Murder by Mushroom (4 page)

Why
hadn’t she taken potato chips to that potluck?

Dennis Walsh popped the trunk on his cruiser and stowed the bags while Detective Conner slid into the passenger seat. That interview had been an education in interrogation. The way the detective handled the questioning was nothing short of brilliant. Sitting across the table from him, Dennis hadn’t believed how polite, how approachable, how
nice
the normally arrogant man had been, inviting confidences with his demeanor. Of course, at the end his true personality had emerged. That poor girl had really looked rattled. Just like most of the officers around the station looked whenever Detective Conner deigned to walk through with his usual biting commentary.

But he was the best in the state, no doubt about it. That’s why Dennis had finagled this assignment. With any luck, Conner would recommend him for detective when they solved this case.

One thing bothered him, though. That girl didn’t look like a killer. She looked like a…well, like an attractive young woman with an open book for a face. If Dennis was any judge of character—and he believed he was—Jackie Hoffner was no murderer.

Slamming the car door and strapping his seat belt in one smooth motion, Dennis turned toward his passenger.

“You don’t really believe she killed that old lady, do you?”

Conner shrugged.

“But she doesn’t fit the profile,” Dennis insisted. “Not even close.”

“Walsh, the first rule you learn in police investigation is this—never make assumptions. Everyone is capable of committing a crime, given the right motivation.”

Dennis shook his head. “I’m not sure I buy that. I’ve studied profiling, and—”

“Everyone.” Conner snapped his own seat belt and caught Dennis’s gaze in his direct one. “You can trust your mother, Walsh. But check her.”

Dennis turned the key in the ignition, nodding. Conner was as cynical as they came. Maybe that’s why he was considered the best.

But as he backed out of the parking lot, Dennis couldn’t help remembering the way Jackie’s lower lip had quivered when he had confiscated her cutting board.

A
rivulet of rain dripped from Esther Hodge’s umbrella onto the top of Margaret’s head. When it slid down her forehead, Margaret stopped the trickle with a fingertip and took a sideways step to the green canopy covering the grave site. Lucky Earl. He stood dry beyond the casket, holding an open Bible and waiting for the last of the brave to make the muddy trek to the dubious shelter of the canopy.

The canvas ceiling showed an ominous sag of pooling rain directly above Margaret’s head. She took another two steps toward the center.

More people than Margaret expected had turned out for Alice’s service. Several elderly gentlemen identified themselves at the funeral home as friends or coworkers of the late Mr. Farmer, and a taxicab had deposited an ancient woman who said she’d retired from the paper factory a few years before Alice.

Heritage Community Church was well represented, too. Six elderly members of the Prime Timer Sunday school class, come to bid farewell to one of their own, perched on wobbly folding chairs in front of the casket.

A backward glance showed Richard and Laura Watson, huddled beneath a black umbrella, bringing up the rear of the wet funeral goers. Interesting. The Watsons and Alice had never seemed close—certainly not close enough for Richard to take time off from his job as a bank vice president to attend her funeral. Margaret wondered if the reason had anything to do with Richard’s rumored interest in becoming the church treasurer when Ernie stepped down at the end of the year. Attending an old lady’s funeral would earn him brownie points with the elderly members of the congregation.

A flash of guilt washed over her at the uncharitable thought. Maybe he was simply being respectful to a long-time member of his church.

The conspicuous absence of one person disturbed Margaret. Jackie should be here. After all, she’d found Alice ill and called the ambulance. She shifted her gaze to the two policemen watching the proceedings from the back corner. When they came to the parsonage this morning they mentioned they’d just come from Jackie’s apartment, and their questions centered rather intently on her pasta casserole. They seemed quite eager to know who, besides Alice, might have taken leftover portions home. Surely the girl wasn’t so upset by their questions she’d decided not to attend the funeral.

Earl cleared his throat as the Watsons joined the dripping group beneath the canopy. Margaret directed her attention toward her husband, who looked through the bottom half of his bifocals and read from the scriptures. His vibrant baritone carried beyond the tent and rolled down the softly curving hillside, flooding the quiet cemetery with words of comfort.

“‘Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.’”

The funeral goers squirmed, surprised at Earl’s selection of a passage of Scripture normally read at weddings. Margaret hid a smile. None of that ashes-to-ashes stuff for Earl; he leaped at any opportunity to talk about God’s love.

Unfortunately, he had discussed the subject at length back at the funeral home. Having heard her husband perform this particular funeral service several times, Margaret found herself struggling to pay attention. At least he had the sense to keep the grave-side service short. Some of the elderly mourners had no business being out in this weather.

Earl must have thought the same. Before anyone even had time to start fidgeting, she heard his closing words: “The greatest thing we can do to make this earth more like heaven is to show His love to one another. I’m sure if Alice had the opportunity to make one last request, she would ask us to love one another. Let us pray.”

Margaret bowed her head along with everyone else. A beautiful thought, but she wondered if that’s what Alice would really have asked. The surly old woman certainly hadn’t displayed love for her fellow man, at least not as far as Margaret ever saw.

Flushing, Margaret mentally chastised herself. What was wrong with her today? Her thoughts had certainly taken a harsh turn. She seemed to suspect the worst from everyone.

“Amen.”

She looked up to see Earl bestowing a benevolent smile upon the mourners, looking extremely pastoral in his raincoat with his dark suit and tie peeking out at the collar.

“May God bless you as you go.”

People filed out of the tent, umbrellas popping open here and there. The police officers watched until almost everyone was gone then slipped quietly away after a polite nod in her direction. Margaret made her way toward Earl, who stood talking quietly to the funeral director. Most funerals ended with a gathering at the home of the surviving family so the attendees could share their condolences personally while they ate a meal provided by neighbors and church members. Since Alice’s only relative, a niece, hadn’t made the trip from California, Earl and Margaret canvassed the Prime Timer class and made the decision to forgo the usual post-funeral meal. After the policeman’s questions this morning, skipping another potluck seemed like a very good decision.

Lyle Howard, a church member and Alice’s attorney, approached to shake Earl’s hand at the same time Margaret arrived at the front of the tent.

“Second-best funeral I ever attended, Pastor,” Lyle said.

Margaret raised one eyebrow. “Second best?”

“When I was a sophomore in college, my friend Kevin O’Connor’s grandfather died. They had a genuine Irish wake for the old guy. Of course—” he winked in her direction “—that was in my wilder days.”

Margaret grinned. “Of course!”

“Thank you for arranging the service,” Lyle told Earl. “Everything was very nice.”

“Margaret did most of it.” Earl shrugged a shoulder. “I just showed up and did what she told me to do.”

“It was no problem,” Margaret assured Lyle. “If there’s anything else I can do to help settle the estate, just let me know.”

“Actually, there is. Not with the estate—it’s going to be fairly straightforward. Mrs. Farmer left everything to her niece, who wants me to set up an estate auction. But Ms. Baker did say if the church could use anything from the house, particularly her clothes and personal items, they’re welcome. Otherwise, I’ve been instructed to take them to the Salvation Army. If you want to help, you can find someone to go through the house and see if there’s anything you’d like to take for the poor box or the ladies’ rummage sale and then donate the rest.”

Margaret could think of nothing less appealing than going to Alice’s house and pawing through her clothes. But she pasted a rueful grin on her lips. “I’ll see to it.”

“There’s no hurry. We won’t get an auction arranged for at least a month or two.”

He nodded a farewell and, clutching his collar tightly against the steady downpour, dashed out of the tent and down the gently sloping hill toward his car. Soon the only people left were two men in work clothes who hovered beneath a nearby tree, obviously anxious for them to leave so they could finish the burial and get out of the wet.

Margaret looped arms with Earl and drew close beneath the cover of his umbrella as they sloshed through the wet grass toward their car.

“You did a good job,” she told him, squeezing his arm.

He chuckled. “Mrs. Watkins told me she was glad she got to hear me preach a funeral before she died. Now she won’t worry that I’ll botch hers too badly.”

“Who’s that, Earl?” Margaret nodded toward a gray car with fogged windows parked behind their Buick.

“Looks like Jackie’s car,” he said, squinting to see inside.

The driver’s window opened a few inches. A pair of lips appeared.

“Psst, Pastor Palmer. Margaret. Over here.”

Margaret arched her eyebrows at Earl, who shrugged. They veered toward the car. At their approach, the window opened a few more inches to reveal dark sunglasses beneath a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap.

“Jackie, is that you?”

“Shh! Someone will hear you.”

Margaret looked around the empty cemetery. “There’s no one here.”

“Oh.” A brief pause, and then Jackie’s lips twisted with suppressed sobs. “Do you have a minute? I…I need to talk to someone.”

“Would you like to come back to the parsonage?” Earl gave her a soothing smile. “I’m free for the rest of the day.”

Sniffling, Jackie nodded. Margaret and Earl exchanged a glance.

“Earl, you run along and we’ll be there directly. I’m going to ride with Jackie.”

Earl walked her around to the passenger side and opened the door for her. Jackie picked up a pile of papers and threw them unceremoniously into the backseat, where they were immediately lost in the clutter. Margaret had no sooner seated herself and closed the door than the car leaped forward, speeding down the narrow driveway and taking the curves much faster than she liked. She hastily snapped her seat belt, her heart rate picking up speed along with the car. At the cemetery’s entrance, she was thrown sideways as Jackie turned left onto the main road without even slowing down.

“You missed the funeral,” Margaret said as she clutched the door handle.

“I couldn’t go.” A sob broke the last word in two. “I can’t show my face around those people ever again.”

Jackie turned a corner at forty-five miles per hour. Margaret gasped. Could the young woman see through the fogged windshield and those dark glasses?

“Slow down, dear,” Margaret managed. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Jackie tapped the brakes until they were down to thirty, and Margaret let out a sigh of relief. “Now what’s this about not being able to show your face? It’s the casserole, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Margaret!”

Jackie sobbed and slammed on the brakes. Margaret grasped the seat belt that stopped her from plastering her face on the windshield. Jackie covered her face with her hands, crying, as Margaret glanced through the rear window. The steady downpour made visibility difficult. Not a good time to stop in the middle of the street.

“Why don’t you pull over to the side of the road so we can talk?”

Jackie proceeded to do as she asked, then collapsed across the steering wheel, knocking her cap to the floor. Relieved to be out of the way of traffic, Margaret said, “Now listen, Jackie. No one will blame you. Alice’s death was not your fault.”

“The police don’t agree.” Fear showed through the tears in her eyes. “Do you think I’ll be arrested?”

“Of course not! I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for Alice’s death, and that detective will find it.”

For a moment, the confidence Margaret poured into her voice seemed to soothe the girl. At least her crying slowed and she gave a slight nod. But then her face crumpled with another wail.

“The police have probably visited half the congregation this morning. I just know everyone is talking about my spiral pasta casserole being what killed Mrs. Farmer. How will I ever be able to walk into church again? How will I ever be able to bring food to another potluck? Everyone will be afraid of me. I knew I shouldn’t have cooked anything. I’m going to be known as Typhoid Jackie!”

She jerked the glasses off and threw them into the back seat with force.

“Nonsense. There is not a person in the church who wouldn’t eat what you cook, me included. You’re making too big a deal over this.”

“B-but the church gossips—”

“—are having a great time speculating on who really killed Alice. At the funeral home I heard it blamed on a neighbor who was upset about a tree Mrs. Farmer cut down. I also heard speculation about the manager of the grocery store because she complained about the high prices of his produce. And someone mentioned her niece in California needing money to support her drug habit. My favorite was the prankster teenagers who thought the mushrooms were hallucinogenic and wanted to watch Mrs. Farmer ‘tripping.’ But no one—not one person—said anything about you.”

Jackie sat up and sniffed. “Really?”

“Really. But you can bet they’re going to start talking about you soon.”

“What do you mean?”

Margaret leaned toward the younger woman. “If you suddenly stop coming to church, they’re going to wonder what you have to hide.”

Margaret reached into her purse and pulled out a tissue, which Jackie took. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am. Now the best thing you can do is come to church on Sunday, just like always. Hold your head up high and tell anyone who asks that you hope they catch the creep who had the nerve to use your casserole to commit such a terrible crime.”

Jackie gave her a weak smile, eyes reddened but dry. “Thank you, Margaret. I feel a lot better.”

“I’m glad. Now take me home and we’ll have a nice, hot cup of tea. This rain has me shivering like a wet dog.”

Rain pelted against Jackie’s bedroom window. No fair! Saturdays should be sunny. Why couldn’t rain come during the week, when everybody was at work?

She pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and Linus, curled against her side, gave an irritable grumble at being suddenly buried. She shoved him gently.

“Go sleep in the windowsill like a normal cat.”

Displaying his typical disregard for her requests, he crept out from between the sheets and curled into a comfortable ball on the far corner of the mattress to resume his slumber.

Jackie stared at the window, watching tiny waterfalls slide down the glass against the backdrop of a gloomy gray sky. She should have gone to the funeral yesterday. Margaret was right in saying everyone would be talking about her absence and wondering why Jackie Hoffner was too embarrassed to show up. She’d just given them something else to talk about, another reason to link her name to Mrs. Farmer’s death. As usual, she had done the wrong thing.

Who cares what they think, anyway?

She rolled over, turning her back to the window. Did it matter if people like Beverly Sanders whispered about her behind her back? Not in the least. She’d waltz into that church tomorrow with her head high and ignore them all. She’d done that plenty of times.

Like back in school, when she came into the lunchroom and the girls at the table by the door fell quiet. Or worse, giggled as they looked at her discount-store jeans and T-shirt. Aunt Betty couldn’t afford to spend good money on fancy clothes like the other girls wore. And Jackie wouldn’t have wanted her to, anyway. Clothes didn’t matter.