Chapter Eight

The following day, I decided to kill two birds with one stone by visiting Ruth Lee at her consignment and antique shop. I figured I could fulfill Carol and P.J.’s request while also searching for a birthday gift for my future mother-in-law.

Knowing Fiona, I assumed she might prefer some interesting objet d’art to the typical bottle of perfume or silk scarf. “Besides,” I told Sunny, when I informed her that I needed to take the afternoon off, “I wouldn’t have any idea what she’d like and would probably choose the wrong thing. But I know she loves old china. Maybe Ruth’s shop has something interesting to offer along those lines.”

Sunny shook her head. “Have you ever been in there? It’s more like a collection of junk, in my opinion. Although I know my grandmother has scored a few inexpensive treasures there. But you really have to dig.”

“Well, I need to talk to Ruth anyway, so at least I’ll accomplish that task, even if I can’t find a gift.” I slid my purse strap over one shoulder before heading out of the workroom. “Are you sure you don’t mind covering the library this afternoon?”

“No, it’s fine.” Sunny looked me over. “Besides, you’re helping out the grands by talking to Ruth Lee, so I’m happy to do a little extra here.”

“Okay. Bill’s arriving any minute, so he can spell you on the desk.” I crossed around the desk, heading for the door. “I’ll give you a call later and let you know if Ruth tells me anything useful.”

“You’d better!” Sunny called after me.

I didn’t have to walk far, as Ruth Lee’s shop was only a few blocks away. Housed in a building that sat between an old stone house occupied by a realtor and the wooden-framed post office, the shop was surrounded by a narrow lot overgrown with shrubs and spindly trees. Three stories tall but only one room wide, the building looked like it had been sliced from a larger structure, an impression its sheer brick sides did nothing to allay. With its small cement stoop topped by a battered wooden door, only the shop’s huge picture window—filled with an assortment of odd but colorful objects—leant the building any charm.

Its general unkept air—the same sense of neglect that had made me walk past without stopping every time I’d been downtown—gave me the sinking feeling that I wouldn’t find a gift for Fiona inside. I pushed back my misgivings and entered.

“Hello,” I called out, as a bell attached to the door gave off a clanking sound. “Anyone here?”

I surveyed the shop, my gaze at first captured by the dust motes dancing in the light falling from the front window. It was the only natural light filling the space. Shadows veiled the back of the building, where narrow shafts of light fell from metal fluorescent fixtures dangling from chains attached to the high, beadboard ceiling.

As my eyes acclimated to the dim light, I noticed that both side walls were covered by unpainted wooden shelves, which stretched from lower cabinets to the chipped crown molding. The shelves were filled with items that appeared to be arranged in no discernible order, with plastic baby dolls perched on top of wooden cigar boxes and rusted hand tools spilling out of hand-painted terra-cotta pots. Running down the center of the room, a motley collection of display cases boasted glass so cloudy it was impossible to tell what was inside. The mismatched styles and colors of the cases brought to mind a row of old train cars abandoned on a side rail.

“Hello,” I called out again. “Ms. Lee, are you here?”

“Coming!” A reedy voice sailed from the dim reaches at the rear of the shop. “Just take a look around. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

I leaned over the first display case and peered past the smudged surface of the glass. Nestled in swathes of faded crimson velvet, pieces of costume jewelry sparkled with the unnatural brilliance of rhinestones and colored glass.

Definitely not anything that would appeal to Fiona Muir. I straightened as a figure materialized from the shadows.

“Good afternoon,” said the woman, tugging on a strand of crinkly gray hair that had escaped her long single braid.

“Hello, are you Ruth Lee?” I examined her. She was taller than I’d expected, and large-boned, but so thin that she appeared fragile. She had the appearance of someone who had once been robust but had lost too much weight due to age or illness. Her face was so hollow that it looked like it had been scooped out with a spoon.

“Yes, that’s me.” Ruth’s eyes were small and dark and surrounded by a fan of wrinkles. “Were you looking for anything in particular, Miss …?”

“Amy Webber,” I said, extending my hand.

She reached over the case to clasp my fingers. “Are you Lydia Talbot’s niece? I’ve seen you around town, but I don’t recall you ever coming into the shop before.”

“No, this is my first time.” I pulled my fingers free of her surprisingly strong grip. “And while I’m looking for a gift for someone who likes old china, that’s not my only mission. I’m also here to relay a message from Carol and P.J. Fields.”

Ruth Lee blinked rapidly and took a step back. “Really? Now why on earth would they send you as a messenger? They should know where to find me. They’ve been to the shop plenty of times.”

“Yes, but right now they don’t want to draw attention to your … connection.”

“What connection is that?” Ruth turned aside and plucked a mosaic glass paperweight off the shelf behind her. “I did briefly live on their farm, but that was so long ago …”

“When Jeremy Adams lived there,” I said. “You must’ve heard the news about his body being found at Vista View.”

Furiously polishing the paperweight with the hem of her long cotton tunic, Ruth didn’t meet my inquisitive gaze. “Yes, I couldn’t escape that story, what with all the media reports and the town gossips going crazy. But again, it was all so long ago. Nothing to do with me now.”

“It’s just that Carol and P.J. thought you should be warned about the authorities looking into the matter. They wanted to give you a heads-up.” I circled around the display case to stand beside her.

“Is that right? Imagine that.” Ruth set the paperweight back on the shelf. “I suppose you should convey my thanks, although they needn’t have bothered. I have nothing to hide from the sheriff’s department, or anyone else.”

“They just wanted to be sure you weren’t blindsided. You know how they are—always thinking about others.”

“Yes, yes. The ultimate do-gooders, bless their hearts.”

Knowing what that phrase actually meant to anyone south of the Mason-Dixon line, I fixed Ruth with a hard stare. “I know they’re under suspicion, since Jeremy’s body was discovered at Vista View, and in a condition that indicates foul play. And I admit that maybe they just want to cover all their bases, but be fair—you should realize they just want to protect you, and the others from the commune.”

“Don’t get riled up. I have nothing against P.J. and Carol. They were always decent to me, which is more than I can say for some of the commune members.” As Ruth turned to face me, I noticed her shaking fingers. She caught my gaze and immediately clutched the faded purple fabric of her tunic to hide her hands. “I didn’t care much for most of the others, to be honest. Which is why I’ve only stayed in touch with P.J. and Carol. I haven’t talked to anyone else from those days in years.”

Ruth turned back to the shelf and picked up a rose-patterned teacup. She held it up to the cold fluorescent light as if inspecting it for flaws. “Perhaps this is something that would appeal to your friend? You mentioned wanting a gift.” Ruth waved the cup at me. “It’s Haviland. Just one piece, but with the matching saucer. No? Well, something else then.” As Ruth set down the cup, her trembling fingers made it rattle against the saucer.

I tried to catch her gaze but failed. “So, if you don’t mind telling me, how well did you know Jeremy Adams?”

Ruth sighed and stared at a point over my shoulder. “Very well, actually. In fact, as you’ll probably find out if you talk to any more of the commune members, we were romantically involved.”

Here is a possible motive, I thought, even though something in Ruth’s eyes seemed to belie such an idea. Whatever impression she gives now, back then she could’ve been a woman scorned, and possibly angry enough to kill the lover who’d abandoned her. “So you loved him?”

“Oh yes, desperately, as only a young girl can. Fortunately, I’ve grown wiser as well as older, and I’ve put all that behind me.” When Ruth dropped her gaze and looked into my eyes, I was shocked by the pain I saw on her face. “You see, I loved Jeremy, but he never really loved me. He used a lot of pretty words to promise me things, but even before he left Vista View, I’d discovered he had another lover. Then he left both of us without a word.” She shrugged. “I had to suck up my pain and get over it, and I did. Faster than Drummer got over his anger, that’s for sure.”

This is something new. I pressed my palms against the smooth glass of the display case. “Why would Dean Bodenheimer be angry with Jeremy?”

“Because he believed Jeremy was planning to let him tag along when he went out to LA.” Ruth exhaled a derisive sniff. “Drummer really thought he was going to be part of Jeremy’s new band, or so he used to tell me. He’d brag about Jeremy selecting him as a partner in his quest for fame and fortune. Of course, Jeremy had no intention of including Drummer in any of his plans, but what I don’t know”—Ruth brushed back another errant tendril of her gray hair—“is whether Jeremy actually promised Drummer any such thing. Knowing Jeremy, he may have. He was rather glib with his assurances.”

“Which means Dean Bodenheimer could’ve also felt betrayed when Jeremy left without him.”

“Absolutely. Whether or not promises were made, Drummer was furious when Jeremy left without a forwarding address.”

“Angry enough to kill?” I asked gently. It was obvious that, for all her disclaimers, Ruth Lee was still deeply affected by Jeremy’s disappearance.

And now the discovery of his death, I reminded myself.

Ruth gnawed on her lower lip for a moment. “Perhaps. Who knows? I did hear rumors that one of Drummer’s ex-wives had to take out a restraining order against him after their divorce.”

“What about Pete O’Malley or Stanley Owens? Or Belinda Cannon, who also disappeared, and not long after Jeremy left the commune? Or even Emily Moore? You would remember her as Daisy Miles, I suppose. Did they display any violent tendencies?”

“Not so much, although both Daisy and Pete certainly had flashes of temper, and the strength to hurt someone, given the right circumstances. Belinda was so strung out most of the time, and actually she was …” Ruth tightened her thin lips and cleared her throat before continuing. “Never mind about that. Water under the bridge. Who else? Oh yes, Stan. Honestly, I can’t picture him harming anyone. I’d believe Carol or P.J. as killers before Stan.”

I picked up the teacup she’d shown me and examined it. Perhaps I would buy it, even if I later decided to give Fiona a different gift. It was the least I could do to make up for this interrogation. “Why’s that?”

“He was so meek and easily frightened,” Ruth said. “Even the farm animals spooked him. Imagine, being scared of a calf or a lamb. But that was poor Stan.” Ruth’s eyes glazed, as if she was lost in a memory. “He was so terrified of heights that it was absolute torture for him to climb up into the hayloft. P.J. finally had to release him from any chores that involved being even inches above the ground.”

I shot her a questioning glance. “Really? But he died …”

“From a fall from a high footbridge. Yes, I heard that.” Ruth rubbed her temples. “It’s very strange. I was baffled when I heard about it. Although perhaps he decided to, you know, do away with himself.”

“The authorities don’t think so. I guess something about the way it happened doesn’t indicate that,” I said. “At least from what I read in the news reports.”

“Yes, but …” Something secretive flickered in Ruth’s eyes. “He had a nervous breakdown, you know, right before he fled the commune.”

“Really? Do you know why?”

“Not for certain. But when I tried to comfort him one night before he left, he admitted he was tortured by something that had happened. I had my suspicions, but he would never confirm them one way or the other.”

I cradled the cup between my hands. “If he killed Jeremy …”

Ruth twisted the hem of her tunic between her fingers. “I can’t believe that. Any of the others, yes. But not Stan. No, I always thought it had something to do with a failed relationship. I think that’s why he connected with me in that moment. I was obviously deeply hurt by Jeremy’s abrupt departure, and Stan had apparently been rejected by someone too. He did confess that much to me, although he would never say who it was that he’d loved and lost.” Ruth lifted her chin and met my inquisitive gaze squarely. “We bonded over our mutual heartache, I suppose.”

I set the cup down on the top of the display case and reached for the saucer. Sliding it under the cup, I carefully considered my next words. “Forgive me for pouring salt in the wound, but I do want to ask you something else about Jeremy Adams.” I kept my gaze fixed on my hands as I spun the cup around on the saucer. “I suppose, hearing the news of his death, you could feel quite differently now, but before that … Well, not to be rude, but you did say that you were terribly hurt when he originally disappeared. I assume you were angry too?”

“Of course. He promised me we’d always be together, and then he was gone.” Ruth swept one finger under her right eye. “Sorry. I still tend to tear up about that, after all these years.”

“He betrayed you,” I said, sympathy infusing my voice. I knew all too well how the betrayal of a lover could bring forth fury as well as tears.

“He did, and I reacted badly. I can see why the others might suspect me of killing him. I was that angry. But”—Ruth shook out her tensed fingers and dropped her hands to her sides—“I swear I didn’t. Despite everything, I loved him. And anyway, I had something of his that made me think he loved me too, or at least trusted me more than anyone else. A promise that, despite everything, maybe he’d return to me one day.”

The triumphant look that suffused Ruth’s face took me by surprise. “Oh? What was that?”

“A copy of his demo reel.” Ruth’s thin lips curved in a tremulous smile. “He left it with me before he headed to LA. Only a cassette, of course. He took the actual reel with him. It contained all his original songs. He always played covers when he performed for us at the commune, but for his demo reel he only wanted the music he’d created.”

“And he entrusted you with a copy?”

“Yes, and that’s why I never thought we were completely done.” Ruth touched her fingers to her lips, as if remembering a long-lost kiss. “I don’t think anyone one else at the commune knew anything about it. Certainly not that girl …” Ruth shook her head and gave me a triumphant look. “He told me he’d worked on it in secret, writing both the lyrics and the music in order to show the true depth of his talent. He planned to shop it around as soon as he made the right contacts.”

“You still have the cassette?”

“Yes, although I eventually copied it over to a CD before the original tape wore out. I listened to it too many times, I suppose.” The sudden shyness flickering over Ruth’s face made me catch a glimmer of the young girl she’d once been, madly in love with a brilliant musician.

I knew that story. My version, like hers, had not ended well. But it seemed she’d clung to the dream much longer.

“Maybe that’s something you should share with the authorities,” I said. Although I wasn’t sure what Jeremy’s original music could’ve had to do with his death, it seemed like an important puzzle piece that Brad and his team might need.

“I’d rather someone else do that.” Ruth met my questioning look with a lift of her hands. “Carol and P.J., of course. I don’t know—I just thought if they were the ones to turn it over to the sheriff’s department, it would be weighed in their favor. Like, if the authorities believe Jeremy trusted Carol and P.J. enough to let them keep something so valuable to him, maybe they wouldn’t look so suspicious?” She shrugged. “As I said, they were always decent to me, so I don’t mind helping their cause.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly legal …”

Ruth cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Oh, come on. It’s not like the cops always play fair. Anyway, it’s actually a bit selfish of me. I’d rather not be too involved in this investigation, and that CD might drag me in too deep. You’d be doing me a favor, as well as helping P.J. and Carol.”

I knew I should refuse this request. It would disrupt the chain of evidence if I accepted Ruth’s CD. But I had to confess, for some inexplicable reason, I wanted to hear Jeremy’s music. Perhaps it was the image of a vibrant young man—smiling at me from a photo that spoke to me across the years—that convinced me to agree.

“All right,” I said. “But you keep the original. Carol and P.J. can say they copied it to the CD and then tossed the cassette. That way you’ll still have a copy, no matter what happens.”

“Sadly, the cassette fell apart long ago. Now all I have is the CD.”

“Are you sure you want to give it up?”

“Yes, I’d rather see it help my old friends instead of just sitting on a shelf. I’m sure Jeremy would’ve wanted that too,” Ruth said before heading toward the back of the shop. “Wait there—I’ll be just a minute.”

I sucked in a deep breath. Why was I doing this crazy thing? It was out of character for me, but for some reason I felt compelled to comply. By a photograph, I thought, with a snort of derision. You really are losing it, girl.

Musing over this foolish compulsion, I crossed to the front window and stared out into the street. A tall, lanky figure caught my eye. Someone standing at the window, peering in.

P.J. Fields.

I rubbed my eyes. No, that can’t be right, I told myself. It was a weekday afternoon. I knew P.J. was usually too busy with farm chores and direct sales of his produce to come into town.

And why would P.J. be lurking around in front of Ruth’s shop? Or if he’d planned to drop in, why would he scurry off as soon as someone noticed him?

“Here you go.” Ruth’s voice cut into my thoughts.

I turned to face her and took the slim plastic case from her hand. “Okay. But if the sheriff’s department really starts questioning you …”

“I can handle them.” Ruth spoke with a confidence she’d not displayed up to that point. She gave me a little smile. “I’ve dealt with situations like that before, back when I had a few run-ins with the law over my activism.”

“All right, then,” I said. “And thanks for sharing so much information with me. But before I go, I do want to buy that teacup and saucer. It might be just the thing.”

Ruth smiled again and wrote up the sale in her old-fashioned receipt book. Fortunately, she also had a credit square on her phone to take my payment, since the cup and saucer were a bit more expensive than I’d imagined.

But I didn’t complain. I simply slipped the CD case into the bag with the gift box and left the shop, promising to stop by again soon.

On the street, I looked around for P.J. Fields, but he was nowhere to be seen.