Mom handed me a plate on a tray along with a small pot of tea. When I raised an eyebrow, she tsked softly, irritated.
“Jill might be taking things seriously, as she should,” she said, “but poor Frieda can at least have some dinner while she’s accused of murder.”
Right, I’d forgotten all about the gun shop and hunting lodge owner who we’d caught sneaking around. We’d all eaten ages ago, the time now well past 7PM and the majority of the day wasted on Jill’s endless questions (not complaining or anything). Darkness devoured the corners missed by flickering light fixtures meant to recreate flame as I carried the tray from Mom and headed for the upstairs and the room Jill had locked off from the outside. Not that someone as wily as Frieda wouldn’t be able to figure out how to pick the bulky lock on the door if she really wanted out. I had very little doubt of that. When I retrieved the key from Jill where she huddled over her notes in the office she’d claimed, she just grunted her assent and handed over the goods, letting me take my burden to her prisoner.
Did that mean she was okay with me questioning Frieda? Had to. Because surely Jill knew letting me within spitting distance of any of the suspects meant cutting me loose to fumble through my own version of my favorite gameshow, “Did You Kill the Dead Guy?”
Rather than give me a hard time, Frieda seemed happy to see me, helping me with the tray, acting like she was an invited guest, not a murder suspect. She even gestured for me to sit at the small table that was a perfect match to the one in my room, as was the obvious mirror and four poster bed. I settled in the chair opposite with my back purposely to the shining surface that had almost given me heart failure a time or two in other locations and watched as Frieda sniffed appreciatively at Mom’s cooking.
“I’ve been to your place a few times since your mother started the restaurant.” She smiled as she took a bite of stew, chewing with vigor before swallowing. “She’s a great cook, that Lucy.”
Now, maybe I was wrong, but she was either one stone-cold customer or she had nothing to do with Grayson’s death. Sociopath or innocent bystander? Not so innocent, though, out to ruin another person’s business. And yet, I could understand her frustration. I made a point to say as much while she nodded over her dinner.
“Olivia’s methods are sound,” Frieda said, breaking the slice of fresh bread Mom provided into small chunks and dunking them into the stew juice, “and for the most part she’s done Reading a service, don’t get me wrong. But there are times that woman needs a good shaking, Fee. And this is one of them.”
I wasn’t about to argue. “There was a point when someone was planning to build a boutique hotel, right when I was looking at the annex.” Never mind it was Vivian and I had insider knowledge in time to do something about it, not to mention Olivia having my back, for better or worse.
But Frieda saw my offering for what I meant it to be—a show of solidarity. “Exactly my point,” she said, jabbing her spoon in my direction. Her short, white hair came loose from behind one ear, something she swept at with her free hand, the skin around her eyes well lined but her gaze as sharp as a newly honed knife. I wouldn’t have wanted to meet her in the woods if she had it in for me. “There’s healthy competition, and that’s fine. But I get enough of it from other towns. My operation floats, brings business to Reading. There’s not sufficient demand to warrant another like it.” She shook her head, frown creasing a deep line between her eyes. Again I realized she looked familiar. Why was that? “I’ve lived in Reading my whole life. Worked hard, supported other businesses as best I could.” She met my gaze again. “Liked your Grandmother Iris just fine, her spunk. She and a few of us old girls with the guts to run our own operations despite the men who said we couldn’t.” How hard must it have been to be a female entrepreneur when my grandmother was my age? I had no concept, outside of Hollywood and a bit of history. “All I ever wanted was a decent living for me and my family.” Fair enough.
“So far so good,” I said. “But Eddie’s retreat threatens that.”
She shrugged then, dropping her spoon and sitting back, most of her meal devoured. “I’ve watched my sister’s business go belly up these last few years, our grandfather’s business. Watched her struggle, despite the help she’s gotten lately from folks like you.”
“Who’s your sister?” And as she spoke the pieces clicked together and I realized why she looked familiar.
“Wanda Beaman,” Frieda said. “Beaman’s Fishing.”
I’d met Wanda formally in August when the woman was part of the investigation into Lester Patterson’s murder. When the yacht club president’s death pulled me into her life, I’d done my best to help her bounce back from the loss of customers she’d been suffering since thefts at the local cottages and pollution of Cutter Lake’s waters had damaged her business. Nothing much, really, just advertising for her at Petunia’s and the occasional coffee where we talked strategy. I’d heard Wanda was planning some big things for the spring and I hoped they panned out.
Frieda seemed disposed to trusting me thanks to her sister, apparently. “Wanda felt betrayed,” she said, regret in her voice. “How many times did I tell her she wasn’t managing things right if she was struggling? I had no idea, not until this happened. I owe my sister an apology.” She squinted at me, sipping her tea. “Wanda says you play straight, that you’re Iris through and through. I trusted that sharp minded woman who made your father, Fee, so I trust you.” She tapped the side of her mug with her thick fingers.
How much could I trust her with, though? “You have to know Olivia has nothing to do with this place.” I found myself scowling at the floor, fully aware despite the mayor’s drive to succeed, she was smarter than to turn business against business in Reading. “This smells, Frieda. Like Geoffrey Jenkins.”
She grunted, nodded. “I know,” she said. “That whole voting thing was just temper talking. I might not like everything that’s happened, but I wouldn’t trust that Patterson mouthpiece with a dog I hated.”
Sowing seeds of discontent everywhere he went. Which was, I could only guess, his reason for playing both sides. But why was Marie Patterson—she had to be behind his activities—so set on reversing what Olivia created? “Do you know anything about the family matriarch?”
Frieda’s face tightened, shrewd and contemplative. “I know she and your grandmother were tight as a Scot’s wallet growing up,” she said. “Doreen Douglas, Peggy Munroe, Marie Patterson and Iris Fleming. Thicker than thieves, the four of them, though I never understood what drew them together.”
I gaped at her. I couldn’t help it. While my mind flashed to a photograph hanging on the wall in Doreen’s office. The former secretary of the yacht club had it out in the open, and I’d recognized my grandmother, Peggy. But the fourth? I had no idea it was Marie Patterson.
If Grandmother Iris was connected to the founding family, could that mean she actually did know about the Reading hoard? And that the treasure was real and not just a fun game I’d been toying with out of the fun of discovery and connection to Daisy and Crew?
Frieda’s mind was elsewhere, clearly, because she set down her mug and sighed. “I had no reason to kill this Gallinger fellow,” she said. “I didn’t even know him. My gripe was with Olivia.” She grimaced, cracked her thick knuckles of her left, then right, hand. “If I was going to kill someone?” Sparks went off in her eyes. “It would be that Dan Robles for deserting me after all these years.”
“How long was he with you?” Did they have a more personal connection?
“Almost twenty seasons,” she said. “No idea why he left, don’t ask. He wouldn’t say. But it’s a betrayal that cuts deep, Fee. I’m sure you understand the value of loyalty.”
I thought about Daisy, about Rose, and nodded. “And Eddie?”
She shrugged. “Upstart kid. I give him a year, maybe two. He’ll fold. Just annoyed I have to cut my profit because he’s poking his nose in my territory.”
I personally felt a rather possessive surge of mine about our town too, so I didn’t fault her that attitude, despite knowing it was a bit misplaced.
Knowing Jill would be pissed at me, I told Frieda how Grayson was killed. “You’ve been hunting your whole life,” I said. “Could you have done it?”
She thought about it a moment before grunting softly. “Yes, I probably could,” she said. “I’ve wrung enough necks over the years I might be able to figure it out.” Yikes. Sigh. “But I have no motive.”
“And no alibi?” While her motive might not be apparent, if we could eliminate her by her whereabouts, she’d be free to leave the room, at least.
Frieda didn’t look hopeful. “I was camping in the woods,” she said. “Alone. So take that for what it sounds like.”
“You were scaring the game away.” Not like it was a big shocker or anything.
She had the good grace to look uncomfortable. “Goes against my usual instincts,” she said. “And I know, I know. It was wrong. But I had to do something.”
I nodded. “That’s what you and Eddie were arguing about yesterday. He caught you.”
She blinked, nodded back. “You saw us? Yes, he threatened me.” She snorted then, actually looked amused. “Like that boy could even get a bead on me. He’d be dead before he had me in his crosshairs.”
Um, not doing a great job making herself look innocent.
Frieda flinched then, laughed. Blushed a bit. “I’m no quitter, Fiona Fleming,” she said, “but I’m no murderer either.” She hesitated a moment before standing, offering her hand. “For what it’s worth, if you think it will help, I’ll show you my campsite. It might not provide me with an alibi, but at least you can see I’m telling the truth about where I’ve been staying.”
Not the kind of offer I was about to turn down.
***