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FAYE DROPPED DALE OFF at home around one. She didn’t intend to stay, and he mentioned possible flurries by three o’clock twice, so I didn’t bring up the proposal we’d received and Retta’s rash acceptance. I was still trying to deal with my anger, which was, quite honestly, at odds with a sense that Retta had probably been right. We had to take Frannie Habedank’s case. The sooner Steven Deline’s killer was captured, the sooner my reputation would be safe.
Faye’s plan for the afternoon was picking up dog food donations and taking them to the shelter. As she dug in the hall closet for a clean coat to replace the muddy, wet, dog-hair-laden one she’d left on the porch she explained, “Dale needed a break. The confusion of handling all those unruly dogs wore him out.”
“Did Buddy behave himself?”
She made a grimace of irritation. “Bud was very rude, so he spent the morning in the car.” She glanced at her mutt, all innocence now that he was back on his own turf. “He’s staying home too.”
“Faye, if you want to take one of those dogs, you should.” I felt I had to offer, though my personal feeling was that Buddy was enough dog for one household. Brat, the stray cat who’d adopted me, would be horrified, especially if the new dog didn’t figure out, as Buddy had after a single encounter, he should stay downstairs and out of her territory.
“It’s tempting.” Faye buttoned her serviceable pea coat. “But I doubt Bud would ever learn to share me.” Taking up her purse, she turned toward the door. “I’ll be back in time to make supper.”
Alone in the office again, I spent some time setting up a file for our newest case, not even sure what I should call it. Grammar Nazi Search? That was ridiculous, but what else could we call it? Trying to justify it in writing just made me angry at Retta all over again.
When I tiptoed down the hallway twenty minutes later, Dale was dozing in his recliner, the TV tuned to an old western with lots of guns blazing. Buddy was curled up in Faye’s chair, head resting on his paws. I refilled my coffee cup then returned to the office, where I saw a text from Retta. Call when F isnt arnd.
Deciding she could wait a while as punishment for breaking office protocol, I called Mindy Wills instead. She wasn’t the Grammar Nazi, but why was she sneaking out at night? I had an excuse for the contact: the agency Mindy and Gabe were setting up to help elderly or disabled locals maintain their homes. After we discussed that, I might find a way to ask about her night-time activities.
“Mindy, it’s Barb Evans.”
“What’s up?”
“Glen Sanders at the car dealership agreed to provide a pickup for Senior Services to use as needed. He’ll fill the gas tank twice a week.”
“That’s great,” Mindy replied. “I’ve got teenagers willing to take down screens and put in storm windows, but they don’t all have cars.”
“You can call Sanders to work out the details.” I gave her his direct number. “He did say they’ll need an adult to supervise.”
“Mr. Burner already volunteered, and my mom said she’ll help too. Ms. Evans, you’ve helped us overcome so many obstacles with this.”
I chuckled. “I’ve had years of practice overcoming obstacles.” After a pause I said, “I have a personal question, Mindy, and if you don’t want to answer, just say so.”
“I guess I’d have to hear the question.”
“Someone reported you might be the Grammar Nazi. Since the firm has been hired to find that person, I thought I’d ask you outright.”
Another pause, and then a noise I couldn’t identify at first. When I realized it was a giggle, I relaxed. Mindy wasn’t offended by my nosiness. In fact, she seemed amused.
“Is Gabe your source for this information?”
“Um—”
“Never mind. Here’s what happened. I hired the Mason brothers to redo the bedroom in the house we bought on Sweet Springs. It’s a surprise Christmas gift for Gabe, but I needed to give them access and so far we only have one set of keys. Three weeks ago I left in the night, went out there, and unlocked the back door. When Mr. Mason called last weekend to say they were done, I went out to have a look and to lock the place up again.”
“That’s a great idea. Gabe will love it.”
“They did a great job. You’ll have to come out and see it once we move in.”
“I will, and I’ll try to save your reputation with Gabe without revealing the secret.”
Her voice took on a confiding tone. “As far as the Grammar Nazi goes, I’d talk to the guy who runs the print shop on US-23 if I were you. He won’t take copy stuff that has errors, says it embarrasses the whole community.”
A man after my own heart. “Thanks. I’ll check that out.”
When I ended the call, the message from Retta reappeared. Though I was still unhappy with her, I was also curious to hear what she’d learned. If Faye was excluded, it had to do with the Grammar Nazi. First I texted Gabe: M is NOT the Nazi. Xmas secret. Don’t ask. Then I called Retta.
She didn’t waste time with excuses but got right to her news. “The guy who saw you correcting the sign is Clem Hiller.”
“Isn’t he the one who kicked your boyfriend in the face and split his chin open?”
“Rick Chou was never my boyfriend, but yes, Clem was a player in that little tragedy. He’s banned from every bar in Allport these days, which explains his drinking alone in his car on the night in question.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I have my sources.”
I hate it when she does that. “What are you going to do now?”
“Talk to Clem, of course.” She paused before asking, “Do you think our new client might be the killer?”
“The girlfriend or the brother?”
“Frannie. She doesn’t seem very broken up about losing her fiancé, and hiring us might be her way of turning attention to someone else. It’s pretty clever, or it would be if you and I weren’t one hundred percent certain the Nazi isn’t the guilty party.”
“Another reason we shouldn’t have taken the case. It won’t look good if the agency’s client turns out to be the killer.”
“We can talk about that later. Remember, no tattling to Rory until we have a chance to talk all this over.”
“All right.” I sounded doubtful, even to my own ears, but Retta had already ended the call. She does that to keep me from presenting arguments, because I’m better at logic than she’ll ever be.
Sitting back in my chair, I tried to analyze how I felt about being outed as the Grammar Nazi. Though I’d never experienced guilt concerning my actions before, recriminations crept into my mind. The law saw what I did as vandalism. I’d read about men who “fixed” a sign in one of the national parks and were banned for life as a result. There was also a “grammar vigilante” in England who went around pasting plastic squares over superfluous apostrophes. Though I heartily approved, not everyone appreciated his efforts.
Right or wrong, sign owners could prosecute me if they chose to. I’d already decided that when I confessed, I’d leave Retta out of it. Correction Events hadn’t been her idea, and she only participated because she thought the dressing in black and sneaking around at night was fun. For me, the work had always been serious.
I’d deluded myself into thinking nobody minded, but apparently people in town had been talking about my activities. While I had no illusion that public opinion was always worthwhile or correct, I did wonder what the arguments for and against the Grammar Nazi were. Were rules of language breakable just because someone didn’t feel like observing them? If communication occurred, no matter how imperfectly, should others butt out? Did I have the right to make a stand, to demonstrate that propriety still mattered?
Dale stuck his head into the office doorway, interrupting the tumble of mental arguments in my head. “I’m going to have ice cream. Want some?”
“You talked me into it.” I followed him to the kitchen. Though I try to limit my intake of sweets, both for the sake of my health and the size of my waist, ice cream is my weakness. Even in December it sounded good. I promised my stricter side I’d have a small portion.
At my request Dale dished up one scoop for me then took four for himself. As he replaced the carton in the freezer, he talked about what they’d seen at the shelter. “It was bad. I hope they don’t have to put any of the dogs down.”
“Kurst deserves worse than he’ll ever get from the justice system.” Putting a single spoonful of caramel on my portion, I handed him the jar. I watched enviously as he poured a liberal amount over his, wiped the last drip off the mouth with a finger, and replaced the cap. The man’s waist size has remained the same since he was nineteen years old. Mine, not so much.
“Have you heard about the person they call the Grammar Nazi?” I asked as Dale turned to put the jar away.
He sat down and took a bite before answering. “They talked about it this morning at the shelter.”
“Were they mostly for what the, uh, person does or against it?”
“It was pretty equal. One woman said the Nazi might have killed that Deline guy, but that’s a stretch.”
“Because?”
He leaned his elbows on the table, the spoon dangling from one hand. “If the rumors are right, he died somewhere else, not in that alley.” Looking up he asked, “Have you talked to Rory about it yet?”
“He texted me. He’s up to his ears in state troopers, crime scene people who have no crime scene, and citizens who want assurance there isn’t a lunatic cruising our streets looking for people to whack with a metal club. He’s going to try to stop by tonight.”
“I guess you two have a lot to talk about, huh?”
“Yes.” I took another bite of ice cream and let it slide slowly down my throat. It didn’t cool the flush of heat I felt. I had the urge—no, the need—to tell someone what I’d done. Words bubbled out I had not meant to say. “Dale, I’m the Grammar Nazi.”
I waited for him to gasp or frown. Instead he said, “I know.”
“You knew it was me?” He nodded. “How long?”
He did some mental figuring. “A year ago, during deer season, I got up to go to the bathroom and saw you coming down the stairs, all in black.” He shrugged. “I was curious, but you’re a grown woman.”
“But...” I left it hanging, and he chuckled.
“Yes, there’s a but. A few weeks later I went out to put ice scrapers in all the vehicles. That bag in the back of your car was half unzipped, and I saw a bunch of paint stuff in there. That was weird, but again, it’s your business what you keep in your car.”
“But...”
He laughed again. “But I was waiting for a prescription one day, and I heard some men talking about this person who went around at night fixing spelling errors.” Dale focused his attention on his ice cream. “Knowing how much good writing means to you, I put all that together and pegged you as the one.”
“Did you tell Faye?”
He looked genuinely confused. “I figured if you wanted her to know, you’d tell her yourself.”
Some men might have used that knowledge to impress their wives with their cleverness, or to point out their sister-in-law’s oddness, or even to set up an intervention in order to save the family embarrassment.
Dale wasn’t that kind of man, and I loved him for it.
