But when we looked for that spare key ring, which we kept on a hook behind the register, it was missing. There were four keys on that ring—one each for the front door, the back door, the storage room entrance, and the cash register.
Sadie picked up the phone. “I’m calling the locksmith to have the door locks changed. After that—” She checked her watch. “I’ll get a head start on setting up the events room for the Quibblers meeting tonight.”
While Sadie made the call, it occurred to me that two other people had access to those keys on a regular basis—Mina Griffith and Garfield Platt.
Of course, I knew my attacker wasn’t Mina for obvious reasons and also because she only worked weekends. She didn’t even know about the Phelps volumes of Poe yet.
As for Garfield, he stood at about my height, but the intruder was a head taller than I. And another thing: The intruder didn’t know how to locate the books he presumably wanted to steal. I’d told him the books were by the register, but he’d still needed me to point out where the register was. Both of those facts let Garfield off the hook.
I wouldn’t be so sure, Jack declared. Circumstances dictate he had access to those keys. So turn your suspect in and let the cops sort it out. If Garfield’s innocent, no harm done. The coppers will cut him loose eventually.
“No, Jack, you’re wrong. There would be harm done, so I can’t do that.”
Why the hell not?
“Because we’re not in a big city, where there are so many people that nobody pays attention to their neighbor’s business. Small-town people have less people to talk about. So, of course, they talk about them more.”
I’m on your frequency, honey, but I’m getting nothing but static.
“Look,” I said, “when Sadie and I hired Garfield, he told us straight out about his brother being an ex-con. Do you know why?”
Because he’s honest to a fault?
“No. Because Quindicott runs on gossip. Neither Sadie nor I personally know Garfield’s family, but if we’d started asking around, we’d have heard the gossip about his brother. Garfield knew that. So he saved us the trouble.”
Throw me a bone, baby, I’m still trying to glom your point.
“If I were to claim Garfield had something to do with a break-in and an assault on me, and he got questioned by the police, his reputation would get ruined in this town, just like his brother’s. Up to now, Garfield’s been a solid, reliable employee, and he obviously wasn’t the man who grabbed me. I’m not going to ruin his reputation and lose his trust just because I’m desperate for a lead.”
Hasn’t it occurred to you that Garfield’s ex-con brother might be part of the picture here? He could have been the one who broke into the place.
“But…that would mean Garfield would have to be involved, too, wouldn’t it?”
Bingo, baby.
“Okay, all right. I’ll sit Garfield down when he comes to work tomorrow and ask him some hard questions. Between you and me, we should be able to figure out whether he’s on the up-and-up or pegging me for a sucker.”
Now you’re speaking my language!
CHAPTER 14
Quibble Me This
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary/Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven,” 1845
"IT IS HEREBY proposed that the Quinidicott Business Owners Association shall make a request to the Zoning Board to extend parking hours (pahkin’ ah-wahs) an additional hour within the city limits Monday through Thursday, and an additional two hours on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights.”
Bud Napp, the widower who owned Cranberry Street Hardware, paused to stifle a yawn. “We do this in anticipation of the crowds that will supposedly be drawn to the artsy-fartsy films Brainert is going to exhibit when his theater opens next month—”
“I object to that negative remark!” Brainert exclaimed with indignation. “My theater will be a valuable addition to this community.”
“If the zoning witch lets you have a permit, maybe,” Seymour said. “Otherwise your grand movie palace is going to be one big box of empty.”
Brainert scowled. “Thanks for the bulletin, Tarnish. Shouldn’t you be peddling ice cream to the teeners up at the haunted house?”
“No way, Parker,” Seymour replied with a grin. “Wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world.”
It was obvious to me that Seymour had already heard about the masked man breaking into my store and was here to learn all the juicy details.
Mailmen don’t have much to live for, do they, doll?
On that, I had no comment.
“Anyone ready to second the final motion on the table?” Bud Napp bellowed impatiently.
Linda Cooper-Logan and her husband, Milner, of Cooper Family Bakery, both raised their hands. “We second it.”
“Motion passed.” Bud slammed the hammer down, rattling the table. He was wielding a real hammer, too—a brand-new ball peen fresh from his hardware store. Someone had absconded with the gavel after a meeting several months ago. It was one mystery the Quindicott Business Owners Association (a.k.a., the Quibble Over Anything Gang) hadn’t got around to solving.
On the other hand, some of the members had helped me solve far more vexing mysteries. To wit: Bud Napp, Seymour Tarnish, J. Brainert Parker, Fiona Finch, Linda and Milner Logan, and Mr. Koh and his daughter had helped solve the murder of a visiting true crime author this past summer. Tonight, after the regular meeting adjourned, I was holding out hope they’d stay and help Sadie, Brainert, and I solve another.
Bud Napp searched me out in the crowd. “This meet’s adjourned,” he declared with a slam.
The room began to empty at once. Casual attendees filed out immediately—folks like Chick Pattelli, owner of the garden store; Glenn Hastings of Hastings Pharmacy; and Gerry Kovacks, owner and manager of the newly opened phone store, Cellular Planet. All were escorted through the bookstore, to the front door by Sadie. Within a few minutes, the only folks left in the meeting room were the people I’d ask to stay. Sadie locked the door and joined us.
Rather self-consciously, I stepped behind the podium set up at the front of the room. Behind me, Bud Napp sat at a table, our judge and referee in these informal gatherings as well.
For the next hour, I brought everyone up to speed—about the death of Peter Chesley in Newport, Rene Montour’s fatal accident on Crowley Road, ending with the details on the attempted robbery of my store and the assault on yours truly.
Milner cleared his throat. “There’s something you should know, Pen. Officer McCoy was in the bakery this afternoon. He told me what happened. And he claimed you’d made the whole thing up.”
“What?!” I cried.
Linda nudged her husband with her elbow. “Tell her the rest of it,” she demanded.
Milner winced. “McCoy said…sorry, Pen, but he made a crack about you. About how everyone around town knows all about how you became a widow, that your husband killed himself. I think he meant to suggest that maybe you were…you know…mentally unstable.”
Seymour Tarnish balled a fist and banged his thigh. “That’s just the kind of crap I expect to hear from Bull McCoy. What did that jerk’s partner have to say?”
“Eddie wasn’t there,” Linda replied. “It was just McCoy, shooting off his mouth. I don’t know how that moron even got on the police force.”
“It’s easy when you’re Chief Ciders’s nephew,” Bud pointed out.