A Grid For Murder Part 4

"There may be more," Barbara acknowledged, "but I phoned a few friends in town, and those were all we could come up with on such short notice."

"Let me get something to write these down on," I said, diving into my bag for a pen and a piece of paper. They were there in case any good puzzle ideas-or, more likely, snippet thoughts-came to me while I was out. I couldn't build a puzzle in my mind any more than I could play three games of chess at the same time, but it was impossible to predict when creativity would strike.

I looked at the paper in my purse and saw that I'd scribbled, Compare autumn with computers in next snippet. What in the world could that possibly mean? I flipped the paper over and looked expectantly at Barbara.

She'd been watching me, and before she spoke, she took another full ten seconds to study me. "Remember, no one can know that I've fed you this information. Agreed?"

"Not even Zach?" I asked.

"No, I'm sorry, but this has to be between the two of us alone."

"My husband was the chief of police for Charlotte, North Carolina," I said with a little more stiffness than I intended. "Trust me when I tell you that he knows how to keep a secret."

"I'm sorry, but I insist," she said. I could tell from the look in her eyes that she wasn't going to back down, so anything I said would just be a waste of good breath.

I put the paper and pen back in my bag and stood. "Then I'm sorry I bothered you. I do appreciate the thought."

"Where are you going?" Barbara looked absolutely startled by my reaction to her demand. I doubted that many folks had told her no before.

"If I can't tell my husband, I don't want to know anything you've got to say. It's as simple as that."

Barbara frowned, clearly in uncharted waters. "Even if it means not finding the real killer?"

"Even then," I said as I headed for the door.

Barbara snapped out, "You can't bluff me, Savannah; I'm too good at reading character for that to work."

"I wouldn't dream of trying to make you back down. I know better. That's why I'm just going to give up and start digging around town myself."

"No one's going to talk to you," she said in a threatening voice as I headed for the back door.

"Maybe not. I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

I was at the door when she said with an air of finality, "You'll be back."

I turned to face her, and it took every ounce of energy I had to keep smiling. "Barbara, if there's one thing in my life that I stand by, it's my relationship with my husband. I'm sure I could get along fine without him, and he could probably do the same, but there's something magical about life when we're together, and I wouldn't do anything to risk that, ever, not even if my very life depended on it."

I left her with that, and as I closed the door, the frown on Barbara's face was obvious. She'd tried to back me down on one of the few things on earth that I would never budge from, and she'd lost. I'd probably pay for my disobedience, but if that meant that my reputation around town would take a hit, it was worth it.

I'd meant every word I'd said. There was nothing more important to me than my marriage, and I would never do anything that might harm it in the slightest way. The sooner folks around town realized that, the better off we'd all be.

MY PRINCIPLES WERE ALL WELL AND GOOD, BUT THEY weren't going to help me find a killer and clear my name. Now that I'd lost my first and best chance of putting together a list of folks who might want to see Joanne come to harm, I'd have to formulate a backup plan. I returned to my car, but I made no attempt to start the engine until I had a specific destination in mind. As I went over all the people I'd met in Parson's Valley over the past few years, I thought of-and just as quickly discarded-most of the people I'd ever met there. Sure, there were plenty of folks I'd share a seat with at the Sat.u.r.day night buffet on Town Square, and some I'd even share a secret or two with, but I was just beginning to realize that the ones I could trust, and I mean really trust, were few indeed. I started getting depressed about it until I realized that in all the years we'd lived in Charlotte, I could still just produce a similarly small list, a few friends I could call in the middle of the night who wouldn't ask why, instead just how they could help. It was probably like that for most people, if they were ever to honestly a.s.sess the relationships with the people they came into contact with from day to day.

In the end, I managed to come up with two names of people I knew that I could trust. It was no surprise that Barbara's wasn't one of them. I suddenly realized that I'd been going about it all wrong. Certainly Barbara Brewer knew more about the activities in our little town than nearly anyone else, but that didn't mean she'd share what information she had with me; at least not without a price I refused to pay.

The two I had left would do that, and more.

And now I knew exactly where I needed to go.

It was time to get some help from a real friend.

I WAVED TO ROB HASTINGS WHEN I WALKED INTO HIS HARDWARE store. The owner was selling a middle-aged man some exotic wood from the section of his store devoted to woodworkers. It would have surprised a lot of folks back in Charlotte that one of my best friends in Parson's Valley was the heavyset widowed owner of the town hardware store, but sometimes there's no accounting for how people make a connection. When we'd first moved into our old cottage, Zach and I had discovered that there were a thousand things that needed fixing, and we soon learned that Rob had all the answers, and on those rare occasions when he didn't, he had a good idea of exactly who in our area might. Since Zach's consulting business was just starting to take off, my husband had to go where the crime was. At times, he was gone more often than he was at home, so I'd turned to Rob for help, and we'd soon developed a friendship. What had sealed it, at least for him, was the sourdough bread I baked every week, with one loaf earmarked especially for him. His late wife had made the same subtle sourdough that I did, with a hint of the flavor instead of the overpowering blast that many starters yielded. We'd soon worked out an arrangement that both of us were happy with: his advice for my bread.

After Rob rang up the man's sale and helped him to his car, he smiled at me and said, "There goes a man who appreciates history."

"What were you two discussing?" I asked.

"Wood," he answered, looking surprised by my question. "You saw us over there, didn't you?"

"I'm probably going to regret this, but what's historic about those particular boards he just bought?"

Rob retrieved another plank from the pile-one about eight inches wide, four feet long, and an inch thick. "Savannah, how heavy would you say this board is?"

I looked at its bulk. "It looks like it weighs a lot."

Then he handed to me. "Now what would you say?"

"It's surprisingly light," I admitted.

"But it's stronger than you'd ever imagine. How about the color of the wood? Does it look familiar?"

I studied the board in my hand. It was a game we sometimes played, identifying wood species, and I'd gotten to be pretty good at it over the past few years. Even Rob admitted that it was getting harder and harder to stump me. "The grain pattern looks like it could be some type of oak, but I've never seen anything in that species that color before. It's a cross between blond and b.u.t.ter, if I had to categorize it."

He laughed at my description.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"I've just never heard it described that way before, but I think you've nailed it perfectly. So, are you ready to guess?"

I looked at it again, and then handed the board back to him. "Not today. I'm afraid you've beaten me. I give up."

He didn't gloat; I had to give him credit for that. "Don't take it too hard. There are woodworkers who've been at it for decades who've never held a piece of this in their hands. It's authentic American chestnut, harvested a hundred years ago and cut with a water-powered saw blade."

"Okay, I see the history of it," I acknowledged. "What does it cost?"

"It's ten dollars a board foot," he said. "I'd say that was cheap for a piece of history, wouldn't you?"

"I would," I said as I took out my purse and put a ten dollar bill in his hand. "I'll take it."

"That's per board foot, not per board," he said as he handed the money back to me.

"Then how much does this piece in particular cost?"

He took a few measurements, entered them into a calculator, and came up with a total, but before he would tell me, he looked at me and asked, "Do you really want this piece, or are you just making one of those points you like to make from time to time?"

"Does it matter?"

He touched the wood with reverence for a few moments. "Ordinarily I'd say no; your money is just as good as anyone else's. But with this wood, it makes a difference to me. Botanists and foresters keep trying to bring back the American chestnut, but they keep failing at it. Our country wouldn't be the same place it is now without it."

"I didn't know. If there isn't anything new to harvest, then where do these boards come from?"

"Mostly old barns that are being torn down in the country. If chestnut is cared for properly, this board will be around forever."

"That's pretty amazing." I thought about it. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll come up with something special to use it for, and then I'll come back and buy it."

"That sounds like a plan." Rob took out a small adhesive label and printed my name on it. "This will be in my office waiting for you when you're ready for it."

"You've got a deal," I said as I put my purse away.

He put the board by his desk, and then Rob said, "You didn't come by shopping for chestnut, and I don't see any sourdough bread in your hands, so what can I do for you?"

"I need some advice," I said.

"That I've got plenty of, free of charge, and worth more than you have to pay for it." He turned to his sole clerk, a young man named Lee Thomas, and said, "I'll be in my office for a few minutes. Call me if you get swamped."

Lee asked, "Do you want me to start putting the barbeque grills away in the bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"No, just watch the floor. You can do those later, but leave one on the sales floor."

Lee grinned at him. "Do you honestly think anyone's going to want to buy a grill this late in the season?"

"If we don't have one on display, how will they know they can?"

Lee nodded, and Rob and I went into his office. It was in sharp contrast to Barbara's, with everything put away in a neat fashion. I admired him for his sense of order, even if I didn't emulate it myself. There was a bookcase along one wall, but there were no library books on it. Instead, there was a ma.s.s of vendor catalogues, neatly organized. It didn't appear that Rob ever threw one out.

As Rob settled into the red leather chair behind his desk, he leaned back and asked, "What kind of advice are you in the market for, Savannah?"

"I'm trying to figure out who killed Joanne Clayton," I said abruptly.

As I said it, I saw Rob's face go white, and he nearly fell out of his chair. It seemed that my friend hadn't heard the news about our fellow resident of Parson's Valley, and he was taking it harder than I ever could have imagined he would.

Chapter 5.

"ARE YOU OKAY?" I WAS WORRIED THAT ROB WAS TAKING the news so hard, and I felt guilty for not sugarcoating it a little, instead of just blurting it out as I had.

Some color was coming back to his face, but I could tell that he was still shaken by the news. "I'll be fine," he said. "I just need a second to come to terms with it. I hadn't heard a thing about it."

"I didn't realize you two were that close," I said.

"We're not now," he said with a sad voice, "but we were, at least at one point in our lives. I admit that it was so long ago that it almost feels like it was someone else, but the news is tough to hear."

"Were you two ever an item?" I asked as delicately as I could. I couldn't imagine my friend ever finding Joanne attractive-not that she didn't have her share of suitors over the years. I just doubted that he'd be able to take the barbed comments she was so famous for.

"No, never," he said with a quick dismissal that I instantly believed. "She was good friends with my Becky, though."

I knew Becky was Rob's late wife. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize."

He shook his head. "It's not your fault. My wife was gone long before you and Zach moved to Parson's Valley." Rob put a hand through his hair and appeared to try to shake off the bad news. "I'm kind of surprised that n.o.body told me. When did this happen?"

"Today, in Asheville. We were having tea together at Cafe Noir, across from the obelisk."

He looked startled yet again, and I worried for a moment about his heart. "Did you actually see it happen?"

"I might have," I said.

Rob frowned at me before he spoke. "Savannah, either you did or you didn't. It's a simple question."

"I just wish it had a simple answer. I was picking a few things up in the city, and I decided to have lunch across from Pack Square. Joanne spotted me, and then joined me at my table. Sandra Oliver and Laura Moon came soon afterward, and we all had some tea together."

"Do you know how she died?"

"She was poisoned," I said.

His face grew even paler. "Do the police think you did it?"

"I'm not sure what they think," I admitted.

"Surely Zach is going to clear you," Rob said. He had a great deal of faith in my husband's ability as a detective; a belief that I happened to share.

"He's trying, but there's only so much he can do. I've got more problems than being a murder suspect, though."

My friend looked genuinely puzzled. "What takes precedence over that?"

"Think about it," I said as I leaned forward in my chair. "I know I didn't kill Joanne, and I believe Zach will find a way to prove it. I'm just afraid that even if the killer is found, if it happens too late, my name's going to be smeared forever as a murderer. If I can nudge the Asheville police and give them other suspects, they might be able to clear my name before it's too late to do me any good."

Rob nodded. "So, that's the advice you've come to me for."

I stood. "It was, but that was before I found out you had such close ties with Joanne, even if it was far back in your past. Now I realize that it would be too painful for you to help me. I'm sorry I bothered you with this, Rob."

"Sit back down, young lady," he said. There weren't many folks who called me that, but I always let it slide with Rob. "I'll help you."

"But it's not-"

He cut me off. "There's something you should realize. Joanne Clayton was a completely different woman back then. Sometimes I think she took Becky's death nearly as hard as I did. The woman changed, I'll tell you that. I know it's hard to believe now, but before, she was fun, clever, and always willing to lend a hand. When my wife died, something died in Joanne as well. She became someone I didn't recognize anymore. She turned into a mean, spiteful, angry woman, and I gave up trying to get through to her a long time ago." He rubbed his chin, and then added, "I suppose I thought there was a kernel of goodness buried deep inside her to the very end, waiting to come back out, but we'll never know that now, will we?" He slapped his hands on the desktop, a move that startled me with its abruptness, and the ringing shot of the impact echoed in the small s.p.a.ce. "Savannah, you and I are going to find out who robbed her of that chance."

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"More than you could imagine. Now, you said that Laura and Sandra were at the table with you as well. Was there anyone else around that you knew?"

"She mentioned that Harry Pike came by just before I got there," I said, "but I didn't see him. I know that a lot of people around here didn't like Joanne. She burned too many bridges over the years. I don't even know where to start with possible killers."