To get that answer, I pulled out my phone. Sean picked up right away. “Did Ginny have any medication other than the insulin in her system?”
“The autopsy listed traces of zolpidem in her blood,” Sean answered. “Doc said that was to be expected since Ginny had problems with insomnia.”
I thought back to the prescription bottle of Ambien CR in Ginny’s medicine cabinet and signaled for Jasmine to follow me.
“Where are you now?” Sean asked as Jasmine shouted one last string of insults at the refs.
“I’m just leaving the center, and don’t worry—I’m not alone.”
“I can hear that. Why the drug question?”
“Just trying to decide why Ginny would let someone nick her with a needle. I think you answered that. Thanks.”
I was about to disconnect when Sean said, “Wait a minute.” His tone turned softer. Deeper. Sexier. Yikes. “You’re being careful, right?”
“Sure thing. Talk to you later.” Click.
Phew.
Doing my best to ignore the spike in my pulse, I led Jasmine through the covered walkway to Ginny’s condo. Nothing looked like it had been moved since my last visit. I told Jasmine to stay in the kitchen and made a beeline for the bathroom. Sure enough, there was the prescription bottle I remembered. The prescription was for twenty pills, filled two weeks ago, and instructed the user to take as needed. I popped the top and found seven pills inside. Unless Ginny had chosen to hibernate her way through the last week of her life, I was guessing someone had helped himself or herself to some of Ginny’s pills and slipped them into her food or drink. Once she was asleep, giving her a shot would have been easy, albeit rude.
I returned to the kitchen and examined Ginny’s front door. There weren’t any signs of tampering or forced entry. Either the killer got top marks in lock-picking or Ginny opened the door and let him in. I’d bet the bank it was option B. Ginny wasn’t killed by a stranger. She was killed by a friend she trusted. Now I had to figure out who.
I steered Jasmine out of the condo before she could start rummaging through the fridge. As I locked the door, the diminutive Ethel Jacabowski stepped into view.
“Oh, Rebecca. It’s so good to see you. We’ve all been so worried since the accident. Pastor Rich even added you to the prayer list during this morning’s service. I know some people don’t believe prayer can help, but it certainly doesn’t hurt, does it?” Ethel shifted a foam container stamped with the diner’s logo in her hand. “What are you doing here today? People are saying you’re helping the sheriff find the person who killed Ginny. If so, I’d like to do whatever I can to help. Ginny was one of my very best friends.”
The sheen of tears in Ethel’s eyes made my throat tighten. Swallowing hard, I asked, “Could you tell me who Ginny’s other friends are?”
“Oh, goodness.” Ethel dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a frilly pink handkerchief. “Everyone loved Ginny. I guess her best friends are me, Joan and Marty McGoran, and Alice Peppinger. Joan and Marty are talking about canceling their trip to Florida this year. They can’t imagine being there without Ginny. Ginny loved our annual trip south. It’s just not going to be the same without her.”
“You still plan on going?” I asked.
Ethel sighed. “It’s what Ginny would want. She was a founding member of our group. The Winter Migration Club, we called ourselves. Over the years we’ve had members pass or move away, like my Paul, but we never considered not going. The club has always felt the best way to celebrate those we love is to live life to the fullest. So I’m going to put away my leftovers and get some packing done before the wake. Ginny would approve.”
The simple dignity in Ethel’s voice made me want to cry. Before I did, I asked, “Did you see anyone in the hallway last Sunday before you found Ginny?”
“Not that I remember.” Ethel frowned but then brightened. “Wait. I do remember Jimmy Bakersfield sneaking into the kitchen. He’d been around before the shower, making eyes at the petit fours. I figured he was going to swipe a few. Doc Truman keeps warning Jimmy that diabetics have to watch their sweets intake, but you know men. They never listen.”
Ethel gave me a small smile and shuffled down the hall with her takeout. As we headed to the exit, Jasmine said, “This investigating thing is exciting. Timing how long it takes to get from the exits to the crime scene. Looking through the victim’s apartment. Questioning witnesses. I feel like I’m in one of those old black-and-white movies. So, what do we do next? Rough up a witness? Run down a suspect? What?”
I looked at Jasmine’s four-inch-heeled boots and tried to picture her outrunning a suspect. An image of her five-foot three-inch frame sprawled on the sidewalk sprang to mind. I made a mental note to take her shopping for Reeboks and headed for my car. Meeting Ethel had been a stroke of luck. Without meaning to, she had given me a suspect who was near the crime scene and, since he was diabetic, had access to the murder weapon. It was time to pay a visit to Pop’s friend and my first investigative client, Jimmy Bakersfield.
Jimmy wasn’t home. He also wasn’t at the center or the diner, which was bad for the murder investigation but good for my stomach. After inhaling the aroma of Ethel’s takeout, I was ravenously hungry. Since the after-church lunch crowd had thinned, Jasmine and I were able to snag a booth in the back.
While we filled our stomachs with fried chicken and mashed potatoes, several of the diner faithful stopped by to say hello and meet Jasmine. Outsiders were always of interest, but outsiders with dark skin, gold-tipped magenta nails, and a laugh loud enough to rival Farmer Richardson’s donkey made jaws drop and people stare. Reginald hated the attention being different garnered. Jasmine thrived on it. She smiled, cracked jokes, and asked dozens of questions about the town, the people, and me. By the time our plates were cleared, Jasmine had a good shot at running for mayor and winning.
Since everyone in town would be at Ginny’s wake, I decided to forgo another stop at Jimmy’s house. Instead, I steered toward home and changed into a long-sleeved, navy blue, knit dress and my most track-worthy black boots. When Jimmy paid his respects tonight, I’d be ready.
Jasmine met me in the living room. “What?” she asked as I stared at her fitted neon orange top and even tighter brown-and-gold pants. “Do these pants make me look fat?”
Truth? The shape of the pants wasn’t slimming, but I wasn’t about to tell Jasmine. I’d taken a kickboxing class with her. What she lacked in control, she more than made up for in power. I’d had my ass kicked enough this week, which was why I took another tack. “You look great, but you might attract too much attention in that outfit. Investigators need to blend in.”
Jasmine laughed. “Rebecca, I’m a black woman in the middle of a lily-white town. There ain’t nothing going to make me blend in.”
Fair point.
*
The Restful Repose Funeral Home was located on the east side of town in a two-story colonial building. The first floor consisted of two viewing parlors located on either side of a large foyer; both were decked out for the holidays. Straight ahead was a hall that led to a roomy eat-in kitchen perpetually stocked with sandwiches, water, and cookies. The scent of lilies and Pine-Sol filled the air just as it did during Mom’s wake. The memory of that day hit me square in the chest. Taking several deep breaths, I signed my name in the register, hung up my coat, and walked into the viewing room.
Amy Jo waved at me from the front, where a large picture of Ginny stood on an easel next to a small silver urn. Ginny’s wishes had included cremation and one final visit to Florida to have her ashes spread on a beach.
“I’m so glad you felt well enough to come.” Amy Jo took my hand and held it tight. “We’ve been worried. Deputy Holmes assured me that your involvement in Aunt Ginny’s murder investigation had nothing to do with the accident, but I’m not sure I believe him.”
Obviously, I wasn’t the only one who needed to work on my fibbing technique. Once I assured Amy Jo I was fine, I asked, “Did y
ou find the money in the teapot?”
Amy Jo smiled. “Yes. We can’t thank you enough for telling us about that. Otherwise we would have had to dip into our savings to pay for the service.”
“Why? I would have thought the bank would have let you use Ginny’s account to pay for this.” That’s how it worked for my mother’s funeral. I just had to fill out a couple of forms and the bank cut a check.
Amy Jo sighed. “The bank told us Aunt Ginny closed her savings account two years ago, and the money in the checking account is barely enough for us to pay her association dues and monthly bills. I still don’t know where she came up with her portion of the money for the rental or the cash in the teapot, but if Aunt Ginny had the will, she’d find a way.”
The more I heard about Aunt Ginny, the more I liked her.
Pachelbel’s Canon in D rang out from my pocket. Danielle really needed to work on her timing, and I needed to remember to turn my phone to vibrate.
“I’m so sorry,” I said to Amy Jo as I pulled the phone out and read Danielle’s message. Mother Lucas was offering to help select new table favors. Unless I wanted to solve another murder, we needed to come up with them pronto.
“You look worried. Was that information about Aunt Ginny’s murder?”
“Danielle was texting about wedding stuff. She’s concerned about her table favors.” I was the queen of understatement.
Amy Jo smiled. “I remember my favors. I thought the bottle opener with our names on it was wonderful, which is good because at least two dozen people left theirs behind. Danielle’s lucky to be having her wedding so close to Christmas. It means she can pick favors like holiday candy or decorations.”
Huh. I’d been trying so hard to ignore the pre-Thanksgiving decorating that I hadn’t considered using the impending season for inspiration. Now that I had, I knew how Danielle could avoid spending her honeymoon in lockup.
Smiling, I started to grab my phone to text Danielle. Then I remembered one last question I needed to ask. “Has Jimmy Bakersfield been by yet?”
Amy Jo nodded. “He brought flowers. He’s very kind.”
Kind or guilty? I guessed it was up to me to figure out which.
I paid my respects to the rest of Ginny’s family, waved to my grandfather, who had joined the line, and hurried out the door in search of my suspect. Eureka! I found him in the kitchen, balancing a plate of cookies. Skirting around a couple of kids and three of Pop’s most ardent admirers, I tapped Jimmy on his flannel-clad shoulder and said, “Hey, Jimmy, can I ask you a few questions?”
Jimmy smiled, handed me his plate of cookies, and bolted.
Wow, for all that girth in the middle, the man could move. He was out of the room and halfway down the hall before I could ditch the plate and give chase. Drat. I dodged a lady with a walker and almost tripped over a toddler crawling out from behind a chair as Jimmy disappeared out the front door.
Ignoring the shouts and gasps behind me, I raced through the lobby, out the door, and smack into a fluffy fur coat. The coat, me, and the person draped in fur hit the ground in a heap. I didn’t have to look up to know that the sound of squealing tires signaled the escape of my quarry. Crap. Crap. Crap.
I apologized profusely to the woman I’d flattened, scrambled to my feet, and helped haul her upright. I was about to give her my contact information in case her coat needed dry cleaning when Lionel appeared at her side. “I see the two of you have met.”
“Not exactly,” I said. Since she might want to sue me for personal injury, it seemed like a good idea. Holding out my hand, I said, “Rebecca Robbins. I’m Lionel’s girlfriend.”
“Sandy Franklin,” the stylish, brown-haired woman said with a smile. “I’m Lionel’s mother.”
Twenty
This was bad. My main suspect in Ginny’s murder had fled the scene, I was outside in the cold without a coat, and I’d knocked my potential mother-in-law on her ass. Things couldn’t get much worse.
“Does anyone need help here?”
Or maybe they could.
I turned and plastered my best nothing-to-see-here smile on my face as Sean Holmes strolled up the walk. “We’re fine,” I lied, praying he’d take the hint and go away.
No such luck.
Sean stopped walking. “I thought I saw you both fall. Are you sure everyone’s okay? I can call the paramedics or see if Doc Truman is inside.”
Once we had assured him no one was in need of medical attention, Sean left to pay his respects, leaving me to apologize once again.
“I’ll say one thing for you.” Lionel’s mother laughed. “You know how to make an impression. Not that I wasn’t already impressed. My husband and I have heard a great deal about you from our son.”
I cringed. She laughed again. The sound was warm and bright and reminded me of my mother’s laugh.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Franklin said, patting my arm. “Everything we’ve heard has been good. We appreciate being invited to spend Thanksgiving with you. Please let me know if my husband or I can help in any way. Lionel said you’re cooking for quite a crowd. We’d be happy to pitch in if it gets to be too much for you.”
A sane person who had never cooked a turkey solo in her life would have accepted the help. However, after this initial meeting, I felt like I had something to prove. “Thanks, but you shouldn’t be spending your time here cooking. I have everything under control.”
If only that were true.
Lionel ushered us both inside. When he and his mother walked into the viewing room, I went on the hunt for Sean. Less than two months ago, Sean would have sneered at my investigative deductions, and I would have gone off half-cocked to confront the suspect on my own. Today, I planned to pass along my suspicions and trust Sean to take care of the rest. Funny how time and potential death changed a girl’s perspective.
Surprise, surprise. I found Sean snarfing cookies in the kitchen. Snagging a snickerdoodle, I waved for Sean to follow, grabbed my coat, and headed to the only place I could think of where we wouldn’t be overheard. Outside.
Between bites of cookie, I gave Sean an update on Jimmy’s diabetes, his being in the center during the time of Ginny’s murder, and how he turned track star the minute I appeared. With a promise to keep me informed, Sean escorted me back into the safety of the funeral home. He then stalked off into the darkening night to serve truth, justice, and the Indian Falls—if not American—way, leaving me wishing I could go, too. Not that I needed to be in on the arrest. The whole confronting-bad-guys thing was highly overrated. But I wanted to be there because, while I understood the means and opportunity for killing Ginny, I still didn’t know why Jimmy had taken her life. Not knowing was driving me crazy.
“Is Sean off to arrest Jimmy?”
I turned at the sound of my grandfather’s voice. My grandfather gave me a wide, albeit slightly askew, smile. Pop must have skimped on the denture adhesive today.
“Everybody inside is talking about you,” Pop said.
Big surprise.
“They’re saying you fingered Jimmy as the thief, and he ran when he realized the jig was up.” Pop shrugged. “I told them there was no way Jimmy was sneaky enough to break into all those houses without getting caught and that you were just running for the bathroom. Pain meds wreak havoc on the bowels.”
Time to change the subject. “You were right. I don’t think Jimmy is the Thanksgiving Day thief.” I thought he was something much worse. “Was Jimmy good friends with Ginny?”
Pop cocked his head to the side. “Jimmy asked Ginny on a couple of dates, but she never said yes. She told him he’d have to get a better car and new tube socks first. Of course, that was before his VW Bug was stolen and he had to get new wheels. Since then, Ginny steered clear just in case he called her on that promise. She didn’t know she had nothing to worry about. Jimmy hasn’t sprung for new socks since Nixon was in office.”
I made a mental note to fumigate the rental roller skates Jimmy used and asked, “So they didn’t
have a fight or a falling-out?”
“Not that I know, and I’d probably know.” Pop pulled a pair of gloves out of his pocket and shoved his hands into them. “Ginny played things close to the vest, but Jimmy’s an open book. The man can’t keep a secret for nothing. How you fell for that ‘doctor won’t let him go in the dunk tank’ routine two months ago is beyond me. The red face and sweaty palms should have been a dead giveaway.”
The sweaty palms and crimson face were exactly the reason I’d agreed to take over Jimmy’s dunk-tank duty. He’d looked like a man ready to have a heart attack. Now I understood why.
Pop cocked his head to the side. “You don’t think Jimmy knows something about Ginny’s death, do you?”
Yes. “No, but don’t you think it’s strange that Jimmy went racing out of here when I asked if he’d be willing to answer a few questions?”
“Yeah, that’s weird.” Pop frowned. “Could be he knows who did it and doesn’t want to rat them out. Jimmy’s a softy. He won’t step on a bug if it can be avoided.”
Clearly not because he was worried about the state of his socks.
“I’ve been busy with the band,” Pop said, “so I haven’t been around much this week to notice if Jimmy’s been acting off. Give me a little while to ask around. If Jimmy’s been worried about something, someone here will have noticed.”
By the time Pop, Jasmine, and I went back to my place, we’d learned that Marion Poste had bought her girdle a size too small, that construction on the park’s fountain was delayed yet again, and that no one noticed anything strange in Jimmy’s behavior—until Thursday.
“What happened Thursday?” I asked, sliding a bag of popcorn into the microwave.
Pop rummaged through my fridge and came out with three bottles of beer. “Got me. Three people saw Jimmy at the Scrabble tournament on Wednesday. He said he was winterizing his new car and picking up his suit from the dry cleaners to wear to Danielle’s wedding. The next day he freaked out when someone noticed The Price Is Right was giving away a car that looked like his. He left the center, and no one saw him again until he showed up at the funeral home today.”