Heaven Preserve Us: A Home Crafting Mystery (A Home Crafting Mystery) Read online

  "Hmmm. True enough. But he hasn't lived here very long, and I know he lives with a widower Thaddeus Black introduced him to. Maybe they hang out and make jelly in Mr. Oxford's kitchen."

  "You're so fond of asking questions, Sophie Mae. Why don't you just ask him if he made the jelly?"

   

  "Because if he didn't, then he got it from someplace else, and that means there's some other source for home-canned food that we don't know about. Maybe things besides jelly."

  Comprehension dawned. "Like, say, beets?"

  "Exactly. But if he killed Philip, we don't want to tip him off. I can find out more without asking him."

  "I don't like the sound of that."

  "Don't worry. I'm going over to help him move tomorrow. I can check out where he lives, maybe ferret out a little more info about his tendency to cook, that sort of thing."

  Barr's voice was flat. "I still don't like it."

  "Oh, please. I'm not about to go by myself. He asked me to help him move because I have a truck, but Kelly and Bette are going to be there, too. Now, which do you want on your sandwich: raspberry jam or apricot jelly?"

  He made a face. "For some reason, the raspberry sounds a lot better after that conversation."

   

  TWENTY-FIVE

  BACK DOWN IN MY workroom, I concocted a facial mask. I felt ragged and tired, and a nice little boost to my skin seemed like a reasonable self-indulgence. Blending colloidal oatmeal, dried goat's milk and neem powder together with witch hazel created a green paste that would have frightened the Wicked Witch of the West. Oh, but it made my skin feel lovely, and mixing the ingredients together, fussing to get the right consistency, proved soothing in it's own right.

  My confident assertion that I'd be able to find out something useful about Jude as I helped him move didn't quite reflect the way I actually felt. For days I'd been trying to figure out what happened to Philip, asking impertinent questions with little success. I knew more about everyone associated with Heaven House by now, but I didn't seem to be any closer to finding Philip's killer. The victim had turned out to be a real jerk, and lots of people disliked him. Still, no one I'd suspected so far had panned out.

   

  Jude felt different, though. He had plenty of motive, the poor relation now in a position to take over the kingdom of the favorite grandson. Sneaky, maybe a little passive-aggressive-I could totally see him poisoning someone. If he had opportunity as well, in the form of some beets gone bad, then it made all the sense in the world.

  But did any of that matter?

  Meaning, who cared? Other than me, no one was willing to follow up, make things official. Meghan would have preferred that I drop the whole thing, Maryjake wasn't interested in finding her lover's killer, the police didn't want to admit Philip's death might have been a homicide, and I had the feeling that even Barr was indulging me because I was his girlfriend and because he was bored. Once he got back to his regular cases his interest would likely wane as well.

  So why should I bother? Even if I had my best suspect yet, why should I put myself out there, maybe even put myself in danger, in order to prove it? I had my own life, a busy life I'd partially put on hold, and for what? Nothing, that's what.

  Tootie had mentioned a similar situation, a murder committed by deliberately exposing someone to botulism. The killer had never been prosecuted. Maybe she could tell me more.

  I put the green paste in a jar and screwed the lid down tight. Time enough to indulge in the facial goop later. Right now, I wanted to hear more about that other case of botulism poisoning.

   

  I found Tootie in the activities room at Caladia Acres. It was way better than the one at Heaven House, brand new dart board at the latter not withstanding. A series of dings and whistles echoed out to the lobby, but when I turned the corner a bell started clanging and lights flashed in the corner.

  Someone had won at the Whack-A-Mole game. A wiry little guy with a shock of wild gray hair that looked like he combed it with an egg beater swung his arms around like an orangutan. He whooped as if he'd just picked the winning lottery numbers. Everyone else in the room seemed pretty darn excited, too.

  "That'll show you, you rotten little varmints!" he cried and made a punching motion in the air.

  Tootie, serene approval on her face, saw me in the doorway and made her way over with the use of her silver-headed cane. "You'll have to excuse us," she said. "Felix takes his mole whacking quite seriously, and he just beat the house record."

  I laughed. "Honest to Pete, Tootie. What will that activities director come up with next?"

  "I don't know, but I'm anxious to find out. Things have certainly livened up around here lately. Did you hear about the area she set up so we can practice our croquet shots for next summer?"

  I listened while she filled me in on more of the new doings around the place. I had to smile at her unaccustomed sprightliness. I hadn't seen her use her wheelchair for weeks, and I wondered whether the increased activity at the nursing home had anything to do with it. As she spoke, we walked over to a round table in the corner and sat down.

   

  "Our new poker table," she informed me. "We play Texas Hold 'Em every Saturday night. I won eighteen dollars off Felix last week. That man will bet on anything."

  "You're playing for money?"

  "Don't be such a stick in the mud."

  I laughed again.

  "Now, why are you here?" she asked.

  "Can't I just come visit?"

  "Of course you can. But you have something on your mind. I can tell." "

  I sighed. "You're right."

  She waited.

  I ... well, I guess I'd like your advice on something."

  She raised an eyebrow. "Really. You're not usually one for asking advice."

  I chose not to take that wrong. "I know."

  "Does this by chance have anything to do with that young man of yours?"

  "What? Oh. No. Nothing like that." But naturally my mind immediately veered to the question Barr had posed about whether I'd thought about getting married again, and his hints about how much he liked living with me.

  I tried to concentrate. "You remember the story you told us at dinner the other night about the woman who killed two brothers by poisoning them with botulism? Your cousin, wasn't it?"

  Her face turned grave. "This is about Philip Heaven."

  I nodded. "How did she do it?"

  She leaned back stiffly in her chair and studied me. "I don't know for certain. Only what I heard my older sister say."

   

  "Okay," I prompted.

  "Hmm. Well, I think it was quite straightforward. She killed them by serving them food she knew had gone bad, and she timed it so it was unlikely they'd be able to get help."

  I leaned forward. "Do tell."

  "My cousin, or rather second cousin-her name was Edna Louise-worked in the kitchen of a good-sized boarding house for men in the early nineteen-twenties. This area was all thick forest then. Huge Douglas firs everywhere. Anyway, the two brothers, twins actually, were lumberjacks and stayed there when they weren't out working the surrounding hills."

  "Why did she do it?"

  "For the sake of her daughter. Women didn't have many options then, including with the law, but Edna Louise made her own options. She had some preserves that showed all the signs of having `turned."'

  Elbow on the fancy poker table, I rested my chin in my hand. "What kind of preserves?"

  "I don't know, but people canned everything back then if it couldn't be used fresh, dried, or kept in a root cellar. Soups, stews, whole chickens, all sorts of things. But she served it to them on purpose, and didn't give it to anyone else."

  "Wasn't she still running a risk that someone else would get sick?"

  "Of course she was. And I dare say she knew it. She must have thought the risk was worth it."

  "That's ridiculous," I said.

  "Passion makes for some
unusual ethical decisions."

   

  That was an understatement. "How did she make sure they wouldn't be able to get help?" I asked.

  "She gave it to them the day they were leaving for a job located far from town," she said. "It probably wouldn't have mattered much anyway; there wasn't much help available for a good dose of botulism in those days."

  Even the modern hospital hadn't been able to help Philip. I wondered what his killer would have done if the doctors had been able to save him. Thank the powers that be they were able to diagnose and treat Barr.

  "The twins had hurt your cousin's daughter?"

  Tootie closed her eyes for a moment and nodded. In a tight voice she said, "Yes." There was a finality to the word that kept me from pursuing any more details.

  Instead, I asked. "Do you think Edna Louise should have been punished for what she did?"

  "No one deserves to have their life taken away from them."

  "That's what you told Erin. But it sounds a little too pat."

  "You're right," she said. "Reality is a lot more complicated than that. If I'd been on a jury, I'd have had a difficult time convicting her."

  "So sometimes what's legal isn't necessarily just," I said.

  Tootie's narrowed gaze bored into me. "What is this all about?"

  I took a deep breath. "I'm pretty sure someone killed Philip intentionally with botulism toxin. I have a fair idea of who it might be, but it'd be so hard to prove, and no one seems to be all that interested in finding out for sure. Philip wasn't the nicest or best guy around; he was, in short, an embezzling, cuckolding, trust-fund baby who made promises to everyone that he had no intention of keeping."

   

  "I'm surprised at you, Sophie Mae. You know better than that. If what you say is true, you can't just let it go. You're talking about someone who solved a problem by killing someone else."

  Not to mention beating up Ruth, I thought.

  "Who is this killer?" Tootie demanded.

  Reluctantly, I told her. Every time I'd told someone I had a good suspect, I'd ended up being wrong. Now it seemed like bad luck to say it out loud.

  "Hmm. Jude Carmichael. The cousin. He certainly did resent Philip."

  I leaned forward. "He did? How could you tell?"

  "It was obvious in their interactions. Philip was the top dog, Jude the poor relation. It's a story told a million times over. Where do you think he got the preserves?"

  Befuddled by her easy observations, I answered absentmindedly. "I can't be sure."

  "Did he can them himself, or get them from someone else? Does he have a lot of friends? Women? Older? I'm sorry to sound both sexist and ageist, but those are your best bets for finding the source of home-canned food. Not many people do it anymore."

  "He doesn't seem to know that many people in town." A memory tickled my brain. Ruth talking about her friend who had canned beets, her friend who was now dead. Something clicked into place. "Hang on. Let me make a phone call."

  I went out to the reception desk and asked to use the phone. Thaddeus answered the phone in Ruth's room. Several voices murmured in the background.

   

  "How's our patient?" I asked.

  "The doctors said she's going to be right as rain, just has a bit of healing up to do."

  "That's terrific news." I'd been concerned about the effect the blood thinners would have on her recovery. "Is she available? Sounds like she has some visitors."

  He snorted. "I'll say. She's had a whole bevy of them camped out in the room, knitting and chanting."

  "Chanting?"

  "Praying or something. I leave 'em to it. Hang on, I'll get her."

  The background voices paused, and Ruth came on the line, her voice strong.

  "You sound like you feel better," I said.

  "Much. I have some friends here to help me out."

  "Well, I don't know what they're doing, but as long as it works, I'm all for it."

  I liked hearing Ruth laugh at that, though I wasn't sure why it was so funny.

  "I have a question for you."

  "Shoot," she said.

  "The other day you mentioned a friend of yours who did a lot of preserving. In fact, I believe you said she canned beets."

  "Yes" Tentative. Curt.

  "I seem to remember that she's passed on. Can you tell me who she was?"

  There was a very long pause, and then Ruth said in a wondering voice, "Her name was Hannah. Hannah Oxford."

  "Oxford-isn't that the name of the man Jude lives with?"

  "Indeed. George Oxford. Hannah was his wife."

   

  "I see."

  "Yes. I think I do, too. Sophie Mae, be careful."

  "Believe me, I will."

  We said goodbye, and I turned to find Tootie had followed and was leaning on her cane behind me.

  "Did you hear that?" I asked.

  "Enough. You didn't tell me Ruth was in the hospital."

  I rubbed my eyes, suddenly tired. "I'm sorry. I should have. She told me some things and asked me to keep them quiet. I guess I've been a little too quiet."

  Bafflement settled across her face. "I don't understand."

  I inhaled. "She was attacked last night. She doesn't know who attacked her, but whoever it was mentioned the beets and wanted her to stop talking about them. It must have been Philip's killer."

  Jude Carmichael? Hitting Ruth? That didn't fit with the sneaky picture I had of Philip's poisoner.

  "What did the police say?" Tootie asked.

  "She didn't tell them. That's what she wanted me to keep quiet."

  She thumped her cane on the carpet. "That doesn't make any sense!"

  "He threatened Thaddeus."

  The wrinkles around her mouth deepened as she considered this. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm not sure. What if I'm wrong about Jude? Sometimes I feel like I'm tilting at windmills."

  Tootie's jaw set. "You know you have to follow up on your suspicions. If you hadn't followed your instincts about what happened to Walter, I'd have gone to my grave thinking he'd commit ted suicide. You're smart, and you have moxie. I know you can solve this. It's important. And it's right."

   

  Her words energized my fading resolve. "I'm helping Jude move tomorrow. I'll take a look around."

  "Now, don't do anything rash. This is someone who beat up a seventy-year-old woman. He wouldn't hesitate to hurt you."

  Jude seemed so dull. I tried again to imagine him hitting someone. "I have no intention of being alone with him. Both Kelly and Bette will be there. And Kelly is a rough-and-tumble kind of guy. Did you know he and Meghan are dating?"

  For a moment Tootie looked pleased. "She mentioned him. I'm delighted she found someone she's interested in."

  "Me, too," I assured her. "Me, too."

  Concern settled over her features again. "You promise to be careful?"

  I held up my hand. "Believe me, I'm not interested in playing the hero."

  The sooner I could hand a workable clue over to the people who should have been investigating Philip's death, the better.

   

  TWENTY-SIX

  "YOU CAN COME, CAN'T you?"

  "What?" I'd been distracted by my thoughts and hadn't heard what Erin was saying.

  "The bee. It's tomorrow night. You'll be there, right?"

  "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Bug. I'm proud of you for going ahead and competing even though Jonathan bailed." Meghan, Erin and I had just trooped back in from where I'd shown off my cobbled together chick nursery in the mudroom.

  "That's not a name we're uttering out loud in this house right now," Meghan said.

  "Oh. Right. He-who-must-not-be-named, then."

  Erin rolled her eyes. "God. You're so weird."

  Okay, maybe I was a little weird. I was at least willing to consider the idea as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and slathered green goo on my face. Mmmm. Felt heavenly. But definitely look
ed... weird.

   

  After dinner, Meghan had taken Erin to the library to exchange the books she'd read in the past week for a pile of new ones. Barr was watching some basketball game on television. I finally had a chance for a little private self-indulgence.

  So, with a heavy hand, I slathered on the oatmeal mask and perched on the edge of the tub to deal with my ragged nails and rough cuticles.

  The doorbell rang.

  I paused, orange stick in hand.

  It rang again.

  I opened the bathroom door and shouted down the stairs. "Barr? Can you get that?"

  No response.

  The doorbell rang again, bing-bong, bing-bong. And then the knocking started. Cautiously, I ventured down a few steps. More knocking. Loud.

  "Hello?" The voice on the other side of the door was a woman's.

  "Coming," I yelled. "Barr?"

  He didn't answer. I'd reached the bottom of the stairway, when he came barreling out of the kitchen and opened the front door. Detective Lane walked in.

  "Detective Ambrose," she said, then stopped, staring at me. Barr turned around, and his eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

  "I didn't think you were going to get the door," I said, sounding less than gracious.

  "Sorry. I was downstairs on your computer. Didn't hear it at first."

   

  "What is that on your face?" Detective Lane asked, eyes wide.

  I touched my cheek, and my fingers came away with green on them. At least I'd put it on thick enough that neither of these two could see how red my face had turned underneath.

  "Oh, come on," I said. "With your beautiful skin I bet you apply a regular mud mask."

  She shook her head, making that thick auburn hair sway like a shampoo commercial model's. "Never thought about it."

  I glared at her. "I'll be right back." I turned and stomped up the stairs to the bathroom.

  Barr and Detective Lane were murmuring in the living room when I returned downstairs, face scrubbed and the hair damp around my face. I still wore my sweats.

  He stood when I walked in and held out a cup of coffee to me. The dark circles under his eyes offered testimony to how hard he'd been driving himself to get back up to speed in the last couple of days, but his eyes were calm and his smile bright as he greeted me. I took the coffee and sat down, thanking him.