The Woodpecker Always Pecks Twice Page 11

  “Didn’t Bessie’s husband die some time ago?” I asked. “That’s what Gertie Hammer told me.”

  “Yes,” hissed Ed.

  Karl looked like he wanted to say more but I gave him a look of warning.

  Ed shot Karl an angry look but it was Ed’s wife, Abby, who spoke next. “Bessie Hammond is dead. I’m not saying I’m sorry or that I’m going to miss her, but shouldn’t we be talking about birds and beer? That is what we’ve come for.” She snatched her mug and drained it before giving her husband an ugly look.

  Ed ignored her. “What was Bessie doing out in those woods anyway? All by herself. I mean, that doesn’t seem right.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It didn’t seem right to me either. “Did she often go for bird walks alone?”

  Ed shook his head no.

  “What do you know?” Abby said acidly.

  “Maybe she saw something interesting on our walk Saturday and wanted to go back for a second look,” suggested Floyd.

  “True,” said Otelia. “She might have wanted to return to get more pictures.”

  Pictures!

  “Her and that fancy camera of hers,” scoffed Abby Quince. She snapped her napkin and folded it on her lap. “What good does it do her now?”

  My heart was racing. That’s what had been gnawing at me. That was what was wrong with the scene I had stumbled on, Bessie slumped against the tree. She’d had her binoculars, but not her camera. Why wasn’t it around her neck, too? Would she have left it home? It didn’t seem likely, not if she was bird-watching. So what had happened to her camera?

  Floyd rested his elbows on the table and his chin on his fists. “You remember what Bessie said in Amy’s van the other day, on the way to the lake?”

  “What do you mean?” Karl replied.

  “We were talking about murder. You remember, Amy. About how good you were at solving them.”

  I picked up the thread from there. “And Bessie claimed that if there ever was another murder, she’d be the one to solve it.”

  Floyd nodded soberly. “Now, instead of solving a murder, she’s the victim of one.”

  “And it’s going to be up to somebody else to solve her murder.” Karl snapped a pretzel in two. “I’ve half a mind to do it myself. But I am retired.” He slid both halves of the pretzel across his tongue.

  The table fell silent a moment.

  “Bessie Hammond was a hussy,” Clara Kimmel said quite unexpectedly, breaking the silence. “Hammond the hussy.” She hiccuped, then popped a handful of salted peanuts in her mouth and chewed, her pointed jaw moving sharply side to side.

  I goggled at her.

  “Excuse me.” Walter rose unsteadily. “Men’s room?” He looked expectantly at Paul Anderson, who was seated at the opposite end of the long table. Paul, who’d had a bewildered expression on his face for the past several minutes, gave directions to the facilities.

  “Sorry I’m late.” A man’s lips brushed my cheek.

  I shot around. “Gus! What are you doing here?” My cheek burned where he’d kissed me. What had the man been thinking?

  “You invited me, remember?” Gus replied. “I just came from the diner. We had quite a rush for a while there.” His charcoal trousers were unwrinkled and his white button-down shirt spotless. How did he manage to always look so clean and unsoiled working in a kitchen?

  Gus grabbed a chair from a nearby empty table and pushed it close to mine.

  I’d invited him? I wanted to say why on earth would I do that, but then I remembered. I had invited him. Him and Moire when I’d burst in on their afternoon lovemaking session the other day. I stifled a groan of regret.

  “Hey, I know you. You’re from the diner,” Floyd said.

  Gus smiled. “That’s right, Gramps.”

  Floyd fumed and Karl patted him on the shoulder. That was when I saw Derek standing on the sidewalk, looking into the courtyard with an unreadable expression on his face.

  Oh, dear. Gus McKutcheon was sitting right beside me, his knees practically touching mine. Touching! My fingers flew to my cheek. Had Derek seen Gus kiss me?

  I smiled wanly, pulled my fingers away from my burning cheek and waved to him. Every head at the table turned to see who I was waving to.

  “Hey, buddy!” Paul called. “Join us.”

  Derek leaned his hands on the brick pony wall. “If I say yes, do I get free beer?”

  Paul agreed and Derek came through the courtyard side entrance. He was wearing his blue pinstriped suit, one of my favorites—it brought out the blue in his eyes. His slate-gray tie hung loosely knotted around his neck. Paul handed him a full mug of pilsner and he shambled over to me. He looked tired. “Evening, Amy.” He glanced at Gus. “Who’s your friend?” Of course, he knew darn well who he was.

  I cleared my throat. “This is Gus McKutcheon. I told you about him, remember? He recently moved into his family’s old property across the lake.”

  Derek, to his credit, smiled and shook Gus’s hand. “My pleasure.”

  “Have a seat,” I said, pulling another chair close to me on the opposite side.

  “Did I miss much?” Derek stuck his hand in a bowl of pretzel twists.

  “We were remembering Bessie Hammond,” I explained.

  “More like discussing Bessie Hammond’s death,” Paul replied.

  “Who’d want to kill poor Bessie?” wailed Ed once again, rubbing his chin against his chest.

  “Floyd here thinks Bessie’s husband did it!” shouted Karl.

  “That was you,” Floyd hollered back. “I was only repeating what you told me, Karl!”

  “Bessie’s husband has been dead for a decade,” I explained to Derek.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He drowned in Ruby Lake,” I continued. “On the anniversary of the day that Bessie herself was murdered.”

  Derek’s brow shot up. “That is weird.” He looked across me to Gus. “I’ll bet you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into when you decided to move to Ruby Lake, eh, Gus?”

  “So far,” Gus responded, “I’m finding it quirky but delightful. Are you a local?”

  “No, a recent transplant.” Derek explained how he’d moved up to be nearer his daughter and work in the family business.

  “What business would that be?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” said Derek.

  “Ah, any particular specialty?”

  “General practice. In a small town like this, it’s best not to over specialize. Speaking of which, Amy tells me you’re running the Ruby Diner and operating a youth hostel as well.”

  Walter returned to the table just then, looking wobbly and pale. “I believe we will call it an evening.” A bead of sweat ran the length of his hairline. “Clara?”

  Clara eyed him silently, then stood and grabbed her black purse. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said rather mechanically, nodding to one and all.

  The Kimmels left shoulder to shoulder, climbed into their dark Buick, and sped away.

  Ed hiccuped. “Maybe we should be going, too?” He looked hopefully at his wife. “Sorry, Amy. I’m afraid this is all my fault. I never should have mentioned Bessie.”

  “That’s okay, Ed. I’m sort of glad you did. Can anybody here think of anyone who might have wanted her dead?” I cut off any stupid remarks from Karl by saying, “Besides her dead husband?”

  Ed shook his head glumly. “Not me.”

  Abby merely chewed her lower lip.

  “I didn’t know her that well,” Otelia said, playing with her half-empty mug.

  “Was there anyone in particular that she had been fighting with?” Bessie wasn’t the most pleasant woman I’d ever met, but had she been vile enough to provoke someone to murder?

  “I have no idea,” Gus said quickly. A little too quickly, I thought.

  “Me either,” said Floyd. “I’ve known her for years from shopping at the grocery. And I knew her husband, Arthur, from the bank.” Floyd was a retired banker.
“They seemed like quiet, ordinary people.”

  “The police still can’t figure out what she was doing on my property.” That was Gus again. He seemed to be doing his best to distance himself from Bessie’s murder. I realized I couldn’t fault the man for that. I’d probably be doing the same thing.

  “The two of them never got in trouble with the law, I can tell you that,” Karl added. As Ruby Lake’s former chief of police, he’d be aware of any brushes with the law the Hammonds might have had or any encounters with unsavory elements.

  “What about you, Ed?” I called down the table. “You probably knew Bessie better than anyone here. Can you think of anyone who might have wished her any harm?”

  “Just what are you implying?” Abby glared at me.

  “Sorry,” I apologized quickly, though I had no idea what for. “I only meant that you, Ed, worked with Bessie at the Lakeside Market for so many years. In fact, didn’t you, too, Abby? Maybe if you think about it—”

  “Funny thing is,” began Ed, “Bessie wasn’t in church Sunday. We always see her in church, don’t we, dear?” He continued when his wife didn’t respond. “Remember, you remarked how she wasn’t there?”

  Ed looked at his wife as she said, “I think it’s time we left.” Abby stood and Ed followed suit.

  “This is a disaster,” I muttered. I crumpled my meeting notes and tossed the wadded-up paper on the table.

  “Say, Candy!” Karl waved to the young lady as she frolicked toward the table. “Got anything sweet?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “I’ll bring you the dessert menu.”

  Karl gave Floyd a wink. “I think she likes me.”

  “Are all bird-watchers this flighty?” Paul joked.

  I rolled my eyes at him. “This is your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “Birds and Brews was your bone-headed idea.”

  Paul slammed back his beer. “Don’t worry, next month’s meeting’s bound to be better.”

  “I’m not so sure there’s going to be a next meeting.”

  “Bah,” Paul said. “Lighten up. Don’t let this whole murder thing spoil the evening, Amy.”

  “Besides,” said Derek, “it’s not like there’s going to be a murder before each meeting of Birds and Brews.”

  I looked at him skeptically.

  “Paul’s right,” added Gus. “Mrs. Hammond’s death is unfortunate, but we have to go on with our lives. We can’t bring back the dead. Yep.” He banged his fists against the table. “Go on with your life. That’s what you do.”

  “You’re one to talk, Gus,” I said. “Your great-whatever killed herself after her husband got murdered by a bunch of marauders.”

  “Mary McKutcheon?” Gus appeared amused.

  “What’s your take on this whole widow-in-the-lake story?” Derek asked. “My ex tells me quite a tale.”

  “That old rumor?” scoffed Gus. “If you ask me, it’s nothing but bull. After her husband was killed, Mary probably moved to Florida to live with relatives,” he said with a laugh.

  Derek leaned across me toward Gus McKutcheon. “You don’t believe it?”

  “As much as I believe in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.” Gus stood. “Nice meeting you all.” He leaned toward me and I cut off what looked like another move to kiss my cheek by standing and extending my hand.

  Derek pushed back his chair. “I’ll walk out with you.”

  “Can’t you stay a while?” I asked. “I’ve got some wine upstairs. Or I could make a pot of coffee, if you prefer?” Derek really did look tired.

  Derek shook his head. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.” His fingers lightly brushed my arm. “Goodnight, Amy.”

  Floyd, Karl, and Otelia quickly followed.

  I looked down at Paul, who had remained seated after waving goodbye to everyone. “Next time you get a good idea to boost business, leave me out of it.” I gathered my purse and keys from the table.

  “Cheer up, Amy,” Paul replied, diligently smoothing my crumpled notes and riffling through the pages. “You’ve already got next month’s talk written.”

  15

  “Anita stopped by,” Mom explained. “We’re doing a little baking.”

  “Of what?” I gasped in an odd, alien, duck-sounding voice. It’s really hard to talk, pinch your nose, and hold your breath all at once. “The undead?” I’d come home from Brewer’s Biergarten hoping to drown my sorrows. Instead, I found myself drowning in stench and gray smoke.

  I pushed open the kitchen window and flapped my hands like mad.

  Mom pouted and wiped her hands down her apron. “We were trying something new.” She turned to Anita. “Too much brewer’s yeast, you think?”

  Anita nodded and dropped a big, smoking pot in the sink. “Yep. Too much brewer’s yeast, Barb.” She turned on the tap and squirted liquid soap into the aluminum pot. The accompanying sound of sizzling and tortured metal had me preparing to duck for cover.

  I crossed to the sink and looked at the blackened stockpot. A large metal baking tray containing lumps of... something brown with black and gold singe marks, sat at the edge of the counter. “What exactly were you baking?” Half the ingredients from the pantry were spread haphazardly along the kitchen counter. Some had spread to the kitchen table.

  “Don’t worry,” said my mother, seeing my critical eyes wander over the mess. “I’ll clean it up.”

  “I’ll help,” promised Anita.

  I held the twisted baking tray under Mom’s nose. “We’re trying to create our own breakfast bar,” she said, sounding rather defensive.

  I eyed her archly. “Breakfast barf is more like it.”

  “Breakfast cookies and bars are all the rage,” Anita explained. “We thought we’d give it a shot. Maybe get an investment from one of those venture capitalists.”

  “It’s going to take a capitalist with a sense of adventure, that’s for sure.”

  “Very funny.” My mother snatched the pan away from me and began attacking it furiously with a butter knife and steel wool. “Where’s Derek?”

  “Home, I guess.”

  “You two getting serious?” Anita said, fighting to keep her hair out of her eyes as she scrubbed the pan in the sink.

  “About as serious as Mom and Ben,” I shot back.

  Mom ignored the remark. “How was your event?”

  “Noneventful.” I grabbed the wine from the fridge along with bread and cheese and made myself a simple sandwich. “The group spent most of its time eulogizing and theorizing.”

  “We may have overdone it on this last batch, but the previous batch isn’t so bad. They’re right over there beside the blender,” Anita said. “You should try one.”

  “What do you mean eulogizing and theorizing?” inquired Mom.

  “Maybe later,” I replied, noncommittally. “We spent the whole time talking about Bessie Hammond.”

  “More wake than wingding?” Anita said with a wink.

  “It’s important to express your grief when a loved one dies.” Mom dried her hands on the kitchen towel. Mom should know. Dad’s passing had been hard on her. And me.

  “I know.” I bit into my sandwich and chewed, deep in thought. “I tell you, there’s a whole lot going on in Ruby Lake that I don’t think most of us ever see more than the tip of.”

  “What do you mean?” Anita plopped into the chair beside me, a glass of water in hand.

  I thought about Ed and Abby, Walter and Clara, Gus McKutcheon, and even Bessie. “I mean, I get the idea there are a lot of people holding in a whole lot of secrets.” I cleared a lump of bread in my throat with a drink of red wine. “And I’m not sure I want to know what some of those secrets are.”

  “Amen to that.” Anita nodded sagely.

  * * *

  “They’re on the house.” I handed the chief of police a brown paper sack filled with what must have been a quarter pound’s worth of roasted, unsalted peanuts. He would have pilfered that much from the store bins himself anywa
y.

  We stock a variety of wild bird food in bins up near the front, across from the sales counter. Kennedy treats it like his own personal snack center.

  Jerry Kennedy eyed the bag in his fingers. “You know bribing an officer of the court is illegal.”

  “So is murder,” I said, folding my arms over my chest. “Are you going to answer my question or not?”

  “What’s to answer?” Jerry stuffed the bag of peanuts into the pocket of his light brown Windbreaker. “All you’re doing is speculating and throwing crazy ideas around.”

  Jerry and I were alone in the store. Esther and Mom had the morning off. Kim was supposed to be at work but hadn’t shown up and hadn’t called in. I’d like to think that wasn’t like her, but it was.

  “What’s crazy about Bessie Hammond being murdered on the anniversary of her husband’s drowning in Ruby Lake? Weird, I grant you. But crazy? No.”

  “Like you said, Simms.” Jerry had helped himself to my store coffee, filling to the brim the stainless steel mug he’d had the audacity to bring into Birds & Bees. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t running a convenience store, but his being here was all my fault. I’d invited him to the shop in the hopes of sharing what little I knew and learning what the police might have uncovered about Bessie Hammond’s murder.

  “Bessie Hammond got her neck snapped. Her husband, James, drowned. The only thing the two things have in common is that they both involve dead people!”

  Outside, I noticed Cousin Riley look up from the flower beds, his attention drawn to the chief’s strident voice. Mom had him pulling weeds.

  I felt like pulling my hair out. “I still say there’s more to this case. Something deeper.”

  Chief Kennedy slanted his eyes at me. “There is no case, Simms. At least, not for you.” He thrust his thermos in his other pocket. “Mind your birds and bees. James Hammond drowning ten years ago and Bessie getting herself killed on the same date are no more than coincidences.”

  “Come on, Jerry. Even you can’t believe that.” The phone rang. I let it go to voicemail. Whoever it was could wait.

  “It happens all the time,” Jerry argued. “I knew a man who died on his own birthday.”