Spicy Lasagna Murder: Book 13 in The Darling Deli Series Page 8

  “Samwell was a good man,” he said after a moment of awkward silence. “I know I must seem like a vulture, being so eager to buy his land so quickly, but I really did like him. He was fair, unlike most people these days. I keep wishing that I had been there the day of the fire. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone into the barn just then, or maybe I would have gone with him and gotten them both out alive.”

  “You weren’t there?” Moira asked, fixing her gaze on him intently.

  “No,” he said. “I was in Washington State, checking out a buddy’s new brewery. I felt bad telling Samwell I couldn’t make it when he gave me the invitation, especially after he told me it would be the last time he did the corn maze, but I had already bought my plane tickets.”

  He continued speaking, but Moira tuned out. If Zander really hadn’t been there, then he obviously wasn’t the hooded figure that witnesses had seen fleeing from the burning barn. If he wasn’t the person she had seen watching her through the flames… then the real killer was still out there.

  “Excuse me,” she said, setting her glass of water down. “I should be getting back to the food.”

  She gave them both a tight smile goodbye, dumped her glass out, and left the two men to their gossip alone in the kitchen.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  She had just stepped into the living room on her way out of the house when she heard faint sobbing. The noise was coming from upstairs, and she would bet that the person crying was Mrs. Samwell. About to continue on her way, a suspicion struck her. With Zander cleared of guilt, at least in her eyes, that meant the real killer was still out there somewhere. If she and David were right and Mrs. Samwell was possibly in danger, then she couldn’t very well leave the woman in distress without checking on her, could she? What if her tears weren’t of grief, but of pain or fear as her husband’s killer prepared to do her in as well?

  Gritting her teeth against what she knew was a bad idea, the deli owner gripped the banister and made her way quietly up the stairs. She followed the crying to a door partway down the hallway; holding her breath, she peeked inside.

  Mrs. Samwell was alone, sitting on the edge of her bed with her head in her hands as she cried. Moira breathed out a silent sigh of relief. The woman was just grieving, that was all. She wasn’t in need of saving, not today, anyway. She shifted her weight, preparing to sneak back downstairs, when the floorboard under her foot creaked. She froze, but it was too late. The crying woman had heard her and suddenly stopped sobbing. The deli owner reluctantly raised her face to see the older woman staring at her from the bed.

  “Ms. Darling?” the woman sniffed. “Is that you? You might as well come in.”

  Her face red with embarrassment, Moira did as the old woman said.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “I heard you crying and I thought… well, I thought you might need help.”

  There was no sense in mentioning the killer and frightening the other woman if it wasn’t necessary.

  “That’s all right,” Mrs. Samwell said. “I appreciate the sentiment. I just needed to get some stuff off my chest.”

  “I understand. I can leave now… give you privacy…” She took a hesitant step back. Her gaze fell on an open suitcase, stuffed full of clothes and… was that cash peeking out the side? It was. Without having to even get a closer look, Moira recognized at least a few stacks of bills poking out from between the clothing, and she would be willing to bet that there was more underneath.

  “Are you going on a trip?” she asked, puzzled.

  Mrs. Samwell turned to see the suitcase, and her expression changed from one of patient grief to annoyance.

  “Yes, dear,” she said, turning back to Moira. “South America, in fact, just as soon as I sell the house. And I don’t plan on coming back.”

  Something was beginning to feel off to the deli owner. What was the older woman doing leaving the country with a stack of cash stuffed inside her suitcase?

  “That sounds… nice,” she managed. She took a step back toward the door and the old woman, who no longer seemed quite so frail, stood up.

  “Why don’t you come in and sit with me, Moira?” she said. “We’ve got so much to talk about.”

  “No… I really should be getting back to the food. I wouldn’t want anything to go wrong today of all days.”

  “I’m sure your wonderful employees can handle anything that might arise,” Mrs. Samwell said. “Come. Sit.”

  Feeling trapped, Moira did what she was told. Her brain was working at a million miles an hour, but she still couldn’t make all of the warning signs fit together seamlessly.

  “I, um… nice quilt.” She was casting around for anything to say to steer the conversation away from the woman’s dead husband. As she cast her gaze around the room, her eyes landed on a dark blue hooded sweatshirt. She thought that she could smell the faint odor of smoke, but wasn’t positive that she wasn’t imagining it.

  “Thank you,” the woman said reflexively, looking down at the bedspread. “My great-aunt made it before she passed.”

  She followed Moira’s gaze to the sweatshirt and sighed.

  “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” she continued. “Having Abram get caught in the blaze was bad enough. I just want the killing to be over.”

  She walked over to the head of the bed and reached under her pillow, withdrawing a small, ornate revolver. Moira took a shuddering breath.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “But I really should be going…”

  She made to stand up, but the older woman put a firm hand on her shoulder.

  “You’re going to have to stay here, Moira,” she said softly. “I want you to understand, if there was another way… if I could guarantee that you wouldn’t tell anyone that I killed my husband until I was out of the country… I’d let you live. I like you. You seem like a genuinely good person, and that’s far too rare these days.”

  Moira gulped. It might have been the most complimentary death threat that she had ever received, but that didn’t make it any less scary.

  “I don’t understand anything,” she said, playing for time. “I don’t understand why you killed your husband and Mr. Franks, or why you think you have to kill me. Your husband had cancer, for goodness sakes, you must have known. Why kill someone that only had months left to live?”

  The old woman blanched, and to the deli owner’s surprise, she thought she saw real tears in her eyes.

  “Oh, Luke. If only it weren’t for that infernal cancer, he would still be here today.”

  “Was it—was it a mercy killing?” Moira asked, almost hopefully. Murder was never right, but if Mrs. Samwell had truly thought she was doing a good thing, then maybe she could be convinced to put the gun away and let her leave in peace. After all, it was a big leap from killing someone out of mercy to killing an innocent witness.

  “How I wish I could say yes,” the older woman said sadly. “But, no. It was about money.”

  “Money? His insurance?”

  “Not even that. Our money. You knew his plan. He wanted to rent this place out cheap and move down to Florida, where he would spend the next few months cleaning out our bank account on useless cancer treatments before dying and leaving me with nothing.”

  The deli owner flinched back from the sudden venom in the woman’s voice.

  “I’m sure he just wanted a chance at life,” she said, trying to soothe the other woman. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “The form of cancer he had—” Mrs. Samwell shook her head. “The doctors told him there was no chance, but he was still determined to try. And then what? He’d still be dead in no time, and I’d have nothing to my name. He expected me to live from the rent from this place. I spent years helping him scrimp and save, and that’s all I get? He wasn’t in his right mind. A man in his right mind would be more concerned with taking care of his wife than reaching for foolish dreams. So really, I just did what he would have wanted if the cancer hadn’t addled his brain.”
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br />   Mr. Samwell seemed perfectly aware of what he wanted right up until the end, Moira thought, but she didn’t dare say it out loud to the half-mad woman in front of her. Instead, she decided to keep her talking. Maybe the lady would come to her senses eventually, or at least put the gun down so she could make a break for it.

  “What about Mr. Franks?” she asked. “Why did you kill him too?”

  “I didn’t plan on it,” the old woman said, guilt crossing her face. “He wasn’t supposed to be there, but once he saw me hit Luke on the head with that wrench, I had to do him in, too. I thought it might turn out all right; everyone believed they were enemies, so it wouldn’t have been too far of a stretch for the police to think that they had somehow managed to kill each other.”

  “Poor Mrs. Franks lost her beloved husband,” Moira admonished. “And you wanted her to spend the rest of her years alone, thinking he was a murderer?”

  At this, Mrs. Samwell burst into tears again. The deli owner was shocked. She didn’t know if this was an improvement or not. At least the woman was distracted, but she was obviously unstable.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Please, forgive me. I was being selfish… so selfish. I wish I could go back and undo it.”

  “Just give me the gun,” said Moira softly. “I’ll drive you to the police station. That can be your first step in making amends—confessing what you did to the authorities.”

  The old woman shook her head vehemently.

  “I’m not going to prison. I would rather die.”

  In a moment, she fell silent. Moira saw the thought flicker across her face a moment before she raised the gun. The deli owner made a reflexive move to grab the weapon from her, but she was too far away and too slow in her cast. Augusta Samwell pointed the gun at her own chest and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It wasn’t the ending that I wanted, Moira thought to herself as the police made their final rounds in the old farmhouse. She was sitting outside alone on one of the folding chairs, having been told by Detective Jefferson not to leave yet. She didn’t have the energy to go anywhere, anyway. Witnessing the old woman’s suicide had drained all will to move from her body.

  How could this have happened? she wondered. In the space of just a few weeks, one slightly mad woman had ended three lives. It didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem possible. She was certain the old woman had loved her husband at some point in her life, but somehow, over the course of their long marriage, that love turned into resentment. And that resentment had eaten away at the woman until money was more important to her than the man who had stood by her side for decades.

  Moira almost wished that Zander had turned out to be the killer as she had originally suspected. She wondered if Mr. Samwell had seen his wife’s face before she hit him with the wrench in an attempt to knock him out. What if the last thing he saw had been his wife setting fire to the barn, and then walking away?

  The last thing he saw was me, Moira thought firmly. He saw me trying to save him, he was conscious enough for that. I just wish with all my heart that I hadn’t failed.

  It was with relief that she saw the detective come out of the house. He pulled up a seat across from her and planted himself in it. Even he looked tired, as if this case had worn him thin.

  “Do you think that you can answer some questions for me now?” he asked. She nodded. She would rather put it off, but she knew it was best to tell him about what had happened while it was still clear in her mind.

  By the time he finally finished getting her side of the story, David was there. She had sent Candice and Darrin back to the deli to unload the food, and had also asked her daughter to stop at home and spend some time with the puppies, since she hadn’t known how long it would take for the police to tell her she was free to go. David had agreed to give her a ride back without hesitation, for which she was grateful.

  “I’m ready,” she said, standing up as he approached. “Let’s go. I just want to get out of here.”

  He nodded his understanding and thankfully left off asking her any questions for the time being. He simply led her to the car, pulled the door open for her and, after a long look at her face to judge her emotional state, drove her home.

  She wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened until the next day, and even then was reluctant to go over the entire scene again in her mind. At least David was a good listener; he didn’t interrupt her at all, and grimaced in all the right places—especially when she mentioned the gun.

  “I almost lost you this time,” he said when she had finished. He shook his head slowly. “How do you keep getting yourselves in these situations? It’s my job to hunt down bad guys, and I’m pretty sure I haven’t been held at gunpoint as often as you have.”

  “It just happens,” she groaned. “I don’t know how. I need a vacation.”

  She perked up slightly, remembering the cruise contest that she had entered. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone yet, but she told David about it now.

  “I know I probably won’t win,” she said. “But hoping for it is fun itself. Even if my name doesn’t get drawn for the contest, I might take a cruise anyway sometime in the next few months. I need to get away from everything and recharge. What better way to do that than outside under a tropical sun?”

  “As long as you don’t go through the Bermuda Triangle,” he said, only half-jokingly. “I shudder to think what horrors you’d attract there.”

  “Knowing my luck: sea monsters, whirlpools, and ghost ships all at once,” she said, grinning. “It would be the adventure of a lifetime.”

  “You’d better write a will first.” He glanced down at the two big dogs laying by their feet. “Leave the pooches to me.”

  “Of course. Oh, that reminds me… did I get a chance to tell you that Karissa wants to adopt Hazel? Once the puppies are gone, of course.”

  “She told me,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad for both her and the dog. I think they’ll go well together.”

  “I’m so glad she won’t be going to a stranger. I know she’s only been here for a few weeks, but I’ve grown so attached to her. It’s wonderful that I’ll be able to keep seeing her.”

  “She’s one lucky dog,” he agreed. “Has anyone expressed interest in any of the puppies yet?’

  “None in particular, yet. Pretty much everyone that sees them fawns over how cute they are, though.”

  “Maybe Eli and Candice will adopt one once they get settled in together,” he suggested.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure how Felix would feel about another four-legged terror in his house, though.”

  Felix was the one-in-a-million male calico kitten that her daughter had adopted a few months ago. Though he was spoiled, it hadn’t affected his good nature, and he remained outgoing and curious about everything. If there was ever a cat whose curiosity put it in danger, it was him.

  “Maybe Logan could take one,” he said after a moment.

  “Now that is an idea. I’d have to help him convince Denise, of course, but if he promises to take care of the puppy himself, including training and paying for everything, it shouldn’t be too hard. I’m sure he would love one. He’s smitten with them.”

  She looked over at the baby gate, behind which six very happy puppies were snoozing the day away. A few of them were beginning to open their eyes, and Moira knew that within the next few days, all of them would be getting their first glances of the world. She was glad that their first impression of the world would be one of comfort and warmth. She still had no idea who had dropped Hazel off behind the deli, but she was determined to find out one day and let them know that their dog and her puppies were loved.

  “Are you still going to do business with that Zander guy?” David asked her, leaning back in his seat and idly spinning his empty coffee cup.

  “Yeah. I don’t have anything against him now that I know he’s innocent. He’s not what I’m used to when I think of farmers, but he seems like a basically good guy. He’s probably
going to end up being able to buy poor Mr. Samwell’s property for a lot less than its worth. I hate to say it, but I’m almost excited to see what sort of progress he can make. We don’t really have many modern farmers around here. They’re mostly older folk who resist change like the plague.”

  “I’m glad you’re excited,” David said, smiling. “It’s about time you had something to look forward to. To the future?” He raised his mug.

  “To the future,” she said with a broad smile, clinking her own mug against his. With some luck, they would be experiencing that future together.