Mallory Gorman Won’t Be Buried Today: A Stella Kirk Mystery # 5
Chapter 19: Aiden Is Doomed
Stella and Nick check the doors and turn off the downstairs lights before they make their way to bed.
“She seemed fine — intense, but better than before her hospital admission.” At one point, ages ago, Rosemary made a pass at Nick. Although he was shocked, Stella persuaded Nick to overlook the manic behaviour. Aiden, mortified, apologized. Upon reflection, the episode began this most recent phase.
“Rosemary received habit reversal therapy — a new treatment which focuses on awareness of her actions when the spiralling starts. She’s learned self-control.”
Nick stops in front of the closet. “Sounds as if she performs.”
Nodding, Stella continues. “Rosemary stopped her pills. She said I deserve a warning because I’m the person in danger.”
His face blanches. “Does Aiden know? Tell Aiden.”
“No need. She’s back in hospital tomorrow.”
“After dinner, while you were talking to Aiden, she told me how her sisters meddle in her affairs and that she wants to slap Toni. According to her, sometimes bad behaviour happens. She winked.”
He frowns. “Man, I don’t trust her for one minute.”
They ready themselves for bed. After what seemed like an endless evening, she aches to close her eyes. Five minutes after his ruddy cheek touches the pillow, Nick’s gentle rumbles indicate he’s asleep. She pats Kiki as the dog settles, and stares at the ceiling. Nick is right. She should reveal Rosemary’s secret, but Aiden and her sisters aren’t in serious danger. There’s no urgency to blow the whistle. The woman has threatened her, and if she thinks Stella has told Aiden, her agitation will increase. She comforts herself in the knowledge Rosemary goes back to hospital tomorrow.
Reaching again for Kiki, she breaks a cardinal rule and lifts the little dog into bed. Kiki curls into a ball and cuddles in response. Aiden is doomed.
****
“Miss Kiki was beside you this morning.” His smile is soft. “I thought we made a rule.”
“Rosemary tormented my thoughts most of the night. I needed company.” She giggles. “You were no help.”
“As I’ve mentioned in the past, you can wake me,” he teases, as he opens his arms to her.
Trixie calls before they finish their Sunday breakfast. “Hi. You’re up early.”
“I live with a pre-schooler for a few more days.” She groans. “Listen, I spoke with Renee Tait yesterday. If you go to the post office for a talk tomorrow morning, she’ll be there. She works at the wicket on Mondays. Come here first and we’ll walk over. The best time is early, before the mail’s sorted.”
“Okay, I’ll be at your place by nine. Thanks.”
“How was supper with Aiden and crazy girl?”
“Could have used your company. She’s off. Normal outfit, but her eyes were angry. She told me they taught her habit reversal therapy.”
“What?”
“Yes. Her psychiatrists and therapists coached her in the idea of reversing her habits instead of masking her truth with anti-social attitudes — the way she treats Aiden, the clothes. You know.” She avoids any medication discussion with her sister. “She sounded like the shrink when she explained.”
“So did you right now. I’ll miss the old Rosemary.”
“She’s not gone. I don’t think Aiden’s aware her therapy has backfired. She returns tomorrow, and I’m not disappointed.”
“You sound surly. Leave your attitude at the park when you come into town.”
Stella replaces the receiver on the wall and ponders Trixie’s comment. Revealing Rosemary’s secret to Aiden is the cure for her dark mood.
When the phone rings again, she’s busy as Nick’s assistant while he makes brown bread and a batch of hot milk buns.
“Jasper Nunn here.” His tone is deep and melodic.
“Good morning, Jasper. I’m happy you called. Did you talk with Horace?”
“As you asked. Horace remembers Lloyd Gurney and Weldon Beck. His memory ain’t as sharp as mine, but he figures they were here three years ago.”
“Did he tell you more?”
“Yup. He said — gimme a minute.” The line quiets. Stella waits.
“Hi again. Helga came into the kitchen, and I waited until she left. I told her Horace needed help.” He chuckles. “We cooked up a diversion. Smart, eh?”
“Smooth, Jasper.” Impressive.
“Okay. I’ll be fast. Both Lloyd and Weldon were sickly men. Lloyd had two heart attacks while he lived here. Weldon had cancer and they couldn’t operate — in his brain, I guess. One after the other, they moved away. Weldon left first. Lloyd thought he was admitted to the hospital. He stayed alone in a room before he disappeared, as well. Horace assumed he found a bed at the manor. He never heard from either gent again. Ira — you already know his story.” He pauses. “I don’t think anyone found a bed at the manor, do you?”
“No, Jasper. You’ve been a colossal help. Your assistance is very much appreciated.”
“Here comes Helga,” he whispers. “Gotta go.”
“Off the phone, Jasper. You said you’d be a minute,” are the final words Stella hears before the line goes dead.
Lloyd Gurney and Weldon Beck. Neither were well men. She will bet her share in next season’s profits that the three male last names on those cheques in Maura Martin’s office are Gurney, Beck, and Gold. She turns toward the pantry and retrieves more flour for Nick, while hoping chatty Renee reveals surnames.
****
“Come on in.” Trixie answers the door at Yellow House as Stella lifts her knuckles and raps. “We’ve time for coffee.” With her mug clutched in one hand and the other holding her ratty red cable-knit sweater closed, she hustles Stella inside.
“None for me, thanks, but I’ll buy you a cup at the cafe after our visit with Renee.”
“Fair enough. Monday is croissant day. Tiffany says there’ll be hot blueberry sauce for dipping.”
Stella admires Trixie’s ability to eat whatever she wants without repercussions. The elastic-waisted pants she chose this morning prove she doesn’t enjoy the same advantage.
“Come say hi, before we go.” She leads the way through the children’s library and the dining room, now the bookstore, to the back of the house where Brigitte and Mia are reciting nursery rhymes and eating a leisurely breakfast, both still in pyjamas.
She hugs Brigitte and pats Mia’s soft curls before Trixie wriggles into her rabbit fur jacket and they leave. On their walk across the street, Stella looks for logic where none seems to exist. “I’m curious why Renee agreed to answer my questions. Gossip must put her job in jeopardy.”
“Lobster,” Trixie replies with a flick of her strawberry curls.
Eying her sister’s frown, Trixie adds, “She wanted a feed for New Year’s Eve. I used my contacts and found what she needed. The task was a favour, but at delivery time, I traded the lobster for whatever she knows. She said she’d speak with you, but the information can’t come back and risk her job. I agreed on your behalf. Alright?”
“You’ve somehow gained deal-making ability, but okay. Good job, by the way,” she adds, in the hope she hasn’t insulted her sister.
Renee Tait pushes through the saloon door between the mail room and the public space. Her stature is minuscule. No one has natural hair that black. Her eyebrows are painted on, and she has a dollop of rouge on each cheek matching bright red lips — a real life Betty Boop. Stella wonders how she sees over the counter. In response, Renee steps on a box, positioned in front of her wicket.
“Good morning, ladies. Trixie, you must be frozen after your dash across the street. Hi Stella. I don’t see you often. Your handsome boyfriend runs in for the mail.” She swivels a hip in Stella’s general direction and smirks. “Aren’t you the lucky duck?”
“More than a boyfriend. He’s her partner in the business, now.” Trixie puffs with pride. “I sold my shares the end of last month. Oh, and you might as well know a change of address will cross your desk any day. I bought a place outside town.”
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“Duly noted — the murderer’s house, right?”
“How did you find out?”
Renee leans closer. “The wicket knows.”
Trixie soldiers on, which leaves little room for Stella to insert a word. “My sister needs information regarding Jack Lawson, Monica Lawson, and the mail Jack retrieves.”
The postal clerk peers past them toward the door. “Move over for a minute. One of my regular customers has come in. He buys stamps from me on Mondays.” She waves them to the side. “Hi, Charlie,” she simpers. “Ten today?”
With no other choice, they wait. After Charlie leaves with his purchase, she motions them back. “This place will start to jump soon, but I’ll help as best I can. Here are the names of the people she collects cheques for: Minerva Gardiner, Wilhelmina Saunders, Ira Gold, Lloyd Gurney, Weldon Beck, and Monica Lawson.” She offers her verbal list, which also includes the seven residents at Merlon’s and Jane’s, and she mentions the extra cheque for Flora. “I must admit, I’m surprised she takes care of her mother, because she dumped Monica at Jane’s when the work became too much before. The neighbours hate Jack. Mrs. McKechnie, who lives next door, complains the most.”
Stella finishes jotting the names on a small pad retrieved from her purse. “What kinds of complaints?”
“I can’t talk for long, but I called Mrs. McKechnie and asked her if she would meet you this morning. Buy her coffee.” She hops off her step. “I’m off out back. Stock needs replenishing. She’ll be here any minute. She’s made police reports at least twice. A cement planter caused no end of concern.” She wiggles ringed fingers at them and uses a stage whisper when she repeats, “Buy her a croissant, too. The old girl will answer whatever you ask.”
Obviously, the two women are alike, if the lobster is any indication, Stella muses in silence.
Renee disappears as an older lady, bent at the waist and carrying a wicker basket, hauls open the plate glass door. Stella and Trixie glance at one another before Stella nods and addresses the entrant. “Mrs. McKechnie? I’m Stella Kirk and let me introduce my sister, Trixie. Renee suggested we speak with you.”
“Yes. Renee said you’re interested in my terrible neighbour. We can’t talk here — too many big ears.”
“Couldn’t agree more, Mrs. McKechnie. Why don’t we pop over to Cocoa and Cafe? Trixie tells me Tiffany and Andrew make croissants on Monday.”
The elderly woman shuffles a turn and pushes the heavy door out into the cold without replying. Stella and Trixie hurry to keep pace.
“Renee was right. The old girl will go through hoops for a croissant,” Trixie whispers.
“Let’s hope she’ll talk. She sounds like a chronic complainer.”
“We’ll soon see.”
Mrs. McKechnie stands with obvious impatience on the front deck of the cafe. “Shake a leg, you two. I might freeze out here and need coffee.”
****
Stella watches Tiffany lift an eyebrow as the three of them muddle through the doorway. The bells finally stop tinkling. “Find a seat anywhere. We’re quiet today.”
“Thanks.” Trixie waves. “Word on the street is you planned croissants and wild blueberry preserves in celebration of your first day of business for 1982.”
“Your sources are correct,” she chuckles. “Coffees?” Echoes of yes bounce off the polished antique pine floors.
Mrs. McKechnie removes her knitted hat and wriggles out of her plaid- lined trench coat.
Since a conversation starts best with acknowledgement of the other person, Stella opens with the classic, “Tell me about yourself, Mrs. McKechnie.”
“Please, call me Eunice.” She accepts a mug of brew from Tiffany. Steam spirals between them. “Listen.” She points her finger. “I filed two police reports related to unusual occurrences in the area, and they treat me as if I’m some kind of kook. Renee said you help the police, Stella. How are you different?”
“Eunice, I contract with them and we’re investigating the body found at the bottom of the hole dug for Mallory Gorman’s grave. The location is in the new section opened by the municipality in the late fall. As a result, we are following up on other reports in the past months.”
“The local detachment didn’t show any interest, but I’ll tell you about both my experiences.” She quiets when Tiffany returns with two croissants and a small bowl of hot wild blueberry preserves for each of them. “My oh my, how yummy. A feast for the eyes and one for the tummy.” Her guffaw at her own rhyme seems out of character. She breaks a piece of the pastry, dips it in the jam, and places the morsel in her mouth.
Stella watches in fascination as she inserts the food with her thumb and index finger, closes her lips, and chews. Eunice tears off another chunk, dips, and inserts the same way once more. She holds both fingers between her lips while she enjoys the initial bite. She catches Trixie’s eye. Her sister has noticed, as well.
“I’m happy the police are paying attention, although this is a rather convoluted approach for an interview.”
“A more personal touch is my preference. Shall we start again, and you can tell us more about yourself?”
“First, I am a retired practical nurse. I left work because of my late husband, sick with Parkinson’s.” She dabs her navy lips and fingers with the paper napkin. “Lots of illness around. Take care of yourselves, girls. You can’t count on men to be there to help.”
As she struggles to recall the last time she saw a doctor, Stella asks Eunice to tell them more.
“I’m a night hawk. I often don’t settle until three or four in the morning. Miss my husband. Can’t be helped.” She waves her hand and brushes away her grief. “I quilt. I read. I walk my poodle, Brutus, and I visit Mr. McKechnie at the graveyard. Most people are never aware of late-night events because they’re tucked in their beds. Many say no good comes from activities after dark.”
“Will you share your observations with us, Eunice?” Stella’s croissant remains untouched.
“I sit with my husband late at night.”
“At the graveyard? Don’t you find the place creepy?” Trixie has never mastered the art of thoughtful silence.
After a quick glare in her sister’s direction, Stella pushes Eunice for additional information.
“Two years ago, I heard a machine when I visited Mr. McKechnie. Brutus noticed the noise, too. In the part of the field where you found the man’s body, there was a big digger with lights on and I could see everything despite the snow coming down. I sat beside Mr. McKechnie, with Brutus in my arms, and watched.” She stops and breaks her second pastry into bite-sized pieces. “I went to the police station the next day. A husky man named Sergeant Moyer wrote my information on a slip of paper, but no one called me back.”
Stella’s voice catches. “Eunice, do you remember the date?”
“Mr. McKechnie and I communicate every Wednesday and Saturday.
This was Saturday, December 15, 1979. I can double-check my calendar when I return home, but I confirmed before I came out, and am sure I’m right.”
“Thank you. What was the second report you filed?”
“Horrible Jack Lawson lives next door. I thought, when she dumped poor Monie into Jane’s Retirement Home for Ladies, she’d sell the house. No such luck. Jack has never worked at a normal job. I expected a real estate sign, but she must’ve tapped into Monie’s savings. Makes me mad.”
The act of information retrieval from Eunice McKechnie challenges Stella. “What did you report, Eunice?”
Eunice removes her fingers from her mouth. “Will you ask Tiffany for more coffee, please? The pastries make me thirsty.”
Trixie swivels in her chair and waves.
With her cup filled, Eunice continues. “Around six months ago, Jack built a cement planter in the middle of the night. Any civilized person hires a contractor who works from eight until five. On the same night, I assembled my quilt frame in my living room.” She glances at both women before she explains. “I don’t entertain many visitors. The contraption sits where there’s the most space, the biggest window, and the best light.” She shakes her white curls. “Anyway, Brutus decided he required a stroll at two in the morning. I saw her mixing cement in a wheelbarrow. She huffed with the weight of the stuff. She built the ugliest monstrosity you can imagine in the front of her house. Jack’s no mason.”
“You told the police Jack Lawson built a cement planter in the middle of the night? When?” Stella’s mind dashes in ten different directions.
“Six months ago.” She pushes a piece of dipped croissant into her mouth with two fingers, drawing out the action for as long as possible, in Stella’s eyes. Her nails have turned blue. “I didn’t report Jack because of her hideous masonry. I reported her because she told people she brought her mother home from Jane’s, but I’ve seen no sign of her. Such circumstances should be suspicious enough for the police.” She sniffs her indignation.
“Perhaps the details are confused, Eunice, a common occurrence when we don’t know the facts. You’re sure you saw heavy machinery, in what is now the graveyard, on December 15, 1979, around ten o’clock, and six months ago, Jack Lawson built a cement planter at her house.”
“Yes. And Monie never came home from Jane’s. May, the housekeeper at Jane’s — I attended school with her — told me Monie died. I assumed a modicum of interest from the police. Now you know everything I told them.”
“It has been a pleasure to meet and talk with you.”
“I appreciate a kind ear. I spend most of my days alone and I understand old women can get muddled, but I don’t think I’m wrong.” She stands and hauls her cap over her curls before she lifts her coat from the chair.
Stella jumps and assists her on with the heavy garment.
“Appreciated, dear. I must go. Time for Brutus’ walkie, and I need a nap. Nice meeting you both. By the way, Trixie, your daughter has done a fine job with Yellow House. Paulina would be pleased.” She pushes open the door, the bells tinkle, and she’s gone.
“Tiffany,” Stella motions across the empty cafe. “I’ll take the bill.”
