Chapter Eight

I hurriedly fed the dogs and myself, then cleaned the dishes and set up the pups on the screened-in porch. My errands wouldn’t take long, but I didn’t want the rambunctious canine pair stuck inside alone. Together, Mattie and Gus had a tendency to be mischievous, so the less opportunity they had to get into trouble, the better.

By dint of rushing, I was out the door and driving off by ten thirty. Dr. Bishop’s second service started at eleven (it said so on the church’s sign), and my plan was to catch him outside beforehand. But beyond that, I’d been in a hurry to be gone before Harry came downstairs again. After our ill-fated conversation, the best thing would be to avoid each other for a time, until the awkwardness passed.

Though, depending on what I learned from Dr. Bishop, I might have to keep my distance from Harry even longer.

A short drive later I was turning down the street not far from Roxanna’s place where the Heavenly Host Baptist Church held down a prime bit of corner real estate. Both the church and Dr. Bishop’s funeral parlor (located on the corner right across the same street) had been converted from neat cottage homes. Both were painted identically, bright white with matching white shutters and trim.

Parking was in the former homes’ backyards, which had been paved over and striped to each hold probably fifteen cars the size of mine. But with a church service about to start, both lots were filled, as were any curb spots for a half block in all directions. Glad I’d thought to wear running shoes rather than heels, I parked the Mini on the next block and speed-walked my way to the church.

With ten minutes to spare before the service would be starting, I joined the line beneath the green awning that stretched from halfway down the walkway to the church’s wooden double doors. Most of the congregants were African American, though I did spy a couple of white faces in the two dozen or so people ahead of me. Greeting everyone as they entered the church was a tall, thin man wearing a black suit and clerical collar, an oversized Bible tucked under one arm. This, of course, was the Reverend Dr. Thaddeus Bishop, church pastor.

He was of African American heritage with a brick-red complexion and a neatly trimmed Afro and beard, both of which had once been a deep rusty color but now were liberally streaked with gray. Given that I now knew he’d headed the church since Harry was a teen, I pegged him for being in his late fifties. Minus the gray he could have passed for at least a decade younger. As far as I knew, there was no Mrs. Dr. Bishop. But from the way several women clung to his proffered hand for longer than necessary as he greeted them, I suspected there was significant interest in that job.

I joined the smiling crowd, aware that I stood out—not so much because of my pale complexion but because everyone else was dressed in their literal Sunday best. The men wore suits and ties; the women (even the younger ones) wore modest dresses or skirted suits, most of the latter in primary colors and almost all with coordinating feathered or lace-bedecked hats.

I made a mental note to break out one of my former business outfits should I ever decide to attend an actual service, which was not out of the question. I could hear gospel music—faint from outside the church, but a rousing chorus every time the double doors opened to admit another churchgoer. Used as I was to the staid Episcopal services of my childhood, the joyous air I felt here had more than a little appeal.

Dr. Bishop was obviously an efficiency expert in addition to his other talents, for the line moved with a swiftness that the Disney folks would have envied. Within a couple of minutes I’d reached the door and was standing face-to-face with the pastor.

He broke into a smile of recognition as he took my hand in a warm grip.

“Ms. Fleet, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he declared as we shook. “What brings you to my humble church this morning? Are you in need of the Lord’s guidance?”

“Good morning, Reverend,” I replied, meeting his smile with one of my own. “I probably could use a little divine assistance, but it’s your help I’m actually here for. It’s about my friend, Roxanna Quarry.”

He promptly sobered. “Ah, yes, the unfortunate young woman from the bridal exposition yesterday. Such a tragedy. You say she was your friend?”

“Yes. We’d only met a couple of months ago, but I…I quite liked her,” I told him, doing my best to keep the emotion from my voice. “I was there when the accident happened. So were some of my other friends, and their young daughters too. We’re all shaken up by her death.”

“A tragedy. One of my colleagues, Dr. Garvin, happened to be there and attempted to render aid.”

“I was there watching her,” I confirmed. “She sure jumped into action.”

He nodded. “Not surprising. She is a skilled physician. Unfortunately, my understanding is that young woman was already past help. Perhaps if she had been found sooner…”

I hesitated, then forged on. “The thing is, something keeps nagging at me that there’s more to the story than what I’m hearing from the police. It would really help me—would help all of us—to know that what happened to Roxanna was simply a terrible accident.”

He gave my hand a final kind pat and released it. “Ms. Fleet, firstly, you know from our past interactions that I am not at liberty to speculate publicly on a deceased’s cause of death. I can only call for an autopsy. The medical examiner must make the final ruling. And secondly, I must point out that I am about to be late for my own service.”

“I understand,” I replied in disappointment. “But I had to ask.”

“However,” he added, “I did make one pertinent observation. The manner in which the decedent’s scarf was wrapped around her neck was not the way that one would normally wear such an accessory.”

My hand went reflexively to my own throat. “Wait. You’re saying—”

“I’m saying this is not the best time to chat,” he said, smoothly cutting me short. “You must excuse me, Ms. Fleet. My congregation awaits.”

He left me standing beneath the awning as he went inside. Echoes of gospel music continued to drift toward me as I mulled over what the pastor had said. I recalled Roxanna’s outfit when she’d stopped by my booth, the way her pretty scarf had been slung untied beneath the lapels of her jacket. Yet when she tumbled from the cake, that expensive length of silk had been wrapped tightly about her throat.

Uneasiness settled over me. Now I realized it had been something about Roxanna’s scarf that had pinged my subconscious. And it had taken the reverend’s comment to thrust that incongruity to my brain’s surface.

I thought back to what I’d seen of the prop cake itself. I’d not been close enough to study its construction—and, of course, my attention had been on Roxanna. But if I recalled correctly, the top layer that popped open had been made of what appeared to be little more than heavy pressboard stapled to a thin wood framework to make a circular box. Even if her scarf had somehow caught on a random splinter, the act of its being snagged would simply have pulled the cloth free. No way could the scarf have wrapped around her throat tightly enough to strangle her until she died—unless someone else’s hands had done the actual wrapping.

And if that was the case, it meant Roxanna’s death hadn’t been an accident at all, but murder.

I made my dazed way back to my car, not daring to let my thoughts travel any further until I was sitting in the driver’s seat, engine running. Only then did I ask myself that single, vital question: If Roxanna had been murdered, then who had killed her?

The obvious answer was Virgie. I’d overheard the women’s fight that morning, had overheard Virgie’s accusations of embezzlement that might have been true, given the wad of cash in the red canister in the car’s passenger seat beside me. The last time I’d seen Roxanna alive had been perhaps thirty minutes before the fashion show began. That would have been plenty of time for her and Virgie to have gotten into another altercation somewhere behind the scenes. Maybe the argument had turned physical and Roxanna had ended up dead. And then, panicking, Virgie had hidden Roxanna’s body in the most convenient spot, which happened to be the prop cake.

Though, of course, Virgie would have known the display was to be rolled out and opened onstage later, which would hardly have made it an ideal place for hiding a dead body. Which maybe poked a hole in my theory. But then, panic made one do odd things. So now the follow-up question was, what to do next?

Borrowing trouble.

That old saying of my grandmother’s drifted into my mind. Could that be what I was doing? Maybe Roxanna had deliberately tied her scarf up high on her neck and out of the way before impulsively climbing inside the cake, planning a lighthearted gag and not knowing that she had unwittingly set herself up for tragedy. Maybe both the pastor and I had misinterpreted what we’d seen. So perhaps it was time for me to back away. Last thing I needed—that Roxanna needed—was for me to stir a pot that didn’t require stirring.

Accidents did happen, after all.

I put the car into gear and made the short drive to Roxanna’s house. By the time I got there, I’d come to a decision. As Dr. Bishop had implied, unless the medical examiner made the formal determination of homicide, Sheriff Lamb would have no need to investigate further. I had already given my statement to Deputy Jackson, and I knew that the sheriff knew where to find me.

I also knew that, should Roxanna’s death turn out to be no accident, the highly capable Sheriff Lamb always got her man—or woman.

Given that it was Sunday morning, Roxanna’s neighborhood was quiet. I parked at the curb as I had last time. Canister tucked beneath one arm, I got out and, first checking to make sure I wasn’t observed, went to retrieve the door key from Uga. But when I lifted the statue, only the faintest key-shaped silhouette remained on flat sand-colored rock beneath the resin dog.

I blinked and looked a second time. When it was apparent that no key was there, I searched the mulch around the statue base. Still no key.

I frowned. When Harry and I had left the place yesterday, I’d been more than a bit distracted with Gus and dealing with all that had gone on. Had I only thought I’d returned the key to its hiding place?

I stood and dug through my purse twice and checked my jeans pockets, though I wasn’t wearing yesterday’s clothes. I even went back to the Mini and searched the seats and floorboard. But it seemed the key had vanished, just like in a shell game.

“Great,” I muttered.

As far as I knew, I was the only one Roxanna had told about the Uga hiding spot, and she’d sworn me to secrecy. Which meant that I must have absent-mindedly carried off the key myself and left it somewhere at the B&B. And which also meant that if I wanted to unload the ten thousand dollars I was carting around, I’d need to find another way into Roxanna’s house.

Treat jar still in hand, I headed back to the porch. The small-town mindset in Cymbeline extended to most folks being lax about locking up their houses. Maybe I’d get lucky and Roxanna had left one of the double-hung windows unlatched.

Setting down the canister behind the tomato bucket, I tried the windows on either side of the front door. Neither was unlocked. I made my way around the house, unhooking the lower portion of each window screen just enough to test the sash. It wasn’t until I was almost back to where I’d started that a window—the one looking out from the dining area—slid upward as I pushed.

Relieved, I pulled off the screen the rest of the way and propped it against the outer wall, then pushed open the window as high as it would go. Plenty of room to fit through, I determined. Getting a leg up over the waist-high sill so I could straddle it and climb in, rather like getting on and off a horse, would take a more effort. Thinking longingly of the stool that I’d used in the pantry, I decided I’d have to go with option B—lean over the sill and shimmy my way in. Not the most efficient manner of entry, but I had no other choice.

I went back to the porch for the canister and then hurried back to the open window. It occurred to me as I leaned over the sill to put the treat jar inside that what I was about to do was technically breaking and entering. But I was putting something back into the house, not taking it out. And I planned to be inside only long enough to go from window to pantry and back again.

With more speed than grace, I wriggled my way through the window and landed in a heap on the hardwood floor. Dusting myself off, I picked up the treat jar and started forward, only to stop short again at the sight that greeted me.

The living area beyond looked like a South Georgia twister had come through it. Sofa and chair cushions and pillows were tumbled about on the floor, and the furniture itself was knocked askew. The credenza beneath the flat-screen television gaped open to display empty shelves, the DVR and cable boxes hanging out by their cords. A few dozen DVDs that must have been in with the equipment had been unceremoniously swept to the floor. The antique drop-front desk on the opposite wall was open, pens and stamps and stationery strewn about it. The desk’s long drawer had been yanked out and lay upside down on the rug, its contents scattered as well. Even the blanket had been pulled from Gus’s kennel.

I stood staring at the disarray for several shocked seconds, trying to reconcile the sight with how Harry and I had left the place just hours ago. Obviously, someone had been in Roxanna’s house since yesterday afternoon in desperate search of something. And I had a bad feeling I knew what that something was.

I didn’t bother to check if any other rooms had been torn apart. Hurriedly setting down the canister of hundred-dollar bills, I pulled my cell phone from my jeans pocket and for the second time in as many days dialed 911.

“Yes, I’d like to report a burglary,” I breathlessly told the dispatcher who answered, then gave her my name and Roxanna’s address.

To my shock, the woman replied, “We’ve had a report of this crime in process just a few minutes ago. Officers have already been dispatched to that address and should be arriving momentarily.”

“Okay, thanks,” I shot back, and hastily ended the call. How would anyone else know what had happened here? Unless they’d seen me checking windows and thought I was some sort of Sunday morning prowler?

My pulse, which had begun racing as soon as I’d seen the ransacking around me, now kicked up the pace to an all-out sprint. I grabbed the canister again. I needed to get rid of it and get out of the house before Sheriff Lamb’s deputies showed up.

“Sheriff’s Department! Don’t move!” barked a man’s voice from the open window behind me before I’d even taken a step.

I froze. So much for making an exit.

“Raise your hands where I can see them,” the same voice demanded, “and turn around real slow.”

I complied, lifting the treat jar skyward like an offering—or like I was about to cosh someone over the head with it. I turned slowly, halting once I was facing the window. A familiar figure holding a revolver pointed my way practically filled the window’s frame.

“H-hello, Deputy Jackson,” I managed. Then, in the words of every criminal ever, I added, “Th-this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Yeah?” was his ironic response, though to my immense relief he lowered his weapon and reholstered it. “You’re Ms. Fleet, right? The B&B lady from the expo?”

I nodded, and he shook his bald head. “You mind telling me what you’re holding there, ma’am?”

“Um, a dog treat jar filled with ten thousand dollars in cash.”

His eyes narrowed, but all he said was, “All right, why don’t you put the jar on the floor in front of you—real slow, now—and then take a couple of steps back from it and raise your hands again.”

I did as instructed, relieved because the pottery canister, though it didn’t weigh all that much, was starting to feel as heavy as a sack of concrete the way I was holding it.

Once I’d complied, he went on, “And can you tell me what you were doing with this jar of money?”

“Putting it back where I found it.”

His expression went from quizzical to outright skeptical as he took in the disarray around me.

“Uh-huh. You should know, Ms. Fleet, that a neighbor reported someone of your description removing the screen from this window and climbing through it into the house. Was that person you?”

I nodded.

“And are you the owner of this house?”

“No, Deputy…but I can explain.”

Which also was what every guilty party said right before the cuffs went on. Though I wasn’t guilty of anything except, quite obviously, bad judgment. But just as I thought he’d allow me to defend myself, the deputy activated his shoulder mic.

“Dispatch, this is two-twenty-one. I need assistance with a ten-fifteen suspect needing transport.”

I stared at him in dismay. I didn’t know what 10-15 meant, but suspect and transport were pretty darned self-explanatory. Visions of my business going down the tubes flashed through my mind. Even if we cleared up everything once we got to the sheriff’s department offices, being hauled off was not a good look. Who would want to stay in a B&B when the owner had been arrested for B&E?

“Sending the call now,” came the dispatcher’s voice I recognized from my 911 call, though it sounded far more tinny through the mic.

Jackson nodded and clicked on his mic again.

“Copy that,” he replied, then added in a quieter voice, “Sorry, baby, looks like I’m going to be late for church. Can you get your sister to take the kids and I’ll get there as soon as I can?”

“Already did that.”

“Thanks. See you this afternoon. Out.”

Looking a little rueful, the deputy said to me, “The dispatcher is my wife, Maureen. We try to work staggered shifts so one of us is home with the kids most of the time. Didn’t quite work out that way this morning.”

“I’m sorry,” I told him, and meant it—for him and for me. “But I swear I wasn’t trying to steal anything. The house was already trashed when I got here. I called nine-one-one to report it. Just ask Maureen.”

He did just that, clicking his shoulder mic again. “Dispatch, this is two-twenty-one again. Can you confirm if more than one call came in about this B&E?”

To my relief, I heard Maureen reply back with my name and the time of my call just a few minutes earlier. With that, Jackson gave me a stern look.

“That part of your story checks out. But that still doesn’t explain why you climbed through a window of an unoccupied house.”

“That’s because I couldn’t find Roxanna’s spare door key where I thought I left it.” And then, as realization dawned, I exclaimed, “That’s why it was missing! Whoever tore up the house must have known about the key, too, and used it to get in.”

Jackson sighed. “All right. Maybe we can resolve this situation without a trip to the station. Why don’t I come in and we’ll chat a little more?”

For someone of his size and girth—not to mention the big belt o’ police stuff strapped around his waist—the deputy managed to climb through the window with far more grace that I had, mostly because he was tall enough to easily swing a leg over.

Once inside, he took another look around, then said, “If you didn’t tear the place up, then I’d better check to see if whoever did is still hanging around.”

“Good idea,” I managed, a small shudder abruptly racing through me. That possibility hadn’t occurred to me, yet now I realized I could have been in danger this entire time from some unknown housebreaker.

He gave me a sharp look. “If I don’t cuff you, do I have your word you’ll wait here while I look?”

“Absolutely,” I told him, and did the old cross my heart gesture from childhood for emphasis.

“Fine. Sit there”—he pointed to one of the dining chairs that looked undisturbed—“and don’t touch anything or move a muscle until I come back downstairs.”

I sat and didn’t move while Jackson called Maureen back and canceled the backup. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves he’d had stashed in the utility belt; then, hand on pistol butt, he took off for the hallway. I waited, picturing each room he’d be checking: the kitchen, the guest bedroom, the powder bath, and then the rooms upstairs. When it seemed he’d been gone far too long—though logic told me that my nerves had probably skewed my sense of time—I started to worry. I’d seen enough slasher movies to know the drill.

Heroine waits while cop checks if crazed killer is still inside the empty house. Cop doesn’t come back. Heroine searches for cop only to find him horrifically murdered. Crazed killer creeps up on heroine while audience screams for her to look behind her.

For I was pretty sure that whoever had torn apart Roxanna’s house was no amateur burglar who’d happened on the unoccupied house by chance. He—she—had likely been in search of the cash I’d accidentally taken.

Then another thought occurred to me. Given that the cash matched the sum Virgie had claimed was taken, that person might also have been involved in the embezzling. And, taking that thought a step further, this person might also have had something to do with her death. And if they knew that I knew about the money—

“I had a feeling it might be you,” came a sudden voice from beyond the window behind me, and I let out a shriek.