tissue and wrapped the stone, knowing that Carleen would likely tell me that I’d found a lovely piece of green glass and nothing more. Determined to avoid the stark reminder of my visit to the shop’s back door on Friday, I entered through the front door, and its electronic chime signaled my arrival.
“Emma, I’m glad you’re here,” Carleen said as I walked in. She had a plastic container of glass-cleaner wipes in one hand and was using the other to swish one of the cleaning cloths across the top of a glass counter. “Tina used to take care of this for me each Monday, along with a hundred other little things I never thought about until she was no longer here to do them. I knew I was going to miss her as a friend, but I’m starting to realize how much I’m going to miss her as a coworker too.” She sighed. “If you know of anyone dependable who’s looking for a job, will you let me know?”
I assured her I would. “It’s not going to be the same around here. That’s for sure.” Then I reached into my purse. “And here. I brought you a present.”
Carleen looked puzzled as I handed over the tissue bearing the dingy stone. She opened the tissue and examined the object inside. “Where did you find it?”
“Almost at your back door. I thought maybe a customer dropped it or something.”
“It seems awfully heavy for an old rhinestone, but I’ll give it a look later if that’s okay.”
I shrugged. “Sure. And feel free to toss it if you find out it’s trash. I just wanted to be sure it wasn’t something important that fell out of a piece of old jewelry that was on its way here.”
“I doubt that’s the case,” Carleen said. “But I’m glad you’re here early so we can head over to the funeral home. And to be honest with you, I’m a little nervous about going to this funeral.”
“Nervous? Why?”
“They always say that a killer returns to the scene of the crime, and that person sometimes goes to the funeral. What if the killer’s there today? It jangles my nerves to think we might be sitting in a funeral service with a murderer.”
I saw no need to tell her that the same thought had crossed my mind. “Even if the killer is there, which I seriously doubt, he—or she—probably won’t be killing too many of the attendees. Too many witnesses, you know.”
“You’re right. I’m sure I’m just being ridiculous.” Carleen flicked a piece of lint off her navy linen blazer with a small cameo on one lapel. “It’s just so hard to act like everything is normal when I have a murdered friend and there’s still no clue about who might have killed her. Or at least I’m assuming there’s not since you haven’t shared any news with me.”
“No, but I hope you saw that the Daily Trib has the article about the reward fund in today’s paper. That’s bound to help.” I perked up when I realized I did have one new piece of information I could share with Carleen. “Now I can’t promise you that this means anything, but I learned from a vendor at Making Memories yesterday that Tina’s sister, Teri, has moved to town. She’s opening a new antique mall out on the bypass. Did she ever mention her sister to you?”
Carleen tilted her head. “A few times. Her sister had gotten in financial trouble some years back as I recall. She was trying to get some money from her mother to pay off a business loan. The brother had plenty of money, I gathered, but he was too busy grabbing the brass ring and made it clear he didn’t have any interest in bailing Teri out. Tina gave what funds she could afford at the time, but I got the impression that she lost touch with Teri after that. I never sensed any ill will, though. Just one of those sad cases of a family member making poor decisions then drifting away from everyone back home.”
“It doesn’t sound as if she would have had anything to do with Tina’s death, then. I suppose she could have hoped to knock Tina off and inherit her sister’s estate in order to help launch the new antiques business, but...”
Carleen visibly cringed at my poor choice of words. For the millionth time, I wished I could superglue my lips shut.
“Yes, that would seem a bit far-fetched for someone who hasn’t even known what Tina was up to for the past few years,” Carleen said.
I shrugged. My friend was right, and I hated that my big lead wasn’t actually leading us anywhere.
“Have you had any more visits or calls from the police?” I asked. “Maybe there’s something going on behind the scenes that we don’t know about.”
Carleen shook her head. “I’ve thought of that, but I can’t bring myself to call up and check on their investigation. Besides, if I appear too interested, that might make me look like a suspect.”
I couldn’t imagine Carleen as a killer. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about there.”
She glanced at her sleek gold watch for the second time in as many minutes, so I knew we’d stalled long enough.
“Why don’t we go ahead and walk over to McKinsey and Sons?” I tipped my head toward the door. “We’ll be there a little early, but it could be interesting to arrive in time to see who attends.”
“And who doesn’t,” Carleen said, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“What do you mean?”
“What if her family doesn’t come?” Carleen looked worried. “That would be incredibly sad. And I’ve got to tell you, I’m not going to be very happy if there’s not a good turnout of our fellow merchants at the funeral today. Tina was always a supportive member of the downtown business community, and she deserves a proper show of respect.”
I could only hope she would get one.
***
AFTER A BRISK WALK up a few blocks, we arrived at McKinsey and Sons Funeral Home. The elegant white-columned antebellum home had been in the McKinsey family for years before it began to serve as the town’s only funeral home back in the late sixties. Ward McKinsey and his four sons were well respected in Roseland for offering tasteful, distinguished funerals that ministered to the families and honored the deceased.
Carleen and I approached the entrance to the funeral home, and a petite elderly woman with a walker was being helped up the ramp and past the double doors that opened to an expansive foyer. She wore a simple black skirt and a pink sweater set that looked a size too large. At her elbow was another petite woman, who had hair in an impossible-to-ignore shade of orangey red. She appeared to be in her early thirties. The younger woman wore a bright fuchsia blouse and a colorful skirt, unusual choices for a funeral. Like a lot of Southern women, I’d been raised to believe that black and navy were the only acceptable colors for such an occasion.
As I studied the sartorial choices of the two women who had just entered the funeral home, Carleen lightly touched the sleeve of my blouse. “Do you think that’s—”
“Yes, I do,” I stage whispered. “That’s got to be Tina’s mother and sister, and I want to watch their body language. Maybe we can get a sense of how she and her mother interact. And holler if you see someone who looks like he might be the brother.”
“Emma, please!” Carleen hissed. “We shouldn’t be investigating while we’re at a funeral.”
“Don’t ‘Emma, please’ me. This is a prime snooping opportunity, and there’s no sense in letting it go to waste.”
Before I could follow the women, one of the McKinsey sons—I could never tell them apart—gently tapped me on the arm and pointed at the lectern holding the guest register. “Ladies, the book is this way.”
I’d been in that funeral home enough times to know where the guest book was located, but I simply smiled and pretended that I didn’t understand him as I continued to walk toward the chapel. Unfortunately, two more of the interchangeable McKinsey sons were standing at the doors and gently led away the two women I’d planned to follow in.
Near the vestibule was a short line of visitors waiting to sign the guest book. Since there had been no viewing as there usually was at Roseland funerals, I definitely wanted to sign the book. It was important that the family see that Tina’s friends had shown up to pay our respects. And if I was being honest, I also wanted to see who else had already signed the book.
“Help me out here,” I whispered to Carleen. “I’m going to scan all the names in the guest book real quick. Strike up a conversation with anyone who comes in behind you and cover for me for a few minutes, okay?”
Before she had time to protest, I grabbed the pen and pretended to sign the guest book.
I heard Carleen say, “Well, hello there,” so I knew I had a few minutes. I plopped my huge purse on the lectern holding the book to shield it from anyone who might wonder what was taking me so long.
The guest book was standard funeral home fare, cream-colored leatherette with a pearlescent long-stemmed pink rose on the cover. Three full pages were filled with names already, so we hadn’t arrived that early after all.
As I scanned the list, I saw that the only two LeManns listed were Harold and Grace LeMann, obviously a married couple. I imagined they were Tina’s aunt and uncle since the names Harold and Grace didn’t sound young enough to be cousins. Other close family members could have failed to sign the book, so I didn’t know how many other LeManns might be inside, waiting on the service to begin.
Tina’s obituary had mentioned no graveside service, only the funeral at McKinsey and Sons. Like so many others these days, Tina was probably being cremated. I, on the other hand, fully intended to be pushing up daisies when my time rolled around.
Carleen loudly cleared her throat, and I knew my snooping time was up. I turned to her with what I hoped was my most apologetic look. “I’m sorry that took so long. Their pen ran out of ink, and I’ve been looking for one here in this bottomless purse.”
I rooted around in my black tote that doubled as a purse and finally came up with a fluorescent-orange pen from the gas company. It wasn’t the most dignified color choice for a funeral home pen, but it would have to do. I turned back to the lectern bearing the book, quickly added my John Hancock, then stepped aside while Carleen signed.
We finally entered the beautiful, quaint chapel. After walking past doors of gleaming polished oak, we headed up the aisle between two rows of padded pews. The vintage wooden benches had been refurbished over the years, most recently updated with simple teal-cushioned seats. Carleen was heading farther up the aisle when I gently tugged the hem of her blazer.
“We’ll have a better view of everyone if we stay closer to the back,” I whispered.
She widened her eyes, clearly understanding my meaning. We slipped into seats three rows from the back on the right side, far enough in to see almost everyone who entered.
As we were seated, the McKinsey sons handed each of us a small funeral service program bearing Tina’s photo and the dates of her birth and death. The picture looked about a decade old—the young Tina sported a Jennifer Aniston hairstyle—and I wondered who had provided it. Most likely, it was her mother or sister.
After settling in our seats and tucking our purses beneath the pew ahead, Carleen and I began reading.
“I never knew that Tina was born here in Roseland,” I whispered. “For some reason, I assumed she was a transplant like me.”
Carleen nodded. “She dearly loved this town, and she actually knew a lot about Ross County history. I can’t believe that never came up in any of your conversations with her.”
The organist played a selection of traditional hymns. The soft melodies were soothing. I quieted my mind and reflected on the all-too-brief life of the woman who had been my friend.
I was relieved to see so many others at the funeral. Quite a few of the downtown merchants filled the pews. Mavis was there from the bakery and café, seated beside Michele from the Feathered Nest. Perhaps I could catch a few minutes with Michele after the service to ask her about the comment she’d made at church the previous day regarding Tina’s “enemies.”
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Harriet Harris. She and Hubert had slipped in behind Carleen and me. That detective who had been so testy on Friday, Alan Shelton, sat alone on the pew behind the Harrises. Funeral duty was probably a part of his job.
At eleven o’clock sharp, the minister asked us all to stand, and the elderly woman I had seen earlier shuffled up the aisle and took her place on the front pew. The flaming-haired woman in the colorful outfit was at her side every step of the way. About a dozen others took their seats in the family pews up front, but I didn’t see anyone who looked as if he might be Tina’s brother.
The program identified the minister as Reverend Joshua Smith of the First Methodist Church in the neighboring town of Hudson. A short, bald man with a gray beard, he was older than I had expected. Just as the minister took to the podium, a tall man with sandy-blond hair, whom I immediately recognized from my internet research as Tony LeMann, dashed down the center aisle and made a great show of claiming a seat on the other side of his mother.
“I’m so pleased her brother could make it,” Carleen whispered with a look of disapproval.
The minister seemed unperturbed by the tardy mourner and smiled as if he had all the time in the world to conduct the service. “Dearly beloved,” he said, “we are gathered here today to celebrate and remember the life of our wonderful friend and family member, Tina Renee LeMann.” He paused and looked out on the family, smiling kindly toward them all. “To her mother, Mrs. Etta, her brother, Tony, and sister, Teri, we extend our deepest sympathies and our prayers for your peace and comfort in the days ahead.”
The pastor explained that he was a longtime friend of the LeMann family, and he lightened the mood by sharing some humorous memories of Tina. He recalled the time five-year-old Tina had tried to rescue a kitten that had gotten stuck in a tree. The fire department had to come rescue both of them, then that same kitten got stuck up in another tree a few houses down and had to be rescued again. Tina had cried and cried until the kitten was safe once more. Tina had been a huge animal lover, so that was no surprise.
Reverend Smith went on to say that Tina had also been a gifted singer and had sung solos in the youth choir as a young girl.
“I didn’t know Tina sang,” I whispered to Carleen.
“Me neither,” she said.
I was beginning to wonder what else we didn’t know about Tina.
The minister did an admirable job of reaching out to Tina’s family members with his sweet stories and generous words. He mentioned several of the family by name, including the two he identified as her favorite uncle and aunt, Harold and Grace. He encouraged the family members to reach out to each other in the days ahead and to cherish their many happy memories of Tina. He reminded the rest of us in the congregation of something I’d already read in the obit. If we wanted to honor Tina’s memory, he said the family was requesting memorial donations to the local humane society. Pre-addressed envelopes were prepared and waiting at the exits.
Discreetly peeking around during the prayers, I was not surprised to spot a number of local antiques lovers. Some, I knew, were regulars at the shop and had probably gotten to know Tina there. Next to the Harrises sat a couple of people I recognized from the library, possibly fellow board members. Unsurprisingly, Gus was not among them.
Quite a few people I didn’t know were sitting near the family section, including one woman who had passed a tissue to Tina’s mother. They were likely friends of the family. Whatever everyone’s reason for being there, I was grateful to see the show of support.
The service was nearing an end, and the only thing the minister left unsaid was the fact that Tina’s killer was still on the loose. I didn’t hold that against him, though, since a funeral wasn’t necessarily the best place to discuss that sort of thing.
Soon, Reverend Smith prayed the benediction, and the family filed out. Tina’s mother made her way down the aisle on her walker, carefully assisted by her only surviving daughter. The two seemed very comfortable with each other. Tony, who appeared out of sorts and out of place, put his hand on his mother’s back, but the gesture looked contrived. I immediately felt guilty for even thinking that. After all, late or not, he’d shown up to pay his final respects to the sister he’d just lost in a horrible manner.
Detective Shelton, who was wearing a somber-looking black suit and gray tie, remained standing at the back of the chapel as the rest of us exited after the service. I wondered if he was there as a courtesy or if there was someone in the room he was checking out. Whatever the case, I sure hoped that would be the last Roseland funeral I attended for a while.
As we all left the chapel, I tapped Michele on the shoulder.
“Oh, hi, Emma. Sweet service, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. “The minister did a great job, and I hope it comforted the family. Listen, I wanted to ask you about something you said at church yesterday. You mentioned that Tina had a few enemies, and I was wondering—”
“You know that I run my mouth too much,” Michele said sheepishly. “I probably should have kept that to myself.”
I smiled. She did love to talk, but she wasn’t malicious.
Michele lowered her voice. “I was thinking about the fact that Gus Townsend and Tina got into it on the library board last year. Everybody in town was talking about it. Gus said it was important to her career that her work be included in that Faces of Roseland exhibit, and Tina almost prevented that from happening. And then there were those rumors about her and Hubert Harris, of course.”
Huh? “What rumors?”
“He was spending an awful lot of time over there, helping Tina get her house ready to sell. Several of the neighbors were talking about it, and Harriet stormed over there one night when Hubert and Tina were outside, discussing the landscaping. According to one of my customers, who overheard the conversation, Harriet basically told Tina she needed to tend to the house herself and let Hubert get home.”
I gave her a skeptical look. “Tina and Hubert? That’s kind of hard to imagine.”
Michele waved a hand. “I know, I know. Didn’t say I believed all that, just that those were the rumors. Well, I need to get on back to the shop. Got a lot of new spring inventory to put out. And don’t forget to bring me more jewelry when you get a chance.”
After promising her that I would drop off some new jewelry soon, I said goodbye and caught up with Carleen, who had been speaking with the Harrises.
“Now that was interesting,” Carleen said as soon as I got to her side.
“What was?”
“Harriet was asking whether I knew anything about who would get to sell the antiques Tina left behind, assuming her family doesn’t want all of them.”
“That’s an awfully big assumption.” I glanced at the Harrises, who were getting into a shimmering new white Lexus, not the faded ten-year-old Jeep Grand Cherokee that Harriet drove to garage sales. “And sheesh, what took them so long to ask?”
Carleen grinned. We decided to stop by the Cupcake Café for a soup-and-sandwich lunch. After we quickly ate and discussed the funeral, I mentioned that I still wanted Carleen to examine the possible Haskell brooch I’d found. She said that if I could spare five more minutes, she would be happy to take a look. So we walked to her shop, and I pulled out the brooch and asked for my friend’s expert opinion.
“Oh my, this is gorgeous.” Carleen’s eyes widened. “My gut instinct tells me it’s Haskell, but let me look at it in more detail.” She pulled out her huge magnifying glass with the mother-of-pearl handle. “Hmm.”
“Is that ‘Hmm’ as in good or ‘Hmm’ as in ‘Too bad it’s a fake’?” I was eager to know whether my brooch was the real deal or not.
“Give me a minute.” Carleen studied the back of the piece then gently set it down on a black velvet display board and headed in the direction of her office. “I’ll be right back.”
I heard the creaking of wooden desk drawers being opened and closed, and I wondered what Carleen was up to. Less than a minute later, she returned with a file folder.
“This”—she proudly waved the folder in front of me—“is one of the jewelry files I started keeping years ago when quality costume jewelry began showing up on eBay. When I saw fine pieces that weren’t pictured in any of my guidebooks, I printed out a copy of the eBay description and photos. Now, take a look at the printout on top.”
She handed over the folder, and I eagerly opened it. The first printout was titled “Miriam Haskell Filigree and Floral Motif Pin or Brooch.” The piece looked exactly like mine, and it had sold for $587 four years ago!
“What I remember most about that piece is the number of costume jewelry dealers I knew who were bidding on it,” Carleen said. “Back then, eBay didn’t have all the privacy settings they do these days, so it was easier to scope out your competition.” She smiled as she reminisced about the early days of the eBay craze. Carleen confided that the printout merely confirmed what she’d already known—my piece was definitely Haskell.
“Look how fine that filigree is,” she said with obvious admiration, handing over her antique magnifying glass. “See how the cutouts are nice and crisp? And notice how the gold itself has a lovely embossed look. No one but Miriam Haskell went to that much trouble. The prongs on these rhinestones are also typical of Miriam.”
“Miriam?” I asked, teasing my friend. “Were the two of you on a first-name basis?”
“I’m not quite that old, Emma. But I certainly wish I had been on a first-name basis with her. You know who she was, don’t you?”
I laughed. “All the women who lusted after her jewelry, I imagine.”
“No, silly. Coco Chanel. She and Haskell took tea together in Paris. I’ve often thought how I’d love to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation.”
“Me too.” I studied the printout. I was elated with my magnificent vintage find. “You know, Chanel was known for her yards and yards of pearls, and Haskell liked pearls too. But Haskell’s designs were much more froufrou than Chanel’s, which always have that classic look.”
“Maybe that’s why they got along,” Carleen pointed out. “Their styles didn’t compete with each other.” She handed over my brooch. “I wouldn’t normally come out and ask such a nosy question of my friends who are occasionally customers, but I’d love to know what you end up getting for this piece, if you don’t find that too intrusive.”
“Not a bit,” I said. “I’ll be listing some pieces online as soon as I get the Gallery Stroll jewelry finished. Wouldn’t it be great if this did as well on eBay as that brooch you saw all those years ago?”
After promising Carleen I would keep her posted on my selling experience with the Miriam Haskell brooch, I headed home. There, I fed Miriam Haskell’s namesake and fixed a cup of brisk black tea before settling in at the kitchen table with my big red tackle box full of jewelry supplies. Now that I was deep into creating a new design, I needed to focus my scattered thoughts. I was good at eyeballing random beads and knowing exactly where they best fit into a jewelry design, but I wasn’t so hot at examining random facts in a murder investigation and knowing where they fit. I’d carefully made all those lists over the weekend, yet even after attending Tina’s funeral, I hadn’t come up with a single new clue that would put us any closer to solving her murder.
Determined to finish more jewelry that afternoon, I reached for a silver chain with a vintage sterling silver heart on it and arranged a few beads and smaller resin heart charms on either side. I had rubber stamped the beige resin hearts with a design that mimicked vintage handwriting. By inking the script on the resin heart charms and adding them to the necklace, I had created new jewelry that looked like something discovered in an antique jewelry box.
Finally satisfied with the piece, I was ready to add the clasp and sign off on another one-of-a-kind Emma Madison Designs exclusive. With the Gallery Stroll coming up on Thursday, I was hoping that my jewelry would be one of the first pieces of art that women shopped for. With proceeds from the show—and profits from selling most of what was in that tin of junk jewelry from the garage sale—I was looking forward to boosting my savings account this month. I also planned to try some Facebook ads to help spread the word about my jewelry.
Before I could finish fantasizing about growing my jewelry business, fate intervened. I was attaching a lobster claw clasp and squeezing a sturdy jump ring into place when ping, my pink-handled jewelry pliers exploded. One half of the pair ricocheted off the kitchen cabinets, frightening Miriam Haskell, who had been picking at the remains of her breakfast.
I was at a standstill until I got some new pliers, so I grabbed my purse and car keys to make a quick run to Craft World. I mentally chastised myself for having put off replacing the old pliers. This time, I would purchase two of them and have a backup on hand.
When I was about a block away from Main Street, my eyes were immediately drawn to the ambulance parked in front of the Cupcake Café. Detective Shelton and another officer stood under the yellow-striped awning, and I wondered what on earth had happened. I quickly pulled into a parking spot in front of Carleen’s shop and went inside. No customers were in the showroom, but Carleen was hovering near the front.
“Hi there. What’s up next door?” I asked. “The police are out front, and it doesn’t look like they’re letting anyone past.”
“There was a little brouhaha at Mavis’s,” Carleen said. “Apparently, Tina’s family stopped by this afternoon shortly after you and I ate lunch there. I was getting the mail and saw a police car out front. One of Mavis’s waitresses was leaving for the day, and she told me about it. She said Tina’s brother got into a scuffle with the sister, Teri, and got arrested. Things turned ugly, and Tina’s mother, Mrs. LeMann, was highly distressed by all the drama. I’m guessing someone who witnessed the fracas must have called an ambulance for Mrs. LeMann. Maybe you could go see if there’s anything else we can learn about it.”
I loved how she wondered whether “we” could learn anything else, but I wasn’t about to miss out on that opportunity to nose around. “I’ll go see if Mavis will spill the beans. Be back in a jiff.”
Much to my chagrin, Detective Alan Shelton was now sitting at one of the black wrought-iron tables out front. He appeared to be idly drinking his bottled Coke and eating a large deli sandwich. He tipped his head as I walked by. It annoyed me that he might think I was there just to be nosy, particularly because I was there just to be nosy.
After entering the shop, I got in line behind a woman and a teenage girl trying to decide which cupcakes they wanted. It soon became clear that their visit was some leisurely mother-daughter outing, and they couldn’t quite agree on their cupcake selections. The mother wanted only fudge truffle. The daughter insisted her father and brother would prefer bananas Foster. Shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, Mavis appeared to be uncharacteristically anxious, as though she wanted the customers to get on with their order.
The pair soon came to a decision. Two fudge truffle cupcakes and two bananas Foster cupcakes later, the two were good to go. Mavis pulled out a yellow striped box, filled it with the cupcakes, and tied it securely closed with baker’s twine. The mother handed over a twenty and received her change. They left, and the only other customer in the shop appeared to be a college student, who was seated at one of the smaller tables near the front. With earbuds in, he was focused on his laptop and didn’t seem to be paying us any attention.
“Looks like you saved all the fun for after I left here today,” I told my frazzled friend.
“You’re more than welcome to my share of the fun,” Mavis said. “I just want to bake cupcakes and serve sandwiches, not have to referee a family fight.”
I pointed at a tray of lemon curd cupcakes. “As long as I’m here, I’d like two of those to go, please. Now what I want to know is, what makes a man confront his sister right after he’s left his other sister’s funeral? And why did he get there so late?”
Mavis shrugged as she slid open the glass door of the pastry case and reached inside for my cupcakes. “All I can tell you is, I heard them having a heated discussion about their mother’s silver.” Mavis plopped a two-compartment cupcake box on the counter. “The sister said something to him about how if he’d kept his share of their family’s silver, they wouldn’t have had trouble paying for Tina’s funeral. That’s when he grabbed her by the arm, knocking one of those plastic vases off my table in the process.”
“Was she hurt?” I asked.
“No. She just appeared to be highly aggravated. I got the impression she’s one of those women who doesn’t enjoy a lot of drama. When I asked if I needed to call the police, she said no and assured me she was fine. I was happy to let them sort it all out for themselves. But just their luck, Alan and another officer heard about the dustup as they were coming in for lunch, so they took Tony outside and had a little talk with him.”
Alan, I noted with interest. I wasn’t surprised that Mavis knew him.
“I heard Tony was arrested—”
“No, there was no arrest. But Alan did tell Tony to skedaddle and said he didn’t want to hear anything else out of him.”
“What about the ambulance for Tina’s mother?”
Mavis looked confused. “There wasn’t any ambulance for Tina’s mother. Mrs. LeMann was embarrassed by all the hoopla, but she was fine. Oh, but wait. Two EMTs who are some of my regulars stopped by for lunch and parked here like they always do. Maybe somebody thought it was related to the LeMann family feud.”
“So why is Detective Shelton sitting out front now?”
“Just as a precaution.” Mavis came out from behind the counter and began wiping down the tables before the influx of afternoon customers. “He came back here to make sure there wasn’t any more trouble. It’s been quiet so far, and I’m sure glad of it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Now if Tina’s brother has that much of a temper...”
“You don’t think he might have killed her, do you?” Mavis asked.
“I don’t know. That outburst doesn’t mean he’s a murderer, but it does tell us he’s got an anger problem. And if you take a bad temper and factor in some bad blood over the family finances, that could sure lead to murder. Especially since they were arguing over some valuable family silver. And it’s clear the three siblings didn’t exactly get along.”
A whoosh of air signaled the door was opening. Mavis and I both turned and saw Detective Shelton entering.
“Things seem to have settled down here, Mrs. Eastwood, so I’m going to head back to the station,” he said. “Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”
Mavis smiled at him. “Will do, Alan. And thank you.”
I paid for my cupcakes and left Mavis alone to get on with tidying up her shop.
After stopping by Carleen’s to deliver the promised update, I drove to Craft World with several new questions on my mind. Could Tina’s brother have killed her? And while he didn’t have the courtesy to show up for his sister’s funeral on time, he did show up in plenty of time to make a scene afterward. That was also curious.
But before I could devote any more time to playing Nancy Drew, I had to get some jewelry completed if I had a prayer of having a successful show at the Gallery Stroll on Thursday. I parked in front of the arts and crafts supply store and vowed that I was going in for pliers and nothing else. As I pulled into a space in the busy parking lot, I glanced longingly at the Making Memories Antique Mall. New items arrived there daily, but I couldn’t shop there every day. I firmly told myself no, headed into the crafts store, and was soon breezing out the door with two new pairs of pliers in my bag. I made a mental note to inventory all of my supplies and see if any more of them needed replacing.
Soon, I was home and at my kitchen workstation again, giving that lobster claw clasp another shot. Within minutes, the sterling heart necklace was complete. I had a hunch that some woman at the Gallery Stroll was going to adore it.
“There.” I held up the necklace, swirled it under the bright bulbs of the kitschy red-and-chrome light, and listened to the gentle tinkle of all those heart charms. Miriam Haskell breezed by on her way to her water bowl, so I sought feedback. “What do you think, Miriam? Pretty impressive, huh? Mark my words, this is a necklace that folks will be talking about at the Gallery Stroll.”
I still have so much more jewelry that I want to finish before Thursday evening, and I have to stay current on packaging and shipping my online sales too. I was starting to feel anxious about how quickly the Gallery Stroll was coming up, and not just because I was afraid I wouldn’t have enough jewelry to show. I didn’t know what I was going to wear. I’d hoped to visit one of the downtown boutiques in search of a new outfit, but I was behind on my work and simply didn’t have time to shop for new clothes. As I mentally flipped through my closet, my cell phone rang. It was Jen.
“Hey there. What’s up?” If Jen called during the day, it was usually for something short and sweet. Our chatty calls waited until late evening when she was alone in her office, or even later when she was off the clock.
Jen got right to the point. “What was it you said about Alan Shelton’s behavior at your friend’s store the other day?”
“Just that he was so rude about me keeping out of the way when it was clear I was there to be with Carleen. Why?”
“One of the news reporters just had a little dustup with him. Said Alan was rather gruff and kept saying he didn’t need any more reporters trying to solve his case for him. Does he know that you used to be a reporter?”
“I don’t know why he would.” I propped my phone against my neck as I used both hands to return jewelry supplies to the tackle box. “What was his problem this time?”
“Not sure yet. Something about an incident report he hasn’t had time to write up since he’s so busy working other cases.”
I humphed. “I dearly hope he’s looking into Tina’s murder.” I placed the tackle box back on the kitchen shelf. “He was at her funeral this morning, and unless he was a friend of hers and I didn’t know it, I’m guessing he was there for some reason pertaining to the investigation.”
“Surely he was,” Jen said. “Listen, gotta go. Talk to you later.”
After a busy afternoon and evening of jewelry making, I looked at the to-do list on my phone and thought about the rest of the week ahead. I wished I had taken time to ask Jen what I should wear to the Gallery Stroll. Jen was a clotheshorse, and she always had an opinion about what I should wear.
I walked into my bedroom. An antique oak wardrobe held the clothes that didn’t fit into the room’s lone small closet, its tiny space typical in older houses like mine. The wardrobe held my dressier clothes, so I looked through the shifts and skirts and hoped for a fashion miracle.
After rummaging around inside the wardrobe, I caught a glimpse of turquoise near the back. I’d completely forgotten about that vintage black, turquoise, and white Pucci shift I’d bought the year before. I wasn’t serious about collecting vintage fashion—not as serious as I was about collecting costume jewelry, anyway—but I knew enough about the classic designers to know a Pucci when I saw one.
The shift had been a flea market find last summer. The seller had been touting her old English chintzware—cups, saucers, bowls, and plates galore. Each overpriced piece was marked with the name of the maker, the pattern, the age of the piece, the price, and the word “Firm.” Yet the vintage Pucci was just twenty-five dollars, a fraction of its value. The woman had haughtily turned down anyone who’d asked for a discount on her old dishes, yet she’d sold me the Pucci for next to nothing.
Thinking about that cheap flea market vendor and her overpriced wares reminded me of my earlier conversation with someone else who was known as a cheapskate, Harriet Harris. She’d said Tina’s belongings were all boxed up and waiting to go to her family. If Harriet was responsible for disposing of Tina’s belongings, that meant Harriet would be first to know where those items ended up.
Maybe there was something among Tina’s possessions that could provide a clue about who might have wanted to kill her.
As I hung the Pucci on a hook on the back of my bedroom door and got ready for bed, I plotted how I might get a peek at Tina’s things. I didn’t want Harriet to know I was curious about them, yet I had to find a way to stay in the loop about anything involving Tina and her family.
Because whatever Tina had left behind, there was a distinct possibility that it might have gotten her killed.