Enchantment Lake: A Northwoods Mystery Page 9

  Ginger exited the church carrying a stack of papers and some books, which she set in the back seat of her car. Then she leaned against the car and lit up a cigarette. Crazy Ginger, Francie thought. She smoked, drank, and taught Sunday school.

  When Potter approached from across the lot, Ginger hastily dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with the heel of her shoe. He really wasn’t a bad-looking guy, Francie thought. She wondered how old he was. Ten years older than she was, maybe? Was that too much? Francie told herself to stop thinking like that. He paused to talk to Ginger and—wait a minute! He was stroking her arm! So it was Potter! Ginger was going out with Potter! Francie stared in amazement as Potter’s hand ran up and down Ginger’s arm, petting it as if it were a cat.

  She would have liked to ruminate on that for a while, but then the Fredericksons materialized, looking like a mirage of a family as the heat caused that undulating phenomenon.

  Mrs. Frederickson minced across the gravel parking lot in her heels. Francie supposed a funeral was not an appropriate time and place to ask for a favor, but no time like the present, right? She stood up and smoothed the same black dress she’d worn to the party (thanks, Ginger), then crossed the street to talk to Mrs. Frederickson.

  Mr. Frederickson was a bland-faced man who stood slightly aloof, probably accustomed to people wanting to talk to his wife but not to him. Latice had perfected a look of being bored and irritated at the same time.

  “Hi, Mr. Frederickson,” Francie said, and he nodded a practiced I know you don’t really want to talk to me kind of nod. “How are you, Latice?” Francie added, making a quarter-hearted attempt at being friendly.

  “Darling!” Mrs. Frederickson chirped, then turned to her husband, “This is the Frye girl. She’s a big—”

  Francie jumped in. “No!” she cried, then quickly added, “I’m sorry, this isn’t exactly how I planned to talk to you about this, but I’m wondering, Mrs. Frederickson, well, you see, I know who you are. That is, I recognized you. You’re Frederica Ricard. I love your work! Sorry, I sound like an idiot.”

  Latice rolled her eyes. Mrs. Frederickson pulled her sunglasses down on her nose and smiled conspiratorially at Francie. “Why, aren’t you clever?” she said.

  “I—I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not really a detective,” Francie said in a rush. “People seem to think . . . well, I played a detective on a TV show.” (“A children’s TV show,” she added under her breath.) “Never mind.”

  “So you aren’t really investigating suspicious deaths, then?” Mrs. Frederickson said.

  “Oh, well, snooping a little, I guess,” Francie said, “but it’s not what I do for a living. What I really want to do is act. I’m trying to find some work right now, as a matter of fact.”

  “Here? In the northwoods?” Mrs. Frederickson laughed.

  “No, in New York, but I just wanted to say—” What did she want to say, she wondered. How could she phrase this?

  But Mrs. Frederickson was far ahead of her. “Well, that’s simply marvelous, darlin’! Isn’t it, honey?” She turned to her husband, who smiled wanly, clearly weary of exactly these kinds of encounters. Turning back to Francie, Mrs. Frederickson added brightly, “But my dear, you really are a detective, to figure out who I am. Not that I’m trying to keep it a secret or anything, but believe me, nobody around here has a clue about my stage life. It’s quite lovely, you know, to travel incognito. So, I’ll tell you what: I’ll keep your secret if you’ll keep mine.” She winked at Francie and shoved her sunglasses back up on her nose. “And call me Freddie. All my friends do.” She lit a cigarette and went on, “Now, how can I help you? I know! Why, this is perfect! A friend of mine is staying with us for a couple of days. He’s a casting agent for a—”

  Francie’s stomach fluttered. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Latice roll her eyes, shift her weight, and cross her arms.

  “Why don’t you stop by, let’s see, tomorrow evening, about nine? It’ll be just us, since hubby and Latice are going to the Twin Cities.”

  “Wow! Yes! Thanks! Thanks so much! I’ll be there.”

  The Fredericksons climbed into their black Lexus and drove away.

  Francie stood in the dusty lot staring after them. As soon as she was fairly sure they couldn’t see her in their rearview mirror, she jumped up and down a couple of dozen times until she couldn’t jump anymore. A few stragglers stared at her as they left the church and found their cars.

  Her aunts and the other ladies were probably starting to clean up by now. Francie knew how to wash dishes; she might as well help. She’d have to wait for her aunts, anyway.

  Francie plucked the damp dress away from her body while she walked to the church. Just as she opened the door, a scream pierced the heavy air, and she bolted down the stairs toward the sound. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she gasped.

  Sprawled on the floor was the pale-skinned, large-bellied, dead-looking body of Buck Thorne. Standing over him, looking as guilty as if she were holding a smoking gun, was Astrid. But it was not a gun she held in her raised hand. It was a spatula.

  18

  The County Jail

  “Don’t say anything!” Francie said, rushing into the sheriff’s office.

  “Oh, hello, Frenchy,” Astrid said. “Rydell, here—”

  Francie turned to her aunts and tried to keep her voice steady, “Don’t tell him anything. You should have a lawyer present.”

  “Now, miss,” the sheriff said, “nobody’s under arrest—yet.” He leaned back in his swivel chair. “I’m just askin’ a few questions.”

  “Even so, they should have their lawyer present,” Francie said, straining to remember her lines from the show. “You can’t hold them if you aren’t going to charge them.” That wasn’t bad, Francie thought. That had been one of her lines.

  “I’m sorry, but the evidence points in their direction—especially your aunt Astrid. She was found standing over the dead body of Buck Thorne holding the presumed murder weapon,” the sheriff said. “A spatula.”

  “You’re saying the murder weapon was a spatula?” Francie asked.

  “Well, no. But the hotdish it was in may have been.”

  “What?”

  “There is some evidence that Buck was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned!” Francie exhaled. “Still, I hardly think that being in possession of a spatula is incriminating. Just because she’s holding a spatula doesn’t make her a murderer. It could have come from anyone’s hotdish!” Francie couldn’t believe she had just uttered that sentence, and in all seriousness. Or, in fact, that any of this was actually taking place.

  The sheriff consulted a piece of paper. “We’ve got the ham and pea, the hamburger rice, the tater tot, the chicken wild rice, and that one with the potato chips on it, yet the spatula had tuna noodle on it, which is what was on Buck’s plate. The tuna noodle, that’s the one we don’t got. We sent that spatula in for testing.”

  “I see. The case of the poisoned spatula,” Francie said. Man, why hadn’t she had lines like these in her show? “Don’t you ever watch crime shows?” she asked. “The person left holding the murder weapon is never the one who actually did it.”

  “That’s on TV, miss,” the sheriff said, “and this is real life.”

  “No, it isn’t!” Francie cried. “It can’t be! It’s too bizarre! Now, listen. Nothing my aunts say can be used against them; you realize that, right? You have to let them call their lawyer.”

  “I told them they could call their lawyer. They said they’d wait for you.”

  “We’ll all wait for their lawyer,” Francie said and pulled out her phone. “Auntie, who should I call?” she asked Jeannette.

  “Franklin Sage, honey. He’s in the book.”

  “Mr. Sage is not in the office,” the voice on the other end said. It sounded as if it belonged to a fourteen-year-old. “It’s Wednesday.”

  “Okay,” Francie said. “It’s Wednesday, whatever that means. Can you, or better ye
t, can I reach him on his cell phone?”

  “I doubt it,” the fourteen-year-old said.

  “This is pretty serious. One of his clients has been incarcerated.”

  “Maybe you should take him to the hospital. There’s a twenty-four-hour clinic here you can take him to.”

  “In-car-cer-ated! In jail!”

  “Oh!” the young voice came back. “I see. Um, well, I can leave a message for, um, Mr. Sage, and he’ll call you in the morning.”

  “No,” Francie said. “Not morning. Now.”

  “The thing is, he’s fishing. But, um, Nels just came in. Should I send him over?”

  “Nels?”

  “Office intern. He’s the only one around today. I think he just got back from fishing, too. Wednesday is fishing day.”

  “Fine,” Francie said. “Whatever.” What kind of rinky-dink operation was this? And who was this office intern, Nels? She pictured some skinny, geeky guy, fresh off the debate team. Great, Francie thought glumly. I look forward to meeting him.

  While she waited, she checked the messages on her phone. Her grandfather had called, looking for her. He’d left several messages in his deep, authoritative voice, each gaining in intensity: first frustration, then worry, then anger, and finally a threatening “I know where you are and don’t think I won’t come find you!”

  He’d get over it. She hoped.

  Nels blew in like a sudden westerly gale, blowsy and fresh, not skinny or geeky. In fact, she recognized him. It was Neptune, although today he looked more like Adonis, wearing a rumpled shirt and dirty shorts and running his hand through his curls that, honestly, had shaped themselves into a completely ridiculous head of hat hair. He seemed too young to work in a law office, Francie thought, but then she was too young to be a detective, wasn’t she? Everyone in this town seemed too young for their jobs. Except the sheriff.

  Nels wiped his hand on his shorts and offered it to her. His hand was warm and firm and large and comforting and she felt tears spring to her eyes. She fought them back, reminding herself, I’m the big detective from New York.

  “You must be Francesca,” Nels said. “Your aunts have talked about you. And you’re—”

  “Not a big detective,” Francie hurried to finish his sentence. “But don’t tell my aunts’ friends. They firmly want to believe they know an important detective from New York.”

  Nels laughed. “Got it,” he said. His laugh fit well with the westerly gale impression—also blowsy and fresh.

  In the same way he entered—in a whoosh—he had Astrid and Jeannette released simply by speaking a few quiet words to the sheriff.

  “You’re out on Enchantment, right? Can I give you a lift?”

  The idea was so appealing, Francie almost said yes before realizing she had driven and that her aunts’ boat waited at the landing.

  “My aunt’s car is here and their boat is—”

  Astrid interrupted. “Oh, if you and Francie could stop and pick up a few things at the store, then Jeannette and I could go straight home and start some dinner for all of us. I’m sure you could borrow a boat from Sandy, so you don’t have to launch yours, Nels.”

  “Auntie, I don’t think—” Francie began.

  “I could contribute some fresh sunnies,” Nels offered.

  “Ooh,” Astrid squeaked, “won’t that be lovely!” She scrawled a few items on a scrap of paper she plucked off the sheriff’s desk and handed it to Nels. Pretty weird to send your lawyer to the grocery store for you, but this whole day had been surreal, and when Jeannette said, “Hand over the keys, sweetie,” Francie handed them to her without protest.

  Then, because Francie must have stood somewhat dazed in the middle of the station, Nels steered her gently toward the door, his warm hand on the small of her back.

  19

  Sunnies

  “I wonder what they’re planning to start for dinner,” Francie said, peering into the brown paper grocery bags. “It seems we have all the ingredients with us.”

  When she glanced up, Nels was looking at her. She quickly redirected her gaze back into the bags. But she was left with the distinct impression he was smiling.

  “It seems sort of strange to be shopping for olive oil and Shore Lunch, whatever that is,” she said, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Nels, “when my aunt is the prime suspect in a murder.”

  “Tell me how that happened,” he said.

  While Nels parked his truck in Sandy’s lot, Francie filled him in about the scene at the church. She explained how the sheriff had been at the funeral luncheon. He’d made everyone still there stay for questions while he sent samples of the funeral food off to a lab somewhere for testing.

  “Why would he suspect foul play?” Nels wondered, whipping off his dirty T-shirt.

  “Exactly,” Francie said, trying not to gape. “And then some sort of information arrives that makes him decide to take Astrid in for questioning. ‘Question her right here,’ I said, but no, the sheriff was going to take her in.” Francie tried to keep her mind on the thread of her story while Nels rummaged around in the back of his truck for a different rumpled, but clean, shirt. While he pulled the shirt over his head, she actually heard herself say “buff” instead of “but Auntie Jen had gotten herself arrested, or detained, or whatever, too, by assaulting a law officer,” which was, in Francie’s opinion, a rather extreme interpretation of what had happened. Jeannette had flung herself on the sheriff and wrapped her arms around his neck, which, okay, did nearly choke him, but still. Francie had peeled Jeannette off and apologized profusely to the sheriff, but to no avail. He’d hauled them in for questioning. “Do you think they’re in terrible trouble?” Francie asked Nels.

  “No,” Nels said. “Rydell is . . . he’s all right, really, but—”

  “He’s all set to retire?”

  “Yep,” Nels said. “He doesn’t want to work too hard. This probably made him feel as if he was doing something. Now he has, and he’ll probably let it go.”

  “Let it go? Poisoning?”

  “I’m kind of surprised he even bothered to investigate at all.”

  “Supposedly Buck is a friend of his.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right.”

  Sandy appeared and said it was okay to borrow a boat for the evening. Her aunts had already asked, he said.

  During their dinner of crispy fried sunnies—Francie had forgotten how good they were—and Astrid’s unusual potato salad, in which Francie was hard pressed to find a potato, her aunts told their own version of the story. They’d been serving the stragglers at the luncheon and were ready to put everything away when Buck came in. Astrid couldn’t remember how that spatula came to be in her hand. But it was her spatula, or anyway, she had one like it, or she used to have one like it. At least she thought she did. At any rate, Jeannette said, she didn’t like to say it about anyone, but wasn’t it true the world was better off without Buck?

  “I’m a little sad about Buck,” Francie mused.

  “That’s very sweet of you,” Jeannette said. “I’m ashamed to say that there are those of us who aren’t that sad.”

  “It’s not that I’m so sweet, really,” Francie said, “but Buck told me he was going to tell me something about my mother.”

  A look of concern flicked across both her aunts’ faces. Nels just looked confused.

  “What kind of thing?” Astrid said.

  “I don’t know!” Francie cried. “And now I’ll never know.”

  “I can’t imagine he could have known anything about her,” Jeannette said. “He probably said that to keep you from talking.”

  “Maybe,” Francie mumbled.

  “Well, now that he’s gone, we won’t have to worry anymore,” Astrid added and smacked her lips.

  “You might have to worry about being arrested for murder!” Francie said.

  “Oh that,” Jeannette said. “That’s just ridiculous, isn’t it, Astrid?”

  Astrid didn’t answer.

  “Astrid!�
� Jeannette said. “Didn’t you hear me? I said it’s ridiculous for you to be arrested for murder. Rydell will come to his senses and see it couldn’t be you.”

  Nels had been amazingly silent throughout the conversation, Francie thought. But he did seem to be busy picking bones out of his fish.

  “What kind of hotdish did you make for the funeral, Astrid?” Francie asked, holding her breath for the answer.

  “Why, I made salmagundi, of course!” she answered, and all four of them breathed again. “With tuna!” she finished.

  “Well, did you poison it?” Francie asked.

  Nels snorted. So he was paying attention.

  “Of course not!” Astrid said.

  “Where did it go?”

  “The poison?”

  “The hotdish,” Francie said.

  “Gone,” Astrid said.

  “You mean all eaten up?” Francie asked.

  “No,” Astrid answered. “I mean gone as in poof! I don’t know!”

  “What did the dish look like?” Nels asked.

  “The casserole dish?” Astrid said. “It was that brown pottery one, with fish swimming around the sides of it, with a lid, of course.”

  Francie thought of Mrs. Smattering and Mrs. Hansen clucking over a casserole in the parking lot of the church. Had it been a brown pottery dish? Francie wished she’d paid closer attention. Her TV detective character would have noticed something like that. Why wasn’t Francie more like her?