CHAPTER 24
T he Wobble Gobble Turkey Trot just kicked off and lucky me is walking briskly alongside Magda Cooper, the prime suspect.
And that’s exactly why, despite the festive atmosphere surrounding us, my thoughts are consumed with one singular focus—getting to the bottom of Blythe Betty’s murder.
With each step we take, I steel myself for the inevitable confrontation ahead. I’ve done these before, and believe me, they usually don’t go too smoothly. Although in the past I’ve always had Fish and Sherlock around to help out and keep me safe. Albeit I am surrounded by hundreds of people at the moment and a small minority of them are officers of the law.
The crisp autumn air burns in my lungs and we’ve just hardly crested the beginning of the race. The crowds lined up for the parade are cheering us on, and the scent of popcorn and spiced cider mingles in the air.
“So, Magda”—I begin, a little winded—“do you have big plans for this evening?”
“If you count enjoying a turkey sandwich by the fire big plans, then yes, I do.”
“What? Oh, please don’t tell me you’re spending the evening on your own.”
A gaggle of moms with strollers passes us by and we slow down even more.
“Yes, I am.” She admits with a sigh. “But believe me, after we finish up this race, and I spend the next few hours on a float in this weather, the only thing I’ll want to do is soak my feet in hot water and Epsom salt and read a good cozy mystery.”
“That does sound lovely, but I’m offering you a standing invitation to have dinner with me at the inn this evening. It’s just a few family members and some friends, nothing fancy. But we will have lots of good food.” I suck in my bottom lip.
Is that really the segue I chose in hopes of getting her to confess to a murder?
Wow, I must be losing my touch. Inviting a potential killer to Thanksgiving dinner isn’t my usual MO.
I blame these subarctic temperatures for freezing all of my brain cells.
Magda is a very nice lady, and under different circumstances I wouldn’t at all question my invite. Not only that, but she’s my mother’s old friend. Bullets aside, that counts for something.
“Thank you, Bizzy,” she says sweetly. “That’s very kind of you, but I’ll be more than content eating my pie at home.” Alone in bed once again. She takes a minute to scan the crowd. I wonder if Beau is here? I suppose I can always call him and see what he’s up to. No good I suspect.
Why would she want to call Beau? The man left her for her best friend! The maid of honor at her wedding, no less.
That would be like Jasper cheating on me with Emmie . Although let’s be frank. If Jasper so much as made a move in Emmie’s direction, she would take a baseball bat to his nether regions and then she’d buy me a margarita and help me get over him.
We don’t usually drink, but that situation would warrant a gallon or two of liquor, for sure.
“Well, we have a lot in common,” I tell the woman as we chug along. “I like pie, too—and cozy mysteries.”
Although the mystery surrounding Blythe Betty’s death doesn’t feel all that cozy.
“And you like dogs,” she adds. “I’m a dog lover myself. Those dogs of yours are just the cutest.”
“Well, only the freckled mutt is mine. The two Pomeranians belonged to Blythe.”
She inches back and nearly stops moving altogether.
“You’re keeping Blythe’s dogs?”
“Well, no, not really. I’m actually just minding them because there doesn’t seem to be anyone else willing to do it. Beau didn’t seem interested.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t be.” She laughs. “That man isn’t capable of taking care of himself, let alone another living being. You’re a true saint, Bizzy.”
“I’m not sure about that,” I mutter. And she certainly won’t think too fondly of me as I dig a little deeper. “Magda, can I ask what you and Blythe were discussing that night at the Friendsgiving event? You know, before Blythe took off for the beach? When I saw the two of you speaking, I’ll admit, it looked pretty tense.”
Her mouth rounds out and I’m half-afraid if she doesn’t shut it soon a bug might find a home in it.
Oh, it’s no use hiding the conversation from Bizzy. If she’s half as good a detective as Ree says, she’ll find out eventually.
Find what out? Personally, I don’t want to wait for “eventually”. I want to find out now.
“What is it?” I say in haste as we pick up our pace, lest we be the last two to cross the finish line. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder.
Never mind. We will most definitely be the last two to cross the finish line.
Is there some sort of prize for that? There totally should be. At the least a bag of Epsom salt for our feet.
Magda shakes her head. “About six or seven weeks ago, Blythe walked into my store.” The nerve of that witch to be so brazen.
My eyes widen at the woman. “Go on.”
“Well, she asked to speak with me. So I poured us each a cup of coffee and led us to a table in the café.” I poured her a mug of scalding hot coffee so that I could dump it on her. But thankfully, I came to my senses and decided not to go through with the assault. Knowing that gold digger, she would have sued the pants off of me and took the store as a bonus. The same way she took my husband. “Anyway, I had no idea what she could possibly want to discuss. I thought maybe it had to do with Beau, like maybe he had an illness or something else.” Like he was cheating on her. You know what they say—you lose them how you got them. She clears her throat. “But it had nothing to do with that cad. It had to do with her friends. Apparently, one of them needed some money—a lot of money. She was hesitant to lend it, but I told her to do it.” And while she was at it, she could have lent me some money, too. It would have been my money anyway. She came into that marriage with nothing and Beau had nothing without me. He was the manager of my store for seventeen years, for Pete’s sake.
“Did she lend money to you?”
“Heavens, no, I didn’t need her money.” But I did want her husband—more to the point, my husband back. I’ll admit, I longed for simpler days when I was with Beau—before Beau went feral .
My jaw drops at the revelation, although I don’t know why. She pretty much painted the same picture when I spoke with her in Rose Glen.
“You didn’t want her money, but you wanted something else, didn’t you?” I heave the words out as we walk at a decent clip. “You wanted Beau,” I say incredulously. “And after the man treated you so poorly. Is that why you did it? Is that why you met up with Blythe on the beach that night?” I couldn’t bring myself to actually accuse her of murder.
“What?” She stops cold, and for a second I’m afraid she’s going to take off running—in the opposite direction. “Bizzy, I didn’t meet Blythe on the beach that night, not while she was still alive. And as for Beau—” I’ll never admit it out loud. It makes me look so weak. If only Bizzy knew my true intentions. I get Beau back, use him to my heart’s content, and then break his heart as wildly as he broke mine. Men don’t get to leave me. I leave them.
I make a face.
“But what about Blythe?” I ask. “I mean, you wanted her out of the way so you could get Beau back.”
Oh my word! Did I just say that out loud? I guess my brain cells really are on ice.
“Not like that, I didn’t want him,” she says, sounding offended that I even implied it. “Bizzy, as strange as this might sound, Blythe and I were once best friends.”
I try to look shocked even though I’m well aware.
“Oh, don’t look surprised.” She rolls her eyes at the thought. “I’m sure your mother told you. I loved Blythe. I would have given her anything of mine—but not my husband. In that respect, I would have wanted something better for her. That night at the Friendsgiving gathering, I asked her if she lent her friend the money, and that’s when she came undone. She said she did and they had no intention of paying her back anytime soon, but that wasn’t the worst part. She said that her own accounts were nearly empty. She said she had no idea where the money went. Apparently, she let Beau handle their bank accounts. I told her that’s where she went wrong. And, well, she concluded that herself. To make things worse, she said she was certain Beau was having an affair with a friend of hers.”
“Which friend?”
“She didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”
“So she wasn’t upset with you?”
“Not in the least. In fact, she apologized to me for all she had done to ruin my life. She said she had made quite a mess of hers, but that she was determined to fix things, starting with the deadbeats in her life. And that’s the last I heard from her. I wish I knew she was headed to the beach to do the unthinkable. I would have taken that gun from her purse myself.”
“Did she tell you she had a gun?”
“No, Vera did. She and Claudia were telling us all the story about Blythe’s stalker. That sounded scary, I tell you.”
A thought comes to me. “So everyone in that room knew that Blythe had a gun in her purse?”
“It would seem so.”
“Magda, what do you know about the business that Claudia and Vera own?”
“The Quirky Crafters Shop?” She chuckles. “It’s sweet if you like that sort of thing. Lots of handmade items. A little of this, a little of that. All overpriced. And they wonder why the inventory doesn’t move. Just last month, while we were brainstorming ideas for the float, they were asking me for some business advice. I guess they were close to losing their shirts. I told them to cater to the silly side of the upcoming holidays, like pumpkin knit hats for Halloween, knit caps that look like turkeys for Thanksgiving, and so on. Claudia mentioned they took my advice and thanked me.” They’re still going to lose their shirts, but that’s beside the point .
“You’re a good friend,” I say as Main Street stretches out impossibly before us.
We don’t say anything else as we make our way to the finish line.
We come in dead last.
Although I can’t help but feel as if I’ve won a prize—a clue so big it just might point to the killer, or killers .