Not only did the buxom petition taker from the grocery store stand there with an expectant smile on her face, but Stan, the man with whom Benny the grocer had argued with about my uncle, stood there as well. Had they followed me home? Man, these people must be desperate for signatures.
“I’m sorry, I’m still not interested in signing your petition.” I stepped back to close the door.
A brown leather loafer stuck itself in my door before it could close. “I’m Stan Jergins. I own Jergins and Associates. I’m here to appraise the business and home for the purpose of a possible sale.” He stuck a business card through the opening.
I took it and read it as I reopened the door, checking to make sure the face before me matched the picture on the business card. His graying, light-brown hair ruffled in the slight breeze, and his dress shirt sleeves, rolled up, exposed a tan that had the telltale hue of a spray-on. A large gold bracelet glinted in the sunshine. However, the slightly worn toes of his loafers, which peeked out from under his slacks, contradicted the well-off broker look he seemed to be pushing. Maybe he wasn’t doing as well as Mr. Grimes suspected.
Behind him, the shapely blonde woman with whom I had played chase all but bounced on her toes in what seemed to be childish excitement. Surely he wasn’t training her to be a professional appraiser or real estate agent.
This should prove to be an interesting couple of hours.
Warily, I looked for a clipboard, mentally preparing another no in case they tried again to get me to sign that petition. Thank God the woman didn’t have it handy, and she seemed to be taking a back seat to Stan.
Holding out my hand, I stepped closer, speaking as his hand engulfed mine. “I’m Jenna Quinn. Mr. Grimes said you would be by. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.” What I hoped was a naïve and trustworthy smile crossed my face. I wanted Stan comfortable enough for me to get information from him without seeming like I was digging.
“I’m Stan, and this is Barbie. She wanted to come see the apartment. I hope you don’t mind.”
A chuckle burbled up, and I barely managed to choke it back as our hands dropped. Barbie, indeed. It fit. The fluffed-up blonde hair, the obviously artificially enhanced figure, the skintight clothing, and the incredibly high heels. She looked like the dolls I’d had as a child.
Barbie peeked out from behind Stan with a hopeful look on her artfully painted face.
I really didn’t want the annoying woman in what was now my home, even if only for a short time, but I couldn’t think of a polite way to refuse without risking irritating Stan. While I’d probably failed Mom recently with my prying into the grocer’s conversation, not to mention Rita’s past with Uncle Paul, at least she might be proud of how I handled this. Okay, maybe not the subterfuge, but definitely the manners. I kept the smile plastered to my face and nodded. “Of course I don’t mind. Shall we get started?” I motioned them inside.
While mostly uneventful, the trip through the loft tested my willpower to obey Mom’s etiquette training. More than once I had to resist an overwhelming urge to smack Barbie’s hand away from tiny knickknacks on shelves and family photos tucked away in corners. It was all I could do not to order her out of my house after she made yet another derogatory comment about how disappointed she was that it wasn’t bigger or that there weren’t windows in the guest bedroom. I might also wish there were more windows, but it wasn’t her place to voice it. She needed to keep her bright-red mouth shut.
Rather than start a catfight, I concentrated on my business with Stan, hoping to finish it before I gave in to the impulse to strangle Barbie. They received the full tour, and Stan seemed to be quite thorough with his assessments. He looked in each closet, took measurements, tapped on woodwork, snapped pictures of furniture—which would be sold with the loft, as I couldn’t think of anything else to do with it—and checked the flow of water from each tap.
While he worked, I tried to come up with a reasonable way to bring up the argument I’d overheard at the grocery store. So much for willpower. I finally got my chance when Stan insisted we go down the spiral stairs to the store.
“Is that …?” At last Barbie was at a loss for words, and she blanched at the sight of the body outline.
While the white lines still sent a chill up my spine, I was grateful it gave me the opportunity to find out why Stan Jergins hadn’t liked my uncle. Thank you, Elmer Peabody. “Yes, that’s where I found Uncle Paul’s body.” I did my best to avoid the lines as I hopped over the last few steps to the floor.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Stan’s sad eyes and pitiful puppy look seemed about as sincere as his clipped words. But I had to hand it to him for the attempt. Obviously he wanted the sale, and if it meant offering condolences for a man he hated, he’d suck it up.
I mentally asked Uncle Paul’s forgiveness for what I was about to say, especially since I was standing next to the spot where he died. “Thanks. I’m okay, really. I hadn’t seen him in almost a decade. But it seemed everyone in town loved him.” Crossing my fingers behind my back, I plastered what I hoped was an innocent expression on my face.
Stan gritted his teeth behind his attempt at a friendly smile. “Yes. Many loved him, although not all.”
Bingo! “And you, Mr. Jergins? Did you love him, or were you on the ‘not all’ side?”
Stan shifted back and forth a couple of times, and he looked at his notepad and cleared his throat. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, and when he looked back up, his eyes held a fire that hadn’t been there before. “Unfortunately, I must count myself in the ‘not all’ contingency.”
I raised my eyebrows, trying to maintain the innocent look. “Why didn’t you like him?”
“About a year ago, I put together a really sweet deal to build a shopping mall out by the interstate on the edge of town. It would’ve had ninety-five stores, complete with three huge department stores, a food court, and a parking garage. Your Uncle Paul and his friends managed to gather enough petition signatures from Hokes Folly residents to stop the whole deal dead in its tracks.” His eyes held a manic expression, and his fists gripped his notepad so tightly they bent the cardboard backing.
I ignored the uneasy feeling roiling in my gut. I hoped he wasn’t about to lose it completely while we were alone in the store, where no one could hear me scream, and I doubted Barbie would help me, but I couldn’t stop now. I needed answers. “Why would he do that?”
“They whined about loss of property values in the neighborhood and loss of peace and quiet. And he got everyone from here in the historic district to sign too, because they thought it might take a few sales away from them.” He faced me squarely now, as if he expected me to argue with him and was bracing for a possible fight. “He and everyone else should’ve thought about all those jobs in the stores, and there would’ve been security people, janitors, parking attendants.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “All that new opportunity for employment might’ve really boosted the economy in this little town. But no.” Stan’s eyes hardened to flint. “Mr. High-and-Mighty Paul Baxter had to stop it before it could even get started.”
I resisted the urge to step back while I wiped a bit of spittle off my arm that had flown out of his mouth during his tirade. “Is that what your current petition is about?”
“It is.” He cracked his first big smile, but there was something a bit off about it. “I was already wining and dining my way into this deal with a new group of backers when Paul … met with his unfortunate end.” Stan had the grace to attempt another solemn look.
Barbie chose this moment to rejoin the conversation, seeming to forget the white outline while grinning hugely at Stan. “Without Paul around to organize another petition to stop progress, Stan’s big, beautiful mall is practically a done deal. Right, baby?”
Stan’s grin was almost predatory. “That’s right. With your uncle gone, I’m already getting more support for the venture.” He pulled Barbie to him and gave her a side squeeze.
Sure, Stan creeped me out with his freakish rant, but I could understand his point. I could also see the point of the townsfolk. A mall like the one Stan proposed really would take away from the quaint charm I’d seen in Hokes Folly.
Would it bring more jobs? Absolutely. It might even help the town grow. But it would also bring more crime, as was always the case when a town grew too quickly. As for the sales in the historic district, those would suffer too. Rainy days would be spent at the new mall rather than in the historic district. New shops would abound, running out the tiny stores that had been there for decades. It was a matter of choosing what was more important: growth and modernization or staying true to the historic significance and turn-of-the-century styling.
Hoping to end the conversation without another unsettling lecture, I smacked on another fake smile. “I’m sure things will work out as they should.” Then I changed subjects. “Shall we check out the rest of the store? As with the furniture upstairs, the fixtures and books will sell with the store, but a few decor items and all personal papers will go with me.”
We walked through the store, cataloging things to stay and checking off things that might need repair before the sale. But my mind wasn’t fully on the task. How much had Stan really hated Uncle Paul? I shuddered, pushing away disturbing thoughts while still stuck with the man. Finish up, usher them out, lock the doors. That was the new plan.
I breathed an inward sigh of relief when we finally moved to the front door. Stan added a few suggestions to increase curb appeal and promised to send me a copy of his list.
I thanked him, sagging against the door gratefully as they walked away. I stood there for a bit, needing a few moments to calm myself. Mr. Grimes believed the police were considering murder instead of an accidental death. At this point I was heavily leaning in that direction too, and I needed to find out who had killed Uncle Paul before I ended up with another murder hung around my neck. I assessed my conversation with Stan in the store and wondered how badly he had wanted Uncle Paul out of the way. Enough to kill? I shook my head.
With a list of service providers to visit, I jumped Uncle Paul’s outline again and went upstairs to grab my purse and keys to head toward the first address on my list.
After two hours, I’d visited all the companies and signed all the paperwork. I then took an extra hour to explore the town. I found two larger grocery stores, although Benny’s place was still more convenient, and located the library, post office, and a couple of dry cleaners.
By the time I got home, the sun was setting, and my stomach was rumbling. I pulled out a couple of cans of stew and set them on the stove to heat. My second supper here. Alone. I winced, remembering my promise to myself to start trusting more. When the stew was ready, I marched out the door and strode purposefully toward my neighbor’s home, trying to remember if it was an olive branch of peace I should bring. Or maybe it was the pineapple of hospitality. Whatever. She was getting the stew of I’m-sick-of-eating-alone. I took a deep breath and rapped on her door.
Rita opened the door and smiled. “Come on in, neighbor.”
I held my ground, my stomach churning as if I were asking someone out on a hot date. Gads, I needed to get out more. “I came to see if you wanted to join me for supper. I heated up vegetable stew, and I’d prefer not to eat alone.” There. I’d thrown out the offer. Sadly, I realized it was true. I really didn’t want to eat alone. I’d spent so many days and nights alone, hiding from reporters or worse, and I was sick and tired of always being by myself. “I’m not the best cook, but there’s plenty.”
“Sure.” Rita smiled. “Let me grab something.”
In a few moments she appeared, carrying a bottle of white wine, and followed me to my apartment and the waiting meal. Once inside, she pulled out two wine goblets and a corkscrew, demonstrating her familiarity with Uncle Paul’s kitchen as well as the fact that Uncle Paul never changed anything around. She poured the wine, I set the table, and we both sat.
I ladled stew into my bowl. “So, I met Stan Jergins today.”
Rita shook her head and reached for the ladle. “That must have been fun.” Sarcasm laced her voice.
I needed to bounce my ideas off someone who knew the people in town. I was too new to judge any of this. Rita wiped the edge of her bowl where she’d spilled a bit of stew on it, and I thought of her compassionate acceptance of me in spite of the evidence. If I was going to trust someone, it would definitely be her.
“I decided to do a bit of investigating of my own into Uncle Paul’s death. The news said the police have a strong reason to think it’s murder, and they implied as much when they interviewed me after I found his body.” I spooned a bit of stew into my mouth.
“And you’re worried because they implied you’re a suspect?”
“You bet your backside I am.” I took a deep breath. “After all I went through in Charlotte, I just can’t assume the police will get it right. They’re already determined to find a way to pin it on me.”
Rita set her spoon down and reached for my hand, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze. “The police here tend to eventually get it right, for the most part, but I can understand where you’re coming from. I’m in. How can I help?”
I released the tension in my shoulders, tension I hadn’t even realized was there until Rita once again jumped to my defense, this time offering to help without me having to ask.
“To start, you can help me understand a couple of conversations I had today.”
Over dinner, I filled her in on the argument I’d overheard at the grocery store and about my chat with Stan while he and Barbie were here. “He really seems to have hated Uncle Paul.”
Rita inched her empty bowl away and leaned her arms on the table. “There’s more to that story than meets the eye.”
“Such as?” I was almost afraid to ask, but I’d already come this far. I had to know.
“There was bad blood between the two of them long before the mall deal came up. Years ago, Stan tried to woo Irene away from Paul.” Rita sipped her wine.
“Are you serious?” No way would Aunt Irene cheat on Uncle Paul, especially with a slick jerk like Stan Jergins. From what I could remember and what I’d been told, Aunt Irene and Uncle Paul had been crazy about each other. “What happened?”
“Irene worked for Stan at the real estate office for a while when she and Paul first moved here. She wanted to make extra money to keep the bookstore business going until it could stand on its own. Since she always looked and acted much younger than she was, Stan flirted with her outrageously. He took her out to lunch, brought her flowers from his garden for doing ‘such a good job,’ and gave her bonuses he didn’t give to other employees. He even baked her a cake for her birthday. Irene naïvely chalked it up to Stan being nice.”
“Mom always said Irene only wanted to see the best in everyone.” I knew firsthand how badly this could turn out. My gullible days were over. I hoped.
Rita sipped her wine again, swirling the remainder in the glass as she shared the story. “Well, one day Stan told Irene he needed her to work late at the office to help him close a big deal. After everyone else had gone, he trapped her in the copy room and tried to kiss her. He groped her a bit too. Irene managed to sock him one in the jaw. She hit him so hard, it cracked a tooth.”
“Oh my God!” Laughter bubbled up. A vision of a young and cocky Stan nursing a broken tooth given by an irate older woman popped into my head. After all I’d been through with the man today, I rather liked that mental picture. Too bad I hadn’t been there to see it in person.
“Old Stan had to get his tooth capped. Cost him a bundle. And Irene quit working for him. Paul finally got out of her what had happened, and he went to see Stan. He told Stan to stay away from his wife or he’d kill him. The two men came to actual blows over the incident.”
“Who won?” I thought of the man who should have stood up for me against everyone in Charlotte. Seeing some butt kicking definitely held appeal, but he’d never been the physical type. Turned out he wasn’t the “stand-up” type in any fashion. I pulled myself back to the present as Rita answered my question.
“Paul whipped him good, and Stan, who was twenty-nine at the time, couldn’t get over being beaten by a man in his late forties. And that was after he’d had a tooth cracked by a woman fourteen years older than he was. It was too much for poor Stan’s overinflated ego. He never forgave the two of them for what he considered a grave injustice, and when the mall thing came up, he couldn’t get past the idea that Paul only went against him on the issue to be spiteful.”
“Wow. I still can’t believe it.” I shook my head. “But at least I understand the hate and bitterness now.”
“Oh, Stan hated him all right. Probably still does, and probably always will.”
“The question is, did Stan hate Uncle Paul enough to kill him?” I’d been chewing on that for hours.
“I don’t know. Maybe. If he was provoked enough. Stan’s got quite a temper. If he thought Paul was in his way again, he actually might have.”