Shadow of a Spout Page 20

  “Sorry I didn’t catch up with you,” Sophie said. “But I’ve been looking into things, and then I had a couple of conversations.”

  “That’s okay. But I do have news.”

  Just then Emma Pettigrew slunk in through the front door of the inn and took off her sunglasses. Josh called to her. She strolled over to them. They exchanged greetings as Sophie examined the girl, who had dyed her hair a weird patchy pink shade sometime in the last few hours. She looked sullen, but she may just have seemed that way because of her downturned full lips and unsmiling demeanor.

  “Tell Sophie what you told me about what you were doing the night your stepmom was killed.”

  “Why?” She turned to Sophie. “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing, really,” Sophie replied.

  “No need to get tragic,” Josh said to the girl, looking exasperated. “Sophie’s cool. She’s trying to figure out where everyone was . . .” He paused, probably aware of how accusatory that sounded. “Uh . . . you know, to find out if they could have seen anything or heard anything that would help. Her grandmother was accused of the crime, you know.”

  There was just enough truth in Josh’s statement that Emma nodded and then shrugged. “It’s no big,” she said. “I had a fight with Zee and left the inn.”

  Zee . . . Zunia? “What was the fight about?”

  She eyed Sophie, and Sophie could feel herself crossing over into enemy territory with that question.

  “Why?”

  Step back. It probably didn’t matter what the fight was about anyway, since they apparently fought all the time. “No reason. So, you left the inn,” Sophie prompted.

  “Yeah. I left and called my mom at Cruickshank. We met at the all-night coffeehouse and talked for a while, then . . .” She drifted off and looked thoughtful, her gaze unfocused. “We, uh, we drove around for a while.”

  Sophie wondered why she suddenly seemed evasive. Josh noticed, too, and they traded a skeptical look.

  “You said you guys talked all night, until she dropped you off out front,” Josh said.

  “What is this, like freaking Nancy Drew and Whoever Hardy Boy?” Emma exploded. She whirled and strode toward the elevator, but then she stopped and turned back to them. “Neither of you had better tell the cops what I . . .” She trailed off and glanced around. “You just better not.” She strode off toward the elevator and punched the up button with a vicious stab.

  Josh, his eyes wide, said, “I swear, Sophie, she told me she and her mom had spent the night talking in a diner until her mom brought her back to the inn.”

  “I believe you. I think she lied to you about some part of her story. In fact, I’m sure of it,” she said, explaining what she had learned from Jason about Emma’s mother returning to the parking garage by three forty-seven. “Where was Emma after that?”

  “And why did she need to lie?” Josh asked.

  “That’s a good question. I just don’t know how to get an answer.”

  Chapter 19

  Sophie and Josh went back into the dining room, where some of the ITCS members lingered. Laverne was arguing with Nora Sommer, an arresting sight since Laverne was tall and imposing, where Nora was short, stubby and red-faced, her habitual steely calm dissolved.

  “You clearly don’t understand how these things work, and how difficult it would be to coordinate a chapter-wide vote on such short notice,” Nora stated.

  “I do understand,” Laverne said levelly. “However, I still do not see why we are having Frank Barlow foisted upon us as president simply because you feel sorry for him. How can you appoint him division president, given the behavior we’ve witnessed?” She glanced over at the pastor, who sat alone chewing his fingernail. “No offense, Pastor. I truly mean no disrespect.”

  Nana had a half smile on her face but stayed out of it. Sophie joined her at her table and scooped up a sandwich from a pretty flowered plate, since she hadn’t had anything since breakfast. “What gives?” she asked, then sank her teeth into a tuna salad sandwich that was surprisingly good.

  Her grandmother told her about the Sommers’ plan to appoint Pastor Frank to the position left vacant by Zunia’s death. Sophie chewed, swallowed and asked, “Does he even want to do that?” She watched the argument go on. Frank still sat on the sidelines, as Laverne and Nora squabbled.

  “I don’t know, honey. He hasn’t said no, anyway. He’s already been doing a lot for the chapter. Zunia even had him creating and mailing out the chapter newsletter. He’s the only one who knows everyone’s addresses and e-mails. I suppose he’s a natural fit, in a way.”

  “How does Orlando Pettigrew feel about it?”

  “He didn’t show up at the meeting. I understand he’s down at the police station. Some folks are saying he’s there trying to get information about Zunia’s murder, and others say the police asked him to come down to answer more questions.” Nana shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Sophie finished the rest of her sandwich, washed it down with some weak tea and crossed the room to join Pastor Frank. She sat down opposite him. “How are you doing?”

  He smiled, but it was a weepy version of a happy grin. His eyes watered and he dabbed at them with a paper napkin. “I don’t know.”

  She studied him for a long minute. “I can’t stop thinking about your story earlier. If you don’t mind my asking, you’re sure you don’t know if Bertie let you out of the room downstairs?”

  “Someone let me out, and that’s all I know.”

  “Didn’t you see the person?”

  “Uh-uh. I was sitting there feeling crummy. I didn’t even have ice for my eye,” he said, touching the still-purplish puffiness under the frame of his glasses. “Then I heard something. When I tried the knob, the door opened. I assumed it was Bertie because he’d said he’d be back for me.”

  “And what time was that?”

  Frank shook his head. “How am I supposed to know? I went up to bed.”

  “You took the elevator?”

  “How else? Why would you even . . .” He paused, his mouth hanging open. “Oh, of course. There was no body. Poor Zunia! She wasn’t dead yet.”

  “Presumably,” Sophie said absently. As she’d already figured out, if Frank was telling the truth, there were only two options: either Bertie let him out but didn’t want him to know about it for some reason—like, he was the murderer, but wanted to add one more possible suspect to the mix—or he didn’t let him out and someone else did. In that case that person had to be the murderer. Who else would be wandering around the inn with a key in the middle of the night? How could she figure out if her third possibility was the right one, that the pastor was lying and had an easy way out of the locked panic room, having stolen the key earlier? “Pastor, who do you think killed Zunia? You know all these folks; I’d be interested in your opinion.”

  He glanced around, a jumpy nerve near his bad eye revealing his stress. “I’ve been trying and trying to think. Who wanted poor darling Zunia dead?”

  Sophie squinted and stared at him. His devotion to the division president seemed so over-the-top. From all accounts Zunia Pettigrew was an unpleasant woman. He even acknowledged that she was difficult at times. Why had he been so devoted? Was it all a ruse to divert suspicion? “You must have some ideas.”

  “I do have some concerns.” He leaned across the table, his sour breath coming in puffs. “I haven’t told a soul this—well, no one but the police—but Orlando wanted out of the marriage.”

  Sophie held her breath, both because of the pastor’s halitosis and to hopefully not dam the stream of his gossip. When he fell silent—lost in thought, it appeared—she prompted him by saying, “Did he tell you that?”

  “We were friends once, you know, Orlando and I, while he was married to Dahlia. We started talking again lately and he broke down two weeks ago after one of our local col
lectors meetings. He was desperately unhappy.” He looked around and lowered his voice even more. “I know for a fact that he even called Dahlia while he was here to see if she’d take him back if he left Zunia.”

  “Really?” Sophie said. If that was true, it opened a whole new realm of possibilities. She may have ruled out Dahlia, but she could certainly imagine Orlando in the role of the killer, in that case. Or . . . She pondered some new thoughts about how to get Dahlia Pettigrew’s car into the garage at Cruickshank, about twenty-five minutes away, and yet have her still be available to commit murder. Did Emma drive? There was a possibility there, though it was a long shot.

  However, common sense would prevail. “But he could just divorce her, right?” Rational people did not resort to murder to solve their marital difficulties, and Orlando Pettigrew seemed a rational sort.

  “You would think so, but maybe Orlando was worried about how another divorce would affect the bottom line. Zunia was smart,” Frank said, tapping the side of his head with his index finger. “She figured it all out. Orlando has money, though you’d never know it to look at him. Zunia told me all about her plan. She was going to tell people he abused her, run away with me and tell him she’d sue him for alimony unless she got a nice settlement.”

  “And you were going to go along with this?” She kept her cool as best as she could, though the whole thing disgusted her. Pausing to reflect, she turned things around; she had only his word for all of these allegations, she realized. What if the pastor was really the murderer? He could say whatever he wanted about their private conversations because Zunia Pettigrew was not alive to refute them. But Orlando could certainly confirm or deny that he wanted out of his marriage. But would he, even if it was all true?

  “It would never have come to that,” he patiently explained. “Orlando wanted out, too. I knew that, even if Zunia didn’t. I figured she’d tell him what she wanted and he’d go along with it, just to get out of the marriage.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Zunia, if you knew Orlando wanted out?”

  He folded his hands together in a prayerful manner and blinked, owl-like. He touched his still-puffy eye under his glasses again and said, “You had to know Zunia. If she thought Orlando was regretting their marriage and wanted out, she’d hold on. She was tricky.”

  That was one way to describe her. “But you weren’t sure near the end that she was really going to run away with you, were you?” She watched his eyes as she said that, and he shifted his gaze away, looking off to Nora and Laverne, who were still discussing his fate as division president . . . or not. “Did she tell you so outright?” Sophie pressed. “Did you argue with her about it?”

  He looked alarmed. “That’s the same thing the police asked,” he said, blinking rapidly. “You’re working for them, aren’t you? I saw you taking to that tall fellow, the new detective.”

  “I’m not working for them. Mr. Barlow, are you saying you think Orlando killed his wife?”

  He shivered. “I don’t know, I tell you, I don’t know! Somebody did this awful, awful thing.”

  “Pastor, Mr. Pettigrew was overheard on his cell phone telling someone at home about Zunia’s death. He told them that she was having an affair and he knew about it, but that she was afraid of the man she was having an affair with.”

  “On his cell phone?” His gaze was riveted on her now, and there was honest puzzlement in his expression. “But Orlando told Zunia that his phone wasn’t working. I was right there when he said it; she asked him to call for a car rental and he said his phone was kaput. Not just low in charge, not working at all! How could he . . .” He shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  No, it doesn’t, Sophie thought. It led her to believe what her grandmother had postulated, that Orlando Pettigrew timed his “phone call” to coincide with a gossipy old lady listening in, sure that she would spread what she heard. Why would he do that unless he had killed his wife? “Mr. Barlow, who do you think killed Mrs. Pettigrew?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know! But I won’t let anyone pin it on me!” Barlow stood and stepped backward, knocking into an older lady and causing her to spill tea all over her flowered blouse. As a convention attendee came to the woman’s rescue, Pastor Frank whirled, mumbled an apology, then headed out, stumbling between the tables. A middle-aged blonde woman with frizzy hair—Penelope Daley, if Sophie recalled correctly—darted a poisonous glance Sophie’s way and hustled out after him.

  She watched them leave the dining room knowing there was no point in going after the pastor. His panic was interesting, though: Why so defensive and afraid that she was working with the police? She’d gone at him too aggressively, perhaps, but they were coming down to the wire. She wanted to leave with Nana in the morning. Given that they were only an hour away, the police would let them go, she was sure, but if they left without knowing who had killed Zunia Pettigrew it would weigh on Nana’s mind. She needed to think about Orlando Pettigrew’s actions. While it was possible that he had deliberately misled Thelma, knowing she was lurking and feeding her what he wanted spread around, it was also possible that he had lied to his wife about his phone not working. It could be a lazy man’s way out of doing what she asked and calling for a rental car.

  Sophie rejoined her grandmother. Detective O’Hoolihan entered the room again, sought Nana out and asked if he could have a word. She nodded with a weary look and stood. Sophie rose to go with her, but Nana stayed her with a hand on her arm. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

  “But I want to come with you,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Nana said.

  “I just need your grandmother for a few minutes,” the detective said. He looked as tired as Nana, his eyes pouchy from lack of sleep. “We have her bag, and I want her to verify that the rest of the contents are hers, that’s all.”

  “Go find the girls,” Nana said.

  Sophie did just that. Cissy and Dana, having decided to stay the night, were making themselves comfortable in Thelma and SuLinn’s room. SuLinn was driving back to Gracious Grove that evening, now that Cissy and Dana could take Thelma back in the morning, so Dana was going to use her bed, while Cissy shared with her grandmother.

  They were chatting when someone tapped on the door. Dana called out for whoever it was to come in, and Josh sidled into the room, but didn’t advance beyond the doorway. He looked relieved to see Sophie.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “I heard something. I was sitting in the alcove by the front door waiting for a call from my mom and one of those detectives, the red-haired older man, was on his phone with someone. He wouldn’t have known I was there because I was sitting cross-legged in one of those chairs, and I was behind one of those big palmy kinda plants.”

  “That’s an excellent spot for eavesdropping, it seems. And?” Sophie prompted.

  “You were right; Mrs. Pettigrew wasn’t killed with your grandmother’s teapot.”

  “Yes!” Sophie exclaimed, fist pumping the air. “What else did you hear?”

  “They think they’ve got the weapon; it was in that Dumpster out back. I guess they took away the full one and have been searching it somewhere.”

  “Eww!” Cissy exclaimed. “Gross.”

  “Shush, Cissy,” Dana said. “Go on, Josh. What was the weapon?”

  “A hammer! That was what the ME thought, or that’s what I got from the detective’s conversation, anyway. And a hammer was found in the Dumpster, so they’re testing it for blood, trying to get prints off it and trace it.”

  A hammer. What a completely ordinary weapon, one you could find anywhere, one that would even have been ubiquitous in the inn, if you knew where to look. Something you could buy at any dollar store or hardware store. “Did you hear anything else?” Sophie asked. “What kind of hammer? New or used?”

  He shrugged. “That’s all I heard. He finished with the call an
d walked away toward the dining room.”

  “That must have been when he came in looking for Nana,” Sophie said.

  “It had to be a guy, then,” Cissy said. “No woman would kill with a hammer!”

  Sophie shook her head. “Not true. A few years ago a woman killed her husband while he was sleeping, with a hammer.”

  “He was sleeping with a hammer?” Dana said, with a sly look.

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. She killed him with a hammer while he was sleeping. And I’ve heard of other cases, too; a Newark woman just last year attacked her elderly mother with a hammer.”

  “Wow,” Cissy said, and shivered. “Why do people have to be so mean?”

  “More to the point, why do you know this stuff?” Dana asked, eyeing Sophie.

  “I watch TV,” Sophie said loftily.

  “Anyway, I gotta go,” Josh said, heading to the door. “Another meeting is starting in a few minutes.”

  “Aren’t you bored by all these old folks and meetings?” Dana asked, watching the teenager.

  “Not really, especially not the old people. I think Mr. Brubaker and Mr. Hodge are two of the coolest fellows ever! Did you know Mr. Brubaker was in army intelligence in World War Two? And Mr. Hodge played jazz piano with Count Basie once. I’m going to interview both of them for my school newspaper this year. They’re better than half the lunkheads in my school.”

  “You’re a rare bird, Josh Sinclair,” Dana said.

  He shrugged, his cheeks turning red. He couldn’t even look at Dana, and Sophie figured that was because looking at Dana was kind of like looking directly at the sun: dazzling. Even on a normal day she was gorgeous, but she was paying extra attention to her appearance now that Detective Eli was in the mix. Good luck resisting, Detective, Sophie thought.

  “Anyway, just thought I’d tell you about the hammer, Sophie,” he said, heading to the door.

  “Thanks,” Sophie said. He left and closed the door behind him.

  “Well, what do you think?” Dana asked.