Granny Undercover (Secret Agent Granny Book 2) Read online

  The party began to break up. Nothing breaks up a party of Cheerville’s senior citizens like unpleasantness. They had all moved here to bask in pleasantness for the rest of their days and didn’t appreciate any nastiness getting in the way of their dreams.

  “Oh, why is everyone leaving?” Martin whined. “The party’s just getting started!”

  “I don’t think fistfights are a regular occurrence at the Cheerville Gardening Society.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Mr. Rutgers and another man led the combatants to their separate cars and made sure they drove off without any more trouble. I saw Tim heading off too.

  “What happened?” I asked a gentleman hobbling by with a cane. I’d briefly chatted with him earlier in the meeting about marigolds.

  “Oh, hello again, new girl,” he said in a way that was meant to be flirtatious. “Just some nonsense. They’re in the local branch of the Topiary Society. It’s a subgroup of our thing. Now that Archibald is dead, they both want to be president.”

  Somehow, I didn’t think the fight was over that. Just to pursue that a bit, I said, “Oh, I thought Tim would take over since he’s secretary.”

  “And a fine secretary he is too. Great head for organization. Always consulted with Archibald before and after every meeting. Keeps that group in fine shape. Archibald was more the inspiration and guiding light.”

  I thought about this. If Tim was in the habit of consulting with Archibald before the Topiary Society’s Wednesday meetings, did that mean he was at his house the evening of the murder?

  More people started to leave, except for Éclair Lady, who was busy grabbing the last of the desserts before making her departure. Figuring there wasn’t much more to find out at this point, I led Martin to my car.

  As we drove off to the hamburger joint, Martin still prattling on about the “old people fight,” I thought about what I had just witnessed. I’d been looking for overlap between Cheerville’s gardeners and gamblers, and I’d found plenty.

  I had spent the morning looking up the addresses I had found in the ledger, linking them with names through online directories, and making a quick call to a friend in the CIA to find those who weren’t listed. These people had fallen into the trap of borrowing money from the very people who had taken their money in the first place. It amazed me that grown adults could be so foolish.

  I focused my attention on those who had large debts that were soon due or past due. The names I got raised some serious red flags. They included George Whitaker, the sore loser I’d met the day before; Cynthia McAlister, the depressed housewife with the losing streak; and Ivan Dejevsky, who had started a fight with Gary the moneylender while shouting it was Gary’s fault Archibald was dead. The list also included Travis Clarke, the county coroner.

  Well, that explained why he was so quick to write off Archibald’s murder as suicide.

  An even more interesting fact was the amount Clarke owed was past due but had been crossed out with a single line. I presumed that meant he no longer owed the money. So why had his debt been forgiven? It was for fourteen thousand dollars, a large amount for a state employee to suddenly cough up, and I seriously doubt he won that gambling. Was this his reward for declaring Archibald’s death a suicide?

  One name was missing from the list entirely—Grimal’s. Whatever the reason he was covering up Archibald’s murder, it was not because the police chief owed money to organized crime. Tim and Gary were also not on the list.

  I was relieved to see Octavian’s name wasn’t on the list, either. That probably accounted for his sunny disposition. It’s hard to keep your chin up when you’re being leaned on by loan sharks.

  Archibald had been caught up with illegal gambling and associated with people who owed money to loan sharks. Somehow that had led to his death. But he hadn’t owed money, so why did someone go after him? Had maxing out those credit cards been enough to cover his debts, or had he borrowed from Gary?

  It was hard to figure this out, though, because Martin kept retelling the fight he’d seen in an excited voice that commanded attention.

  “Did you see who threw the first punch?” I asked.

  “Yeah, the guy called Ivan.”

  I nodded. That was what I thought.

  While we were chowing down on hamburgers, my cell phone rang. Octavian.

  “Hi, Barbara. What are you up to?”

  “I’m with my grandson at Taco Burger.”

  That’s right, it was called Taco Burger. You got your burger in a taco shell with hot sauce. Delicious if you remember to take your heartburn medication. Yes, I know I said I had an iron stomach earlier, but even I have limits.

  “Oh right, it’s dinner time. I better get myself something to eat. I forget sometimes. I haven’t even gone to the supermarket. There’s nothing in the house.”

  Octavian might have been my first date since Carter was president, but I still knew when a man was inviting himself over.

  I gave him the address. He knew Archibald, and stuck as I was with Martin for the next three days, I needed to combine work and play if I was going to crack this case.

  Octavian being the work part. Really.

  Eight

  Octavian showed up within fifteen minutes. Cheerville was a small town, after all, so there was a good chance he didn’t break the speed limit to make it over to see me. He came striding up to our table wearing that winning smile of his that showed his excellent-but-actually-real teeth. Before even saying hello to me, he turned to Martin and said, “This must be the world’s greatest grandson I’ve heard so much about. You need to clean behind your ears, though.”

  He performed the old “pull the coin from behind the ear” trick.

  Martin gave him a patient smile. It wasn’t nearly a good enough trick to impress his jaded generation.

  But Octavian wasn’t finished. He showed him the quarter resting in his palm then closed it and reopened it. Now it was a dime. He closed his hand again, and when he reopened it, he was holding a nickel. Then he turned it into a penny. Martin grinned.

  “This is what happens with savings, my friend. They dwindle away. That’s why you have to live for today. But sometimes…”

  At this he closed his hand again, and when he reopened it, there was an old Indian Head penny sitting there.

  “Sometimes old money can be valuable. These coins are pretty rare these days. Here, take it.”

  Martin’s grin grew wider and he reached for it. Octavian pulled back. “Hey, you should know better than to take money from strangers! Oh wait, I’m not a stranger, because your grandma has told me all about you. She has told you all about me, right?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Octavian looked discomfited. He rallied quickly. “Well, we only just met. She’s quite good at Seniors Yoga.”

  “Seniors Yoga?” Martin gave me a “you’re such a nerd” look.

  “That’s right,” he said, plunking the Indian Head penny in front of Martin and flicking it so it spun on its side. The waitress came over, and he ordered a Taco Burger. I feared for his digestive system.

  “So what have you folks been up to this afternoon?” he asked once the waitress went off.

  Martin brightened. “We saw a fight!”

  Octavian cocked his head. “Really?” Fights were rare in Cheerville.

  “Yes, between Gary and Ivan,” I told him. “Apparently, they were fighting over who gets to run the local chapter of the Topiary Society now that Archibald has… passed on.”

  He shook his head and waved his hand to negate that idea, just as I suspected. “Those two don’t care about that.”

  “Really?” I asked, acting innocent.

  “Yeah, it’s…” His gaze slid to Martin. “Complicated.”

  His order came, and we ate, talking about nothing in particular. Octavian seemed eager to make a good impression with Martin, probably to get in better with me, and he more or less succeeded. Martin has little time for old people, and even less for
things like Seniors Yoga, but Octavian was good with the jokes and a few more magic tricks. I wondered if he’d be able to pull the murderer out of a hat. That would make my life easier.

  Later, when Martin headed off to the bathroom, I took the opportunity to ask Octavian about the fight.

  “So why were those two rolling around in the garden, smacking at each other?”

  Octavian chuckled. “I would have liked to have seen that.”

  “Martin certainly enjoyed it. But why did they do it?”

  “They’re always sniping at one another. By the way, would you like to go to the club this evening?”

  “I can’t. I have Martin,” I said, feeling a little tug I told myself was disappointment at not being able to pursue the case. “We can go tomorrow during school hours, though.”

  “All right,” he said. “Hopefully those two idiots won’t be there.”

  Hopefully they will be, I thought to myself.

  “I just can’t believe two men their age would get into a juvenile brawl,” I said to get Octavian back on track.

  “Gary and Ivan fell out over money.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Octavian made a face. “Ivan doesn’t know how to play. He doesn’t understand the horses, and he keeps plunking down money on duds. He doesn’t have a system. Gary and Ivan used to be friends, and Gary lent him some cash to cover his debts. Ivan paid it back, but when he started losing again, Gary offered to lend him more money. Ivan took it the wrong way, like Gary was being condescending. I don’t know, maybe he was, but Ivan got hypersensitive about losing when Gary is one of the luckiest in our club. So anyway, I guess they didn’t patch things up this afternoon.”

  “Did you ever loan money to Ivan?”

  “Oh, heck no. ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be’ as old Will Shakespeare used to say. That’s how friendships are ruined.”

  I studied Octavian. He looked like he was telling the truth, and since he didn’t owe money to the loan sharks, I doubted he was involved in the mess that entangled some of the others. I decided to take a chance. The longer it took to catch the killer, the greater the chances they’d be able to slip away.

  “Ivan said something strange. He said it was Gary’s fault someone was dead. I got the impression he meant Archibald.”

  As soon as I said it, Octavian’s face transformed completely. He went from his usual smiling self to a mask of travesty. He bowed his head and gave a little nod.

  “Maybe. Maybe,” he mumbled.

  “But whatever could that mean?” I asked, glancing in the direction of the bathroom, hoping Martin would take some time in there.

  Octavian sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Gary has done very well for himself in his hardware business. He has stores in half a dozen towns. Plus, he has the Midas touch when it comes to the casino. He really knows how to work the horses and dogs, really knows how to play the odds. And he’s generous. I know he lent Archibald money a couple of times. Maybe Archibald was like Ivan; he borrowed from Gary, but that humiliated him. It hurt his pride so badly that when he kept losing, he couldn’t stand to take another loan, and took his own life instead.”

  I nodded sadly, pretending to believe this story. I certainly believed Octavian felt it was true. But Archibald hadn’t killed himself; he had been murdered. By Gary, angered over lack of payment? Had Archibald taken all those cash advances from his credit cards to try and keep up? Running a hardware store, Gary certainly would know how to use hedge clippers, but then again, so did most of my suspects. And of course, killing someone who owes you money is a poor way to collect.

  Maybe Archibald thought of another way out. Maybe he threatened to go to the police and expose the whole thing. Maybe he’d even finger Gary as some sort of accomplice and get him arrested. That would get rid of his debt to Gary and get rid of the temptation to continue gambling in one stroke. Gary could have come to his house, demanding payment, and Archibald could have made his threat. Gary panicked, a struggle ensued, and Archibald ended up dead.

  Hmmm, pretty thin.

  I saw Octavian wiping his eyes.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, not really. Archibald was my friend, and at our age, we lose too many friends. I used to be able to handle it, but after Louise passed, it’s been hitting me harder and harder. It feels like my life is closing in on me. My circle of friends gets smaller every year.”

  “What about other family?”

  Octavian gave a sad smile. “I have two sons and a daughter. Wonderful. They turned out wonderful. And I’ve been a granddad four times over already. But they’re scattered all over the country.”

  “When James died, I moved here. I never thought I’d end up in a place like this, but now I treasure every moment with my son and daughter-in-law, and especially my grandson. Maybe you should move to be with them. Grandchildren are such a blessing.”

  A loud belch told us my little blessing had returned.

  Martin plopped down in his seat. “We’re going for ice cream after this, right?”

  Octavian laughed. “Sure thing, kiddo.”

  As Martin got into my car, I paused with Octavian outside to arrange which ice cream parlor we’d meet at. He took the time to ask me a question.

  “Look, I know you didn’t know him,” he said, looking uncomfortable, “but if you’d like to come to Archibald’s memorial service, I know you’d be welcome. It’s tomorrow at noon. I mean, you’d get to know some of the gang better, and it… well, never mind. It’s silly to ask. Why would you want to?”

  “Of course I’ll go.”

  I’d have gone even if I didn’t have a case to solve. This kind man was trying to ask for emotional support at a time when he clearly needed it. Men weren’t very good at asking for that; they’ve been trained not to. That halfhearted offer and immediate retraction had been the best Octavian could do.

  I gave him a peck on the cheek. That certainly seemed to cheer him up. “Text me the information, and I’ll meet you for coffee beforehand.”

  When I turned back to my car, I saw Martin looking at us through the window in astonishment. He giggled all through ice cream.

  That evening, while Martin did his homework, I took the opportunity to study the photos I had taken of the murder scene. The recently washed wall intrigued me, but there was nothing to see. The killer had cleaned it thoroughly, so I turned my attention to the footprints in the soft soil.

  After putting on my reading glasses and expanding the photos, I could see there were two styles of shoes—a pair of treaded sneakers and a pair of flat-soled shoes, probably dress shoes. The sneakers were obviously Archibald’s. No one is going to putter around the garden and use power tools in flat-soled shoes. I could also tell another way. One of the flat-soled footprints was in the dirt close to the wall and twice as deep as the others. The killer had obviously hosed down the wall after taking care of Archibald and unwittingly stepped in the mud he or she had created. That mud had dried, preserving the footprint. Unfortunately, only part of the heel had hit that muddy spot, so it would be difficult to determine shoe size from it.

  I wasn’t an expert on these subtleties of police research. There were people who were, people Police Chief Grimal would have on speed dial, but I couldn’t rely on him. I was on my own with this one.

  I puzzled over the footprints for a while longer, trying to tease information from faint traces in the soil. Two of the more visible, and slightly deeper, of the sneaker prints faced the topiary bush. Were those made while Archibald stood trimming? Several bits of branch lay around, seeming to confirm my thesis.

  In one of my photos, I had put my own foot next to two fairly good specimens of each footprint for scale. I wore a size eight, and both were considerably bigger than mine. They looked about James’s size, and he had worn a ten and a half. So most likely, the killer was a man. Few women had that shoe size, although I couldn’t discount the possibility.

  The other footprints were less c
lear, a chaotic pattern of sneakers and flat-soled shoes overlapping one another and facing all directions. That was probably Archibald moving around a bit before the attack, and then the struggle between him and his killer.

  I tracked through the footprints one by one on maximum zoom. Luckily, I had my camera already set to the highest resolution. I’m old fashioned in some ways, and so I always kept my camera at that setting so I could print photos. Most people didn’t do that anymore, and that was a shame. They ended up missing important details in crime scenes.

  Such as the exact spot Archibald and his attacker were standing when Archibald had his neck gashed by his own hedge clippers.

  It took a while for me to see, but when I did, the pair of prints almost popped out of the screen at me. They stood at the center of a blur of prints, made as the two fought over the hedge clippers, struggling in a deadly embrace before the attacker broke free and was able to swing them at Archibald. The flat-soled attacker had put some effort into it, his or her back right foot pressed down at the toe, and the front left foot made a print deeper than the others as he or she put more weight on it. Archibald’s sneakers had left a deep impression on the heels as he leaned back to avoid being struck, and then continued the motion as he fell back, his neck spurting blood.

  It must have been quite a mess. Even a couple of days after the crime, I’d seen what looked like traces of blood on the ground and leaves of Archibald’s half-trimmed shamrock bush. The killer must have been covered in it. He or she—probably he—was lucky not to have been spotted leaving the crime scene looking like that. I assumed the killer hadn’t brought along a change of clothes, stuffing the bloody ones in a bag. People planning murders did that sometimes, but this had the hallmarks of sudden impulse. The killer had had the presence of mind to clean the wall, however.