I’d already spotted the ghost of Virgil Keane, who’d been a manager at the Pig before he’d died last spring. As he wandered by, I maintained my distance and he kept on going, seemingly oblivious to my presence. He appeared to be searching for something, but I certainly wasn’t going to ask what. Nope. I was going to stay on my side of the street, tucked under my umbrella and hiding behind my sunglasses.
I still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Haywood this morning, but every time I passed in front of his house, my head faintly ached, so I surmised he was inside surveying the damage done during the break-in, just as I had suspected.
As I made my eighth pass down the street, I spotted someone bundled in a black raincoat creeping around the side of Haywood’s house, testing windows to see if they were unlocked.
I loudly coughed to get the person’s attention and a head snapped up. Mayor Barbara Jean Ramelle let out a nervous laugh and came over to me.
“Carly? I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s with those big ol’ sunglasses on a rainy day like today?”
“Sensitive eyes,” I lied, not daring to remove the glasses when Virgil Keane was somewhere nearby. I adjusted my umbrella to cover her as well and said, “Were you trying to break in?”
She winced, then laughed. “I suppose I was.”
Barbara Jean was what my mama would call “plain of face.” She was perfectly average; none of her features stood out in a good—or bad—way. Average blue eyes, narrow forehead. Shoulder-length dark brown bob with golden highlights. Thin lips, round cheeks, small chin. She was a bit on the curvy side, heavier through her hips and chest, which gave her an hourglass shape.
What stood out, however, was her voice. Full and rich, it flowed like hot honey. It was truly mesmerizing and gave her the ability to rule over town meetings without one constituent nodding off during the dull proceedings.
Her laugh was like a ray of molten sunshine on this dreary day.
“I suppose I should have just waited for the sheriff to open the place up to me, but they’re currently busy with their investigation, and I didn’t think anyone would care a whit if I just popped inside for a moment to grab some Harpies paperwork.” She took a deep breath. “You see, Haywood—God rest his soul—was our historian and kept all the group’s important documents here at his home. General stuff, nothing terribly important. It’s of no use to anyone but us, but I’m afraid with no known next of kin that it’s going to get lost in the shuffle of whatever becomes of his estate. I’d hoped to collect it and take it home. No one would even notice it was gone. No harm, no foul.”
Two things of import struck me at that moment. One was that Mayor Ramelle was trying mighty hard to convince me that she was acting on the Harpies’ best interest and that whatever papers were inside Haywood’s home held no importance. The second was about Haywood’s next of kin.
“Haywood had no living relatives?” I asked, playing along with her excuses for now.
She stuck her hands into her coat pockets. “He’d been an only child raised by his grandparents after his mama died in childbirth, and they’re both long dead. No siblings, no aunts or uncles. He’d had a brief marriage some twenty-odd years ago, but that’s long over and they didn’t keep in touch after she moved away. I know he and Hyacinth were talking about marriage, but hadn’t reached the point of an engagement. But”—she tapped her chin—“now that I say that, I recall her mentioning recently that she was named as a beneficiary in his will so perhaps all I have to do is be patient to get those papers back.”
Hyacinth was Hay’s beneficiary? Interesting, considering her history with men. He must have really trusted her, but I figured her addition to his will was a little bit like his giving a pyromaniac a match. Just how much was his estate worth?
Lifting her eyebrows she said, “Have you had any news from Dylan about Patricia? We’re all on pins and needles waiting to hear what’s going on.”
“Not really,” I said, deciding not to tell her what Patricia had told the police about someone shoving the candlestick into her hand. If they were good friends, she’d know it soon enough. “I haven’t seen him yet today.”
Her voice hardened. “It’s an embarrassment to our whole community that the sheriff is even considering her a suspect. Personal feelings aside for her, you must agree, Carly.”
On the contrary.
“She was holding the likely murder weapon,” I said. “And I heard she and Haywood didn’t get along that well. Do you know why?”
Blue eyes flashed for a moment, before she blinked away her surprise.
Surprise because she hadn’t known they didn’t get along?
Or because I knew they hadn’t gotten along?
I wasn’t sure.
She said, “I’ve always known them to be perfectly civil toward each other.”
Hers was a honed politician’s answer, and I realized she’d known all along how Patricia felt toward him.
“But she didn’t like him,” I pressed.