Leighann Dobbs - Mystic Notch 02 - A Spirited Tail (9 page)

“Yes. He was ransacking the kitchen for stuff to sell on eBay.”

“I saw an old ashtray from the Van Dorn estate going for over two hundred dollars this morning!” Cordelia said.

“Really? Why so much?” Bing asked.

“Well, it’s a big deal, what with the curse and all.” Hattie sipped her tea. “And, of course, that nephew is taking full advantage. He’s even providing a letter of provenance and everything.”

“If you ask me, it’s all in poor taste.” Cordelia pursed her lips.

“Some people will do anything for money,” Josiah said. “I’m surprised the police are letting him in there like that, since it’s the scene of a murder.”

“Oh, I have a lead on that, too.” Cordelia’s blue eyes sparkled. She loved having information she could enlighten the rest of us with.

“Do tell,” I prompted.

“It seems Bruce got into a fight with some stranger at the Mystic Cafe the night before he was murdered.”

“Stranger?” I leaned my elbows on the counter. “Do you think it could have been the nephew, Steve Van Dorn?”

Cordelia shrugged. “I don’t know. Myrna didn’t know who he was, but she said Bruce saw him writing something in a notebook and he got all mad and started yelling.”

“That was probably due to his dementia. People with dementia act all funny and unpredictable.” Hattie turned to Cordelia. “Remember how Daddy used to act toward the end?”

“You don’t think this person would have killed Bruce because of that, do you?” Bing asked.

Hattie and Cordelia scrunched up their faces in thought.

“That hardly seems likely,” Josiah said. “I mean, who kills someone over a few heated words in a cafe?  It didn’t come to blows or anything, did it?”

“Oh, no,” Cordelia said. “Myrna said Bruce yelled and the other guy yelled back and then it was over real quick.”

“Well, I assume the police will look into it.” Josiah spread his hands. “It won’t take them long to find out about the fight since news spreads like crabgrass in this town.”

Hattie slid her eyes over to me. “Maybe you should tell Gus, Willa. Just in case she doesn’t find out.”

“Or that nice young man of yours.” Cordelia raised her brows at me. “I heard he was at your house last night.”

My cheeks heated up a notch. Was nothing private in this town? 

“Now, now, I’m sure the police can do their own job without us butting in,” Josiah said.

“I guess you’re right. The fight in the cafe probably didn’t mean anything anyway.” Cordelia shrugged. “Bruce might have been off his rocker.”

“Probably,” Hattie said. “But I know one thing. If I were Augusta, I’d be putting that nephew at the top of my suspect list.”

“Why’s that?” Josiah asked.

“Why, isn’t it obvious?” Hattie wrinkled her face at Josiah. “The killer is usually the person who has the most to gain, and judging by the prices that nephew is getting for his stuff on eBay, he’s making a bundle over the renewed interest in the Van Dorn curse.” 

***

Lunchtime rolled around and I realized I was craving a tuna on rye with extra pickles, just the way Myrna makes it.  Not only that, but I was dying to find out about the fight Cordelia had mentioned. 

Maybe the fight had nothing to do with Bruce having dementia. Maybe he knew something about Van Dorn or the Van Dorn curse. He might have heard Steve planned to sell off Van Dorn’s stuff and had it out with him. 

If Bruce knew something that could be a clue to Charles Van Dorn’s murder, I needed to find out … and if I happened to find a clue to Bruce’s murder, that would be an extra bonus. Not that I was actively looking for such a clue. I was leaving that up to the police, just like Gus had asked me to.

I grabbed my keys and flipped the sign to ‘Closed’. A quick glance back into the shop as I backed out the door revealed Pandora and Ranger, both lying calmly in their spots, each with one eye open watching me. 

Dare I leave them alone in the shop?

I didn’t have much choice if I wanted to question Myrna about Bruce’s fight, so I locked the door and stepped into the hot summer day.
The Mystic Cafe
was several stores down on the opposite side of the street. Traffic was light, so I hurried across, my flip-flops slapping against my heels. 

Main Street had recently been renovated and I felt a swell of pride as I walked past the freshly painted storefronts. Though they were updated, they still kept their original, early 1900s architectural charm. Most of the stores had hanging plants or window boxes brimming over with colorful flowers—purple petunias, pink, white and red impatiens and a variety of pansies, their face-like petals smiling at me as I walked down the street. 

The flowers added ambiance for the many tourists who pumped money into the summer economy.  I noticed with dismay that most of these tourists happened to be inside
The Mystic Cafe
right now. I pulled the door open, the buzz of conversation vibrating in my ears as I made my way to the counter to order.

I caught Myrna’s eye and her lips ticked up in a smile. She pulled a pencil out of her gray bun and produced a pad out of the vintage cherry print apron that barely covered her wide hips, then ambled over to stand on the other side of the counter from me.

“Hey, Willa, nice to see ‘ya. What can I get’cha?”

“The usual.” After having had lunch here for the past two years, I didn’t need to specify. Bud, who made the sandwiches, knew exactly what to put in mine—lots of extra pickles, chopped up and mixed in with the tuna. My mouth was practically watering as I envisioned biting into the thick sandwich.

Myrna smiled and scribbled on the pad, ripped off the piece of paper and clipped it onto a round metal holder, which she twirled around so Bud could see the order. 

Myrna moved to the register, her fingers poised over the keys. “You need a drink? Chips?” 

“Yeah, I’ll get an iced tea and some chips.” I paid and glanced behind me to see if anyone was in line. No one was, so I leaned across the counter toward her and whispered. “Do you have a sec?” 

She narrowed her eyes at me then glanced around the store to make sure no customers needed her. “Sure.” 

I jerked my head toward the drink cooler that was in an out of the way corner and she stepped out from behind the counter and met me over there.

“What’s up?” She peered up at me from under the blue frames of her cat’s-eye glasses.

“I heard Bruce Norton got into a fight in here the other night.” I stood in front of the cooler, surveying the iced tea selections.

“Yep. He was quite loud about it, too.”

“So you heard what they were arguing about?” I turned hopeful eyes to Myrna as I slid the cooler door open.

“Well, I try not to eavesdrop, but you could hardly help it.”

“What was it about?” I picked a peach iced tea and slid the door closed. “I mean, I know Bruce wasn’t really ‘with it’, and I was wondering if it was just gibberish or if it was something important … you know, considering what happened later.”

Myrna scrunched up her face. “Not with it? I don’t know about that. Bruce came in for sandwiches and coffee sometimes, and he seemed ‘with it’ to me.”

“Oh?” My brows shot up. Maybe whatever it was that made Bruce so mad really did have something to do with why he was killed. “So, then, what was the argument about?”

“Why don’t you ask the guy he was arguing with? He’s sitting right over there.” Myrna pointed behind me and I whirled around, confused, because I hadn’t seen Steve Van Dorn when I’d come in. I followed her finger to a corner table where a small, pinch-faced man sat. 

“That’s not Steve Van Dorn,” I said.

Myrna glanced at the counter where a customer was standing, head tilted back as he mulled over the menu hanging above. 

“I don’t know who Steve Van Dorn is, but that’s the guy Bruce was arguing with in the corner booth,” she said as she made her way over to wait on the customer.

I grabbed my sandwich and small chips from the counter and headed toward the corner booth. The man had a notebook open on the table in front of him with a half-eaten pastrami sandwich next to it. He was so engrossed in what he was writing, he didn’t notice me approaching until I was standing at the end of his table.

He looked up, his startled, brown eyes distorted behind thick lenses. He covered the grease-smeared, mustard-dotted pages protectively. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Willa Chance.” 

He blinked at my extended hand, then extended his slim, pale one for a limp handshake. “I’m Lester Price. But you can call me Les.”

“I own the bookstore down the street and couldn’t help but notice you writing. Are you a writer?” I’d learned early on that asking people about themselves was a good way to break the ice.

“Why, yes, I am.” He clicked his vintage, Waterman cherry red mechanical pencil proudly. My lips quirked up in a smile. Like most writers, I had a favorite pen I always used—mine was a Mont Blanc Meisterstuck roller ball. It had come in a set with a fountain pen and mechanical pencil like most vintage pens, but I liked the rollerball the best. I guessed the Waterman was Les’s favorite and decided it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to use our common calling as writers to get him to open up.

“I’m a writer, too. I was a crime journalist before I came up here to take over my Gram’s bookstore.” I nodded at the notebook. “Are you doing a piece on Mystic Notch?”

“Sort of.” Les hesitated, apparently sizing me up to see if I could be trusted. I must have passed muster, because he added, “Actually I’m writing about Charles Van Dorn.”

“Charles Van Dorn?” I didn’t bother to hide my surprise. “That’s a strange coincidence. Are you writing a book?”

“It’s no coincidence, really. My father was the journalist who wrote a series of articles about Van Dorn back in the sixties. You may have heard of him—Sal Price?”

I nodded, even though I hadn’t heard of him. Couldn’t hurt to butter the guy up. 

“He started writing a book just before Van Dorn killed himself, but he never finished. Anyway, my father passed away recently and then I heard about the house being sold, so I figured I could honor my dad and come out and finish the story.”

I narrowed my eyes. That sounded noble, but if he were writing a book, the renewed interest in the Van Dorn curse would surely make the book much more desirable to publishers. “So then, you must know about the Van Dorn curse and the symbol that Lily Johanson had on her forehead.”

“Of course. That’s a big part of the book, but the curse was just part of Charles Van Dorn’s persona. Did you know that he used to have séances and try to raise the dead? He was into the occult and, well … who knows what really happened to Lily.”

“Is that what you and Bruce were fighting about?”

“Fighting?”

“In here the other day, it’s all around town.”

“Oh.” He squirmed in his seat. “Well, I’m not exactly sure what he got all riled up about.  He saw me writing and started yelling. I’m not even sure he knew what I was writing about. I don’t think he was in his right mind.”

“That may be.” I studied Les carefully so I could judge his reaction to my next piece of information. “But did you know he was found murdered yesterday at the Van Dorn mansion … and with the same symbol on his forehead?”

Les’s eyes grow wide. “Symbol on his forehead?”

“Yes, the triangle with the dot in it, same as Lily.”

Les gasped, slumping back in his seat as if all the air had been knocked out of him. “No, it can’t be!”

“It’s true.” 

Les looked terrified, as if he’d seen a ghost … or worse. His mouth opened, closed and then opened again. “It’s the curse! My father was wrong … it really is real! 

“What do you mean your father was wrong?” 

His eyes darted around the room as he gathered up his notebook and shoved his pen in the plastic protector of the breast pocket in his yellow, short-sleeved button-down shirt. “Before he died, he told me all about that last summer here. The summer Lily and Charles died. But he said the curse wasn’t real.  He told me Charles staged it all for effect … but now that someone new has been killed up there with the same symbol … well … it seems like what he told me might have been wrong.”

And with that he pushed up from his seat, darted out of the booth and rushed out the door.

I tapped my finger on the waxed-paper-wrapped sandwich I held in my hand as I watched him disappear into the street. Our conversation had certainly been enlightening. If Lester Price had knowledge from his father about what went on around the time Van Dorn died, he might be able to help me figure out what really happened. 

Of course, Les did have a vested interest in reviving the Van Dorn curse since it would help him sell more books, but one thing was for sure. He wasn’t the killer. My years as a crime journalist had given me a sixth sense about reading people’s reactions and I could tell he was genuinely surprised when I’d told him about Bruce. Either that or he was one heck of an actor.

Chapter Nine

My stomach nagged at me, and I hurried out of the cafe. I was halfway to the bookstore when a prickly feeling on the back of my neck stopped me in my tracks. Turning slowly, I noticed the street behind me was dotted with tourists, but two people stood out like cats in a hen house.

They wore long, flowing dresses of light gauzy material. The redhead’s dress was snowy white, which contrasted sharply with the dark glare she was aiming in my direction. I knew her, of course—Felicity Bates—widow of the son of one of the richest men in the area. I couldn’t really say we were friendly. In fact, she had pretty much hated me ever since her son had gone to jail for murder. I guess she felt it was my fault since I’d had something to do with figuring out he was the killer.

The woman standing next to her looked to be in her eighties. She had the same angry glare and wore a similar dress, but in light green. I pictured that was what Felicity would look like in thirty years. 

The two women stared at me. Felicity pointed. I was hungry and didn’t have time for her crap, so I thrust out my chin and started across the street to my shop.