CHAPTER 9

 

At nine o’clock on a cold Wednesday morning, a traveler’s mug of strong coffee beside her in the console, Jo pulled up to Loralee’s house. Just beep, Jo. I’ll be ready, Loralee had insisted, so Jo beeped. The door to Loralee’s pretty Cape Cod swung open and Loralee, bulging tote bag in hand, stepped out and waved. She turned to fiddle at some length with what must have been more than one lock, so Jo took the moment to scan the property. It was definitely well kept up – trouble to do or not. The siding looked white, the shutters bright, and the windows sparkled in the pale January sun. Loralee’s gardening skills weren’t evident yet, but the evergreen bushes edging the house’s foundation looked healthy, with light frost accentuating their dark green leaves.

The property definitely wasn’t large, though, and Jo thought she could see the zoning board’s problem with allowing an addition, though if Loralee’s neighbors were okay with it, it seemed like a moot point. The ins and outs of zoning boards, however, were areas Jo had little knowledge of.

“When we come back,” Loralee said as she pulled open the car door and leaned in, “I hope you can stop in for a cup of tea. I took a nice pound cake out of the freezer last night when I brought out the chili to thaw.”

“That sounds great, Loralee. I’ll see how things go. Randy Truitt is coming to the shop to fix some shelves for me later on and I’ll have to be there to let him in.”

“Oh, Randy!” Loralee said, settling her bag carefully beside her feet and buckling herself in. “How is he?”

Jo hesitated. She had no idea if he was in better or worse shape than he had been before she met him. “He’s fine, I guess,” she said, putting her Toyota in gear and pulling off. “Ina Mae suggested him for the job, and he showed up promptly enough after I called. He seems to know what he’s doing.”

“He’s fixing shelves? He’ll do fine. I always thought Randy had more ability than he gave himself credit for. It’s sad that he’s wasted a lot of it, but there’s still hope.”

“That’s pretty much what Ina Mae said. I take it he’s gone through some problems?”

Loralee sighed. “It was very unfortunate that both his parents died so early – Bill first, from a terrible farm accident, then Myrtle of cancer. Randy was an only child, and I think it was more than he could cope with. He sold the farm, then frittered away the money drinking too much and living foolishly. I think he’s finally seen the error of his ways, but there’s still a lot of pieces to pick up to get his life back on track.”

Jo turned onto Albion Street which led to the Ramirez’s apartment. “My only way to reach Randy was to leave a message for him at Otto’s,” she said. “Do you know what his living situation is?”

“He might still rent a room at Tillie Watson’s place, in the older section of town. Tillie won’t take messages for her roomers. She keeps a clean place, though, I’ve heard.”

Jo pulled up to the Manor View Arms, a place whose name was much grander than its appearance. A solid-looking sandstone building that may have been attractive in the sixties or seventies, it had an air, Jo thought, of an old man who had greatly relaxed his grooming rituals and leaned toward home haircuts and too-often-worn flannels.

“I think this is it,” Jo said. “Their address is 8147, that entrance over there.” Jo undid her seat belt. As Loralee worked at releasing her own belt and gathering up her bag, Jo asked, “Randy grew up on a farm, then? Where was it?”

“Oh,” Loralee said, checking the plastic lid on her chili for leakage, “I’m sure you’ve seen it.” She unhooked her belt and pushed open the car door. “It’s not a farm anymore. It’s where all those big houses went up. Holt Meadows.”

<><><>

Jo knocked on apartment 303. Its door, unlike most of the others she and Loralee had passed on the way, was scrubbed clean, although the paint showed signs of peeling. Jo had called Sylvia that morning to say she wanted to see them both, and Sylvia had been politely, though quietly, agreeable.

A far different Sylvia than the bubbly woman Jo had first met opened the door. She had dark-circled eyes and a somber air, though her hair had been brushed back neatly and her maternity clothing was crisp and clean. “Mrs. McAllister,” she said, stepping aside to welcome them in. “So good to see you.”

“Please call me Jo, Sylvia. Do you know Loralee Phillips?”

“We met at St. Adelbert’s, dear,” Loralee said, “at the Newcomer’s Coffee. But I’m sure you won’t remember, there were so many people. I asked Jo if I could come along. I hope you don’t mind? And I brought you a little something.” Loralee held out her vegetarian chili. “Just heat it up whenever you don’t feel like cooking. And don’t worry, I don’t make it very spicy. Your husband can add more pepper if he likes, but for you right now, with the baby, well, you know.”

Sylvia took it from Loralee, then nodded. “I remember, from the church. You were very nice.” Her voice trembled as tears threatened. “And you are very nice.”

“Oh sweetie, it’s nothing, believe me.” Loralee bustled about, pulling off her coat and taking Jo’s, giving Sylvia time to compose herself. “These don’t need hanging up, we can just leave them over here. What a lovely place you have! I’ll bet you made this throw, didn’t you? The colors in it are beautiful.”

“Yes, I make,” Sylvia said, smiling for the first time. “Please, sit down. You like coffee? I have it ready.”

“That would be great,” Jo said. “Is Xavier here?”

“He be out in a minute. He was up late last night.” A shadow passed over Sylvia’s face and she turned away, heading to her kitchen for the coffee. As she crossed her small hallway Jo heard her call softly in Spanish, apparently notifying Xavier that their visitors were there.

Jo glanced around as she joined Loralee on the sofa, seeing a room that was achingly tidy, though furnished with what might well be flea-market finds. Wood surfaces, while scratched, gleamed with polish, and the worn upholstery was well-brushed and fresh-smelling. Sylvia, Jo saw, had managed to add brightness in what could have been a drab décor, with beautifully-made paper flowers and simply-framed colorful prints, most with a Mexican theme. Jo saw no sign of the quilted tote bags, and assumed Sylvia’s work area was somewhere in the back of the apartment.

She heard noises coming from the room down the hall, and soon footsteps headed their way. The man Jo had glimpsed arriving at the Holt’s house the night of the murder stood before them.

“Senoras,” he greeted them, bowing slightly.

Xavier Ramirez was slim, but with muscular arms apparent below the rolled sleeves of his denim shirt. Perhaps five-foot-eight and dark-haired, his full mustache could have easily given him an intimidating look, but the brown eyes that looked at Jo were soft. Despite his young age, Jo found herself reminded of her Grandpa Wagner, who had talked little, but had never shown up at their house without a fresh roll of cherry lifesavers for her in his pocket.

Sylvia did the introductions, and Xavier nodded gravely to both Jo and Loralee as he held out his hand. Loralee twittered, explaining in detail once again where they had already met, and Xavier nodded solemnly as though Loralee were telling him information of such importance that he was storing it carefully in his memory bank.

As Sylvia handed around coffee, Jo dove into her reason for being there.

“Carrie Brenner told me what you’ve been going through with the police.”

Xavier was silent for a moment, seeming reluctant to discuss his problem. Finally he said, “It’s very bad to be suspected of killing a man.”

“Yes,” Jo said, “believe me, I know. I had the bad luck to be in the same position not too long ago.”

Xavier’s dark eyebrows rose up.

“It’s true,” Loralee said. “Poor Jo, here, was new to our town, just as you are. Someone was killed the very day she opened her shop – IN her shop. Jo was their only suspect until she could prove to the police who really did it.”

Xavier turned to Jo. “So you understand.”

Jo nodded. “I do. And I also understand how important friends are at a time like this. Carrie and Dan are your good friends, as they are mine. They’re upset about this situation, and they’ve told me – which I hope you don’t mind – about the legitimate anger you had toward Parker Holt, reasons that lead the police to think you would have wanted him dead.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” Sylvia cried. “Never dead, never dead.”

Jo looked at Xavier who only pressed his lips together tightly, and shook his head. “But you can see their reasoning,” she said, “can’t you? That you had been there in the man’s house, that you certainly knew how to set up the trap that electrocuted him, and that you would likely be happy he was dead?”

Xavier crossed himself rapidly and shook his head. “I didn’t like the man, that is true. But I never be happy that anyone die like that, no matter how bad he is. He was bad; he deserve to be punished, but not in such a way.”

Xavier said this with quiet vehemence, and Jo felt his sincerity.

“It’s a terrible thing,” Loralee said, jumping in. “For you, for the Brenners, and for everyone concerned. The police are doing their job, trying to get to the truth, but please know there are people here in Abbotsville who care. We will do all we can to help. We want this to be cleared up so you can have a peaceful home to bring your baby into.”

“Thank you!” Sylvia said. “That is so much what we want also. I want to have our baby with a happy heart. I want to make my quilted bags for you, Jo, and I want everyone to know that my husband is good man. He is honest man who work hard. And he would not hurt anyone.”

Sylvia reached for Xavier’s hand. He clasped hers and patted it, giving her a small smile.

“I imagine,” Jo said, “a lot depends on who had the opportunity to set up that trap for Holt. Xavier, you left the house with Dan at 4 o’clock, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, we go to pick up the sink and toilet for the new bathroom. We couldn’t do anything more until we got those things, so we stop work early.”

“And I came to the house shortly after six. Were you with Dan those full two hours?”

Xavier’s gaze shifted slightly. “No, we load everything in Dan’s van, then he drive home I think around five.”

“And then you came right home?”

“No. I went to store first, to buy food. Sylvia shouldn’t carry heavy things now, so I do it.”

“You told the police that?”

He nodded.

“Does anyone at the store remember you were there?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t talk to anyone because I don’t know people there. I just fill basket, get in line, and pay. When I come home I see neighbor. We talked. I tell police that.”

“So your neighbor knows when you came home, besides Sylvia, I mean.”

“Yes. A little past six.”

Xavier’s demeanor seemed to have changed just a bit as he told Jo about going to the store. He hadn’t looked at her quite as firmly nor sat as still as before. “It would be very good for you,” Jo said, “if there was some way to verify you were at the store. A credit card receipt?”

“No, I pay cash.”

“I show police what Xavier bring home,” Sylvia said. “I show them cereal, milk, apples, everything. All fresh.”

“Did you have the store’s receipt?”

Sylvia’s face fell. “I look. We both look through all the trash. We could not find. Xavier thinks he might have dropped it coming out of store.”

“That’s too bad,” Jo said. “That would have made a big difference.”

“You think they will arrest Xavier?” Sylvia asked, her face filled with worry and fear. Xavier reached out and grimly rubbed at her shoulder.

“I hope not. They haven’t yet, and that might be a good sign.”

“Don’t you worry,” Loralee said. “You just take care of yourselves, get ready for that baby. Jo’s going to talk to people for you and she’s very good at finding out what’s really going on. Everything will be straightened out.”

Jo heard this with dismay. We can’t promise that! she wanted to cry. But she saw the spark of hope that had leapt to Sylvia’s dark-circled eyes. And the gratitude in Xavier’s. They needed help so badly. They needed friends beyond Carrie and Dan.

Jo nodded, swallowing anything that might dampen their tiny spark of optimism. “I’ll do my best.”

<><><>

Loralee was quiet as Jo drove away from the Manor View Arms. “You okay?” Jo asked as she pulled up to a red light.

“Yes, dear. I’m just thinking about that nice couple and how they’re going to need a little practical support too if Xavier isn’t working. There’s a group of ladies at St. Stephen’s who pitch in with meals and such when there’s an illness or death in a family. I’d say this nearly qualifies, wouldn’t you? We could call it a little pre-emptive care – to ward off those two falling sick from worry.”

“That’s a good idea, Loralee,” Jo said, meaning it, but knowing at the same time that it would only be a Band-Aid on the Ramirez’s problem. The way to really fix it would be to find out who wanted Parker Holt dead and took those lethal steps to guarantee it.

“Am I heading the right way to Pheasant Run?” Jo asked. Loralee had told her generally where the active adult community they were going to see was, but Jo wasn’t familiar with the particular roads that led there.

Loralee sighed, not at Jo’s ignorance, Jo was sure, but at what lay ahead. “Yes. Just keep going straight, and you’ll turn left after you pass Hanson’s Garage. I’m so glad you’ll be with me, Jo. I’m dreading this.”

“We’re only looking, Loralee. Nobody’s going to force you to sign anything.”

“I know. Don’t mind me. I just sink into one of these moods whenever I think about moving. But I’m going to try very hard to face this with an open mind.”

“That’s the spirit. And --” Jo was going to say ‘you might actually like the place’, but, sensing that was not what Loralee wanted to hear at the moment, she changed her comment to: “And it’s a nice day just to be out and about.” “Nice” stretched it a bit, as the temperature hovered around freezing, and clouds had moved in to turn the sky gray. But no wind howled nor sleet flew, so “nice” it was.

Jo made a few more turns at Loralee’s direction and finally pulled up to a long building with multiple roof lines that stretched beyond view. A large sign identified it as Pheasant Run Active Adult Living. “This is it,” Jo said.

“Pheasant Run,” Loralee sighed. “What an appropriate name. Just looking at it makes me want to run.”

“Where did that ‘open mind’ run off to?”

Loralee smiled. “You’re right. And I’m trying very hard to be positive.”

“Maybe focus on the “active” part of it. That doesn’t suggest anything near an assisted living or nursing home, does it?”

“No, but who knows if they don’t have a section in the back named, ‘Cooked Goose’. At Jo’s wry look, Loralee smiled and shrugged. She reached for her door handle. “Might as well get started.”

Jo opened her own door, feeling no need to call out, “Wait for me,” what with Loralee’s attitude definitely that of a woman being dragged kicking and screaming. Her ever-perfect manners, however, would never permit such a rude display. They managed to make their way into the building and to the open office door of the building manager, Angie Palmer.

“You must be Mrs. Phillips,” a cheery, red-haired woman of about fifty bounced up from behind a desk to greet them.

Loralee solemnly admitted that indeed she was, and shook the woman’s hand. She introduced Jo.

“How nice of you,” Angie said to Jo, “to bring your mother.”

“No,” Jo hastened to correct her, catching the fleeting troubled look that crossed Loralee’s face. “Loralee’s daughter is in Seattle right now. I’m just a friend.”

“A very dear friend,” Loralee added.

“Wonderful. Well, let me show you around, and then I can answer any questions you might have. All right?”

Jo and Loralee both nodded and dutifully got behind their enthusiastic guide. She led them through the model one-bedroom “Cardinal”, then opened up a folder showing sketches of the two-bedroom “Blue Jay”, and the super-sized three bedroom “Oriole”.

At one point, when Angie took a quick call on her cell phone, Loralee whispered to Jo, “I’m really hoping she doesn’t say something about building a little nest here.”

“I’m wondering about the nest egg it might take to buy one,” Jo whispered back, smiling. She had been impressed with features such as hardwood floors, marble vanities and deluxe appliances.

“Now let me show you our wonderful amenities,” Angie said, leading them briskly out of the “Cardinal”. Loralee and Jo agreeably followed behind.

“This is our state-of-the-art fitness center!” Angie announced as she opened the door to an impressive array of treadmills, exercise bikes, and a few other machines for which Jo had no name nor idea as to their function. A single grey-haired man worked a rowing machine near the back as he gazed upward at a television tuned to CNN.

Jo could picture Ina Mae making use of the place, but she wasn’t all that sure about Loralee. Loralee didn’t look all that sure herself.

Angie, perhaps sensing the disinterest, said, “And then, we have our Great Room.” She took them to a large bright room with scattered tables and chairs, a wall of shelves filled with books, and an unoccupied bar with stools. A few people relaxed around the tables, and Jo thought it all looked very pleasant.

“Our residents use this for a variety of things. It’s great for the occasional large party, but as you see it has its quiet times too.”

“Loralee Phillips! Is that you?” A round-shaped woman seated at one of the tables with three others, all holding cards, called out.

“Why Betty Kidwell!” Loralee cried. “I had no idea you lived here.”

“Bought a “Cardinal” last May,” Betty said proudly. “Last winter’s heavy snow just about did me in. I couldn’t get my own car out of my garage what with always needing someone to clear the driveway for me. You looking to buy, Loralee? If you do, you won’t need your car anymore. I got rid of mine. The shuttle bus takes us anywhere we want to go.”

But I love my car! Jo could almost hear Loralee thinking, but what came out of her mouth was a polite, “I’ll remember that.” Loralee introduced Jo to Betty, and Betty in turn named her table companions.

“You’re that arts-and-crafts lady, aren’t you,” one of the women asked. Thin, with unnaturally dark hair, she’d been introduced to Jo as ‘Donna’.

Jo confessed that she was.

“Angie,” Donna enthused, “you should have Jo come and teach a few craft classes. They’d go over big! I always wanted to sign up for one of your workshops, Jo, but I always seem so darn busy. If you came here, though, I wouldn’t have any excuse, would I? I could just walk over and plop myself down.”

“Jo gives wonderful workshops,” Loralee said. She pulled back her hair to show her earrings. “I made these at her last one.”

The ladies oohed over the earrings, impressed.

“I’ve been dying to try beading,” Donna cried. “Angie, let’s get her over here!”

“We’ll definitely look into it,” Angie said, smiling at Jo.

Jo was mentally running over her schedule, wondering if she could fit another workshop in, when Betty said, “Angie, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Is Parker Holt’s death going to change anything with our condo management?”

“Parker Holt?” Jo asked. “Is he connected to Pheasant Run?”

“Why, he built the place!” Betty said with some surprise.

“It shouldn’t affect us at all,” Angie assured Betty. “Parker Holt turned over care of the property to C & A Management. Everything will continue on smoothly, don’t worry.”

“More smoothly, I hope, than what went on with that first management company.” A third woman at the table, Celia, who had been silent until now, said. All eyes turned toward Celia, and she explained. “Ralph and I were one of the first to move in here. “I remember hearing about some terrible rows between Parker Holt and the woman who first managed here. There were even threats of a lawsuit, which, as far as I know, never materialized.”

Celia’s tablemates’ eyes bugged with interest, but Angie Palmer looked highly uneasy. “I haven’t shown you our swimming pool yet,” she said to Loralee and Jo, moving coaxingly away from the table.

Loralee agreed that she hadn’t, and, as she and Jo took their leave from the table of card players, Jo decided she could definitely find time in her busy schedule to come back to Pheasant Run.