Libel to kill, p.4
Libel to Kill, page 4
part #4 of Digital Detective Mystery Series
"Only in Aspen Falls. Here, I'll read it."
Nudist Infiltrating Village?
Aspen Falls has several new residents, but not everyone is happy they are here. According to shocked witnesses, a small band of nudists has set up camp on the edge of town. They seem to have no plans to move on. In an interview, their leader, Geoff, stated the group is communing with nature as God intended and plan to stay awhile, at least while the weather stays warm.
The group is made up of both men and women, seven in all, though Geoff stated that others may join them. "All are welcome," said Geoff wearing a wide grin and nothing else. "Any of the good people of the village will be welcomed with open arms if they'd like to be freed from the social constrictions we all have been bound up in for far too long." The nudist, or naturalists, as some preferred to be called, say they live sans clothing whenever they can.
According to Sheriff Ross Lawson, the land they are camped on is public. Since they aren't flaunting their lifestyle and wear appropriate clothing when in the village proper, they aren't breaking any laws. Lawson did state, however, "One among them has caused a disturbance and will be apprehended. The man who is streaking through the village should know he is breaking several ordinances and will be jailed and fined if he doesn't cease and desist." Sheriff Lawson asks that those upset by the streaker understand that everything is being done to apprehend the man. If you have any information about the unclothed man, please contact the sheriff's department.
It had been a long time since I'd heard my husband laugh as much as he did while reading it aloud. I, on the other hand, tried to be mature about the situation. Why is it that men's humor is so different than women's? They never seem to grow out of finding potty jokes funny.
"I feel bad for Ross,” I said. “When I saw him yesterday, he looked worn out. This streaker situation must be the cause."
Still struggling to gain control over his gaiety, Christian said, "Maybe he'd feel less stressed if he 'freed himself from the social constrictions' and threw his tighty-whities to the wind." More laughter. I doubted his childhood friend would appreciate Christian's amusement. I rolled my eyes and left him sitting in the kitchen still chuckling.
✽✽✽
All the books I'd read on writing fiction promised diligence and consistency would bring results. I wrote nearly every day, I'd designed a detailed outline, I'd made in-depth character sketches. And yet, every time I sat down to write it was like having my wisdom teeth pulled without anesthesia.
Determined to get some meaningful writing done today, I cleared everything non-essential from my desk and set up a website blocker app to keep me from getting distracted. When the words weren't flowing, it was too tempting to "research" random queries, like how long it took rigor mortis to set in when a body had been in ice-cold water for days.
With my extensive outline beside me, I pounded out the words, gritting my teeth the whole time. Why was I wasting my time trying to write a novel? Because, I answered myself, you were looking for a challenge. Well, it had certainly turned out to be that.
After writing about murder for two hours, I removed my bifocals and rubbed my eyes. Penning a murder mystery wasn’t conducive to keeping my thoughts off Bernie’s death. If someone had taken Bernie out to keep their skeletons safely in their closet, wasn’t I at least partly to blame?
In last night's nightmare, Bernie had been threatening me with a knife. Could the dream be trying to tell me Bernie had been threatening someone? Dreams were symbolic, right? They aided our subconscious in processing events from our waking life. Maybe my subconscious was telling me Bernie had been killed because she'd threatened someone with something sharp. Bernie's tongue was sharp. I sat, pondering for a few minutes before forcing myself to return my focus to my manuscript.
✽✽✽
I dragged through the next two days. My nightmares intensified, leaving my mind filled with gory images and incessant doubt about the true nature of Bernie’s passing. I dreaded going to bed although I was exhausted, afraid of what experiences awaited me in my dreams. If my brain really was just trying to assimilate my feelings about Bernie’s death, it sure was taking its sweet time.
On Tuesday evening, I left for WAC before Christian and Ellie returned home from work. Aimee and I pulled into the lot at the same time, and we chatted as she moved around the dining room. Not a fan of small talk in the best of times, my cloudy mind responded slowly to her continual chatter.
It was time to start, and I sat alone in the tea shop. I tapped my fingers on the table, glancing up at the teacup-shaped clock. Perhaps no one felt up to writing tonight after the loss of one of our members. If I were lucky, no one would show. But my desire to return home early was foiled when I looked out the large window overlooking the parking lot. There stood my small group of writers, engaged in an animated conversation. With a sigh, I walked to the entrance and hollered for them to come inside so we could get started.
They turned to stare at me in unison. Several members tried to wipe the smile off their faces, while the others elbowed one another as they strolled inside. It seemed I'd missed out on a joke. Rather than being dispirited due to Bernie’s absence, the group seemed cheerful.
There was a lot of shifting in seats and uncomfortable glances around the room as we settled in to write. I tried to focus on my computer screen and ignore the sideways glances in my direction. Something was definitely up, but I was too weary to care what it was.
Unable to get my mind focused, I gave up after forty-five minutes. Instead, I watched the room. I wasn’t the only one having difficulty concentrating. No one would meet my eye and a sense of apprehension filled the room.
Irritation boiled up. Why was everyone treating me like a leper? These people were supposed to be my friends. Although I knew I was being irrational, I couldn’t overcome my feelings of annoyance. With a huff, I stood and walked to Crystal and Gabby’s table.
When I had their attention, I nodded my head to the right, indicating I wanted to talk to them alone. We tiptoed in a line to the ladies' room off the main dining area.
As soon as the bathroom door shut, I crossed my arms over my chest. "Okay, what’s going on?”
They glanced apprehensively at one another.
Finally, Crystal said, “Haven't you seen today's paper?"
My eyebrows furrowed. "No. Why?"
"Your investigations are the topic in today's News About Town,” Gabby said.
"What?" My voice squeaked.
Crystal said, "Yeah. Apparently, you're hot on the trail of Bernie's non-existent murderer."
I stared at them, my mouth hanging open. "What did the article say? Why didn't anyone tell me?"
Crystal shrugged. "They probably thought you'd seen it. Or that Ellie had warned you."
I narrowed my eyes. "Is that what you were all discussing in the parking lot?"
Crystal looked at the floor and murmured, “Yeah.”
I frowned at Gabby. “What did the article say?”
“What Crystal said. That when you found Bernie’s body, you decided it was murder and started investigating. That you see murder everywhere now that you have a few cases under your belt.”
I stood ram-rod straight, my hands fisted at my sides. So, this is how my neighbors repay me, by mocking me in the press.
“Gabby and I tried to tell them it wasn’t true, but—”
“But they were all too happy to laugh behind my back.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Gabby took a step towards me, but I drew back. “It was just a bit of fun.”
“Fun at my expense. Who wrote the article?”
Crystal bit the inside of her lip. “It didn’t say. Just a staff writer.”
Realization dawned. People thought my own daughter had written the piece. No wonder everyone was avoiding my gaze.
Could Ellie have written the article? She was obviously upset with me about something. Her anger was pointed at me rather than her father. Was this her way of getting back at me for some imagined slight? I’d racked my brain to figure out what I’d done but could come up with nothing.
✽✽✽
Upon returning home, I stormed into the living room and muted the TV. I waved about the folded newspaper I'd picked up off the kitchen table in my other hand. Christian was watching while Ellie was engrossed with something on her phone.
"Why didn't one of you tell me about the News About Town article? Huh?" I said to the room at large.
I turned to Ellie, "Surely you knew it was going to come out. Why didn't you warn me?"
My daughter looked up at me mildly. "This may surprise you, Mom, but I don't know everything that's going on at my place of work. And I have other things on my mind. You shouldn't be surprised. I told you people were starting to think you were a nosy Parker." She went back to texting.
"Need I remind you," I said huffily, "that one of those investigations I took on for you. You begged me to help Dillon. Even though I didn't want to, I did. Because you were so worried."
Ellie finished her text and stood up from the couch. "And I appreciate it. But now it's time to act your age and stop trying to be the focus of the town."
Eyes wide, I shouted, “Did you write the article?”
She narrowed her eyes and raised her chin before bounding up the stairs, taking her phone with her.
Christian looked at me from his recliner, his eyebrows raised.
“Are you going to let your daughter talk to me that way?” I asked.
“I’ll talk to her once she’s calmed down. There’s no point now.”
Tears pooled in my eyes. “Do you think Ellie is the one who wrote it?”
Christian stood. “No, I don’t. And if it makes you feel any better," he started moving towards me, "I don't think it was meant to be nasty, just a light, tongue-in-cheek piece."
No, it didn’t make it better. Not wanting to be comforted, I jogged up the stairs before he could gather me in his arms.
I lay in bed, letting my emotions wash over me. All the fatigue and conflicted feelings of the past few days flowed out as tears. I cried myself to sleep without thought of any possible nightmares to come.
Chapter Five
I woke the next morning with eyes swollen from crying and a fragile psyche. And yet, I felt cleansed and somewhat restored.
I’d weather this storm, as I had others. Something new would happen, and the town would soon be talking about that instead of me. Maybe I’d keep my head down until then. I also needed to find a way to talk to my daughter without the animosity we’d shown last night. Surely, she hadn’t written the scathing article about her own mother.
Pushing away thoughts of the harsh words spoken last night, I worked until my hunger pains could no longer be ignored. I pondered the newspaper article as I ate a sandwich at the kitchen table. Had the writer, whoever they were, come up with the idea for the piece on their own? Or had someone in the village suggested it? Humiliation welled up in my throat, and I set my sandwich on the plate.
The image of Bernie lying in the prayer death pose flashed in my mind’s eye. That, the nightmares, and the nagging sense something didn’t add up were all I had to make me question the way she’d died. So why did someone think I’d investigate? Did the instigator of the article know something I didn’t?
Whether they did or didn’t was beside the point. I hurled mental insults at them for a few minutes until a thought led my mind in a different direction. What if I did investigate? At least a little, to find out if my gut was right. My thoughts flitted across the nightmarish scenes from my dreams. I swallowed hard. Had I been denying the truth all along? Was Bernie haunting me? Trying to goad me into sniffing out the person who’d caused her death? Moreover, did I even believe such things were possible?
I shook my head to clear the questions. I was overreacting, that was all. My lack of sleep was causing my emotions to run high and my mind to run wild. I forced myself to eat the rest of my sandwich, though I’d lost my appetite. I drained my iced tea to wash down the rest of my lunch and considering taking a nap.
While refilling my glass to take to the office, a slow smile spread across my face. How great would it feel to solve the case that no one else believed was murder? That would show them. Not that I wanted Bernie to be murdered, but…
The doorbell startled me out of my reverie. Now what?
When I opened the front door, Margery Blanchard stood on my porch. I didn't know Margery well, and until today, she'd never darkened my doorstep. Now an elderly spinster, she'd lived most of her adult life out of the country, in Africa, Honduras, Columbia...somewhere, doing God's work as a missionary. A couple of years ago, she'd moved back to the village where she'd been born and raised.
"Why, Margery, what brings you here?" I asked before my manners kicked in. I opened the door wider. "Come in." I led the way to the kitchen.
"I was just pouring myself a glass of iced tea. Would you like one?”
She sneezed and then sniffed into a lacy handkerchief. "Oh, now that would be nice. Thank you. It's a rather warm day."
I busied myself getting her tea, my brain firing off questions about her unannounced visit. When I turned, her hands were twisting a well-used handkerchief, belying the calmness she was attempting to project. Her iron-gray hair was cut in a no-nonsense style popular during World War II, and her face was washed clean. Unlike my friend Phyllis, who was a contemporary, she wore no makeup.
Margery was tall and slightly hunched, and as thin as the starving children I supposed she'd served for years. Her A-line beige skirt and flowered blouse were neat, though a bit shabby. Her only jewelry was a small gold cross around her neck.
"Here you go." I sat a glass of tea in front of her. Up close, I could see she had a rash on her neck, face, and hands. "There's lemon and sugar on the table if you'd like some."
"Oh, thank you. You're very kind." Margery sniffed, took a tiny sip, and reached for the sugar and lemon. She avoided my gaze by fussing with her tea. "So, you are probably wondering why I'm here." She laughed in a high-pitched tone.
Not wanting to be rude, I just smiled at her.
"You may not be aware, but Bernie and I were old friends. I'm finding it difficult to deal with her death, even though I know she's in a better place now." Margery sneezed into her embroidered handkerchief.
"Bless you. I'm sorry for your loss. It must be painful knowing someone for so long and then losing them unexpectedly."
"Thank you.” She finally looked up at me with red, swollen eyes. "I think I’m finding it harder because it was so sudden. Bernie had her health issues, but they were under control, according to her.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Even with my faith, knowing the Lord called her Home, I'm finding the loss distressing."
Margery suddenly became fascinated with her tea again. She stirred it ineffectually with a long iced tea spoon but wasn't reaching the sugar gelling in the bottom of the sweaty glass.
Why is she telling me this? We'd had precisely three conversations since she'd arrived back in the village, and I only had vague recollections of her from my childhood, during her infrequent trips home. Why wasn't she sharing her grief with one of the church ladies?
"I read the article in the paper, the one about you looking into Bernie's death because you don’t believe it was natural." Marge sipped her tea with a trembling hand while peeking at me over the rim of her glass. "I was wondering if that was true. That you suspect foul play."
Oh great. I took a deep breath to gather my patience. "No, it isn't true. News About Town is nothing but a gossip column the Gazette added to increase sales. I have no idea where they got their information, but it certainly wasn't from me."
Margery pressed one hand against her stomach and took a long drink of tea. "Oh, I see. So, you have no plans to pursue an investigation?"
“No. Why? Does it matter?”
“Oh,” she offered me a shaky smile, “it’s, uh... The idea of Bernie being murdered was more than I could bear. It would be so much more difficult to deal with the loss if there was a possibility she died violently.”
“I understand,” I said, although I didn’t completely. Surely, she hadn’t come here just to ask that. Why hadn’t she just called?
Margery sneezed and wiped her nose with her hanky.
“Bless you.” I was going to disinfect the kitchen as soon as she was out the door.
Margery leaned back in the kitchen chair, holding her glass in both hands. "I was curious about that section of your grass with all the pebbles in it. It looks like a circular path."
"It's a labyrinth. You walk in the spiraled path slowly to empty your mind. It's incredibly soothing, like prayer, I suppose. It's become the special place where I calm myself and reflect on life."
"Interesting." She cleared her throat and took a sip of tea. Suddenly she stood up. "Thank you so much for your hospitality, but I do need to get going. I'm sure you have things to get on with too. Would you mind walking me out?"
“Sure.” This had to be one of the strangest conversations I’d ever had.
We walked silently to her nondescript gray hatchback. All the windows were rolled down, and as we got closer, I heard squawking.
"What the h—"
"That's Ezra, Bernie's parrot." Margery opened the car door. A large bird cage was on the back seat fastened with the seatbelt. "Isn't he lovely?"
"The wages of sin are death," the nearly-neon green parrot squawked, making me jump.
Before I could recover from my startled reaction to the screeching bird, Margery went into a coughing fit so severe, I worried she would die right in my driveway.
"The lake of fire is the second death," squawked the bird.
"Not. Helping," I told Ezra as I patted Margery's back. To Margery, I said, "Are you going to be okay?"
"Yes, I'll be fine,” she said in a nasal voice before blowing her nose on the soggy handkerchief. "You see the problem, of course. I'm allergic to the bird. I don't think I could survive another night with him in my house. I need someone to take him, just for a little while, until I can find a permanent home for him."
