Old Widow Hankins

by Anne Marie Gomez

Halfway through her tuna salad Jenny went back inside and retrieved the wooden box. She had no idea why Horace wanted her to have it, especially with those old mementos inside. He never said so, but she knew he'd been terribly unhappy in his marriage. Who wouldn't be with the constant nagging?

The quaint painting on the box didn't seem like something he'd choose. He liked fishing, hiking, and duck hunting. Of course, it might have been a gift. She shrugged her shoulders and resumed eating. The fork almost reached her mouth when she paused and stared at the box out of the corner of her eyes. Jenny picked the box up and held it in the palm of one hand. She lifted the lid and slid one finger across the smooth unvarnished wood on the bottom. The sides were lined with yellow felt. She tipped her head sideways. Something nagged at the back of her mind.

In a desk drawer she found a nail file. She slid it between the smooth wood and felt and like a tiny crowbar she pressed on the end and the wood popped up. Underneath she found a spiral note book and ball point pen. These were definitely not from forty years ago. Horace had written on the cover: In the event of my death please give this book to my neighbor, Jenny McGoldrick. If she cannot be found or is also deceased, give to the local police. She opened the book to the first page. In the same unmistakable handwriting she read: I suspect someone is trying to kill me.

Jenny felt tiny pricks march up her spine. She dropped the book back in the box and slammed the lid. Her mouth felt dry. The tiny pricks raced up her neck. Perspiration coated her cold palms. She glanced over her shoulder and saw every window shade up. Anyone could be watching. Murder? She stuffed one fist against her mouth. Calm. She must be calm or at least act calm. What should I do? I'll hide the box, so no one can steal the notebook. But the shades are open.

She went outside and retrieved her dinner dishes and then forced herself to watch the sunset for a few minutes before going to the kitchen. The routine of washing and drying dishes did little to calm her nerves. She locked the backdoor and closed the curtains in the kitchen. Next she shut the living and dining room windows, pulled the shades tight then closed and locked the front door. Her nerves felt taut like a spring wound too tight. Upstairs she closed all the doors, pulled down the shades and turned on the bathroom light.

Horace had died two weeks ago. No one had reported any suspicious characters anywhere near here. Who even knew she had the box besides his widow? She raced downstairs and grabbed the box. She dashed up the stairs two at a time. Her pulse beat frantically in her ears as she sat cross-legged on the floor beside her bed.

The small notebook rested inside its hiding place. She lifted it out and turned to the second page. Horace had scribbled a date across the top. March fourteenth. Exactly two months before he died. The sweet tea tasted odd at lunch. Bea insists it's the artificial sweetener. I'm not sure.

Five days later he wrote: For the last three nights Bea's asked me what I want for dinner. She hasn't asked in thirty years. Jenny closed the book. She felt like an intruder into someone's personal nightmare. Horace arranged for her to have the box; therefore he must've wanted her to have this book. But maybe just to hand it over to someone, not read it. No, he'd trusted her to find the truth. The notebook held the answer. She kept reading. The next several entries recounted suspicious events regarding food or Bea's behavior.

On April twelfth he wrote: Bea seems agitated. She keeps watching the telephone. Whose call is she expecting? I'm wondering if I'm safe in my own bed. Jenny riffled the remaining pages like a deck of cards. Two or three entries each week. He'd written the last entry the day before he died. I caught her reviewing my life insurance policy. I'm sure she's going to kill me soon. Who can I trust? Who'd believe me?

Jenny's stomach coiled like an asp ready to strike. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She'd been fond of Horace. He read her stories on the porch swing many years ago; he bought her popsicles from the ice-cream truck on hot summer afternoons. When he worked in his garage, she tagged along behind him, more of a nuisance than help. Now, as a twenty-three year old woman, she understood he'd been helping her mom after the death of her own father.

The obituary notice listed the cause of his death as a sudden, massive heart attack. She didn't know much about poisons and doubted a coroner did a toxicology check on an old man with a history of coronary problems. Horace had left a predicament. In this small town the police department consisted of the sheriff and two deputies. She knew the sheriff would dismiss any notion of murder. The senior deputy was the sheriff's son. She could already imagine their smirks when she presented the notebook.

That left Deputy Ron Saunders. Tall, good looking, graduate of State College , and the man she'd dated in junior college. He'd finished college at an out of state university and dumped her when he met a fancy sorority girl. He arrived back in Denton a year ago. For several weeks he'd called and tried to rekindle their old romance. The rejection still burned in her heart. No way would she resume dating him. Her heart said go ahead. Her mind said no way. How could she go to him with this? She slid the notebook beneath her mattress and crawled into bed.

Only a few hours earlier she'd heard the doorbell ring…. A few minutes past seven on Friday evening the door bell rang. Through the glass paned door, Jenny saw her neighbor Mrs. Hankins. She unhooked the screen door and stepped outside. The widow shoved a small cloth covered parcel in her hands. “Here it is. Just like I said earlier, Horace would like it to be yours. He even mentioned to me the day before he died how partial you were to such things.”

Jenny unfolded the faded dishtowel and discovered a wooden box about a foot long, and half again as wide and tall. The painting on the lid depicted a rural farm; a white picket fence had been painted on all four sides, and tiny yellow daisies poked through the fence slats. The bottom of the box looked like waving meadow grass. A tiny brass lock hung through the clasp on the front. “How pretty this is. Do you have the key?”

“No. I couldn't find it anywhere.”

“I might have a key that works. After all, this isn't a very sophisticated lock, more for decoration than security.” Jenny dashed upstairs. She rummaged through an old trunk for her high school diary; she found it tucked in an old envelope.

Back downstairs, the widow perched on the edge of the sofa, hands neatly folded in her lap. Jenny held the box on her knees. The key worked. When she lifted the lid and peered inside she found four letters, some old pictures, a faded ferry boat ticket, and a newspaper clipping. Mrs. Hankins reached out and picked up the letters. “I had no idea he kept these.” She blinked rapidly. “After we were engaged he had to leave town on a business trip for two weeks, and I wrote to him every four days.” She held the letters to her cheek. A single tear formed in the corner of one eye. “I'd like to have them.”

“Of course.” Jenny picked up the three pictures and saw a young couple laughing at the seashore, having a picnic under a stand of pine trees, and posing next to a lamppost. “Are these you and Horace?”

Widow Hankins nodded. She picked up the ticket. “We rode the ferry across the small river outside of town. Horace proposed to me that afternoon.”

Jenny doubted Horace had been sentimental about his wife. Perhaps he'd forgotten he even had these faded mementos. The clipping from a local paper announced the marriage of the couple more than forty years ago. “Would you like to have the box back?”

“No dear. You keep it. Horace was very specific about you having it. But I would like these few mementos.”

After widow Hankins left Jenny chopped celery for a tuna salad. She lived with her mom in a two story white frame house in the town of Denton , population 2,873. Most week-ends her mom traveled with the local senior group as a guide or vacationed with her sisters. What a contrast between her carefree, loving mom and the crabby widow Hankins. She grabbed a bag of chips and carried them along with the salad to the front porch and curled up in the rocking chair for an al fresco meal.

…. Jenny rolled over in bed. She doubted she'd get a wink of sleep tonight.

The morning sun usually woke her, shining through the chintz curtains. Only she'd left the shades pulled tight and not a single drop of sunlight penetrated the room. When her eyes opened in the gloom, the clock showed ten minutes past nine. She bolted out of bed and rushed to the bathroom for a quick shower. If she arrived late to work her boss would have a fit. As the hot water ran through her hair she remembered it was Saturday.

Wrapped in a plush blue towel, she combed her tangled curls. She spied the wooden box resting on top of her dresser, and all plans for the day fled her mind. Horace's notebook loomed large. She couldn't ignore his unspoken plea for help in his last written words. Before she sought out Deputy Ron's help, she'd do a little sleuthing on her own.

Jenny had spent her whole life here, just like her parents and grandparents. Most people knew her, at least by sight or would recognize her name. She made a list of possible contacts and wrote questions underneath each name. Perhaps if she approached this as a school assignment, she could be unemotional. She tucked a small packet of tissues in her purse anyway.

Mr. Fred, as everyone in town called him, would be working today. She drove to his pharmacy and waited at the counter. “Jenny, how nice to see you. I hope you're just here to say hello and not sick.”

“I have a question, if you have a moment.”

“Sure I do.”

“I'm writing a short story and need some information on poison.” She didn't flinch at her lie; after all, a detective does what's necessary to solve a case. “What can my villain give the victim that no one would suspect?”

“Is your victim young?”

“Older, seventy something.”

“Something to induce a heart attack would be good. Well, maybe good isn't the right word.” He laughed then took off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. “Your murderer could always buy something, maybe arsenic or rat poison.”

“I was hoping for something unusual. Lots of stories have those kinds of poison.”

“How about a poisonous plant? Oleander would work. So would castor beans. Even Foxglove leaves brewed in a strong tea.”

“Sounds perfect. Would it show up in an autopsy?”

“Only if the coroner thought to look for it. In a perfectly healthy person there might be a suspicion. But if the victim had some health issues, then probably not.”

“I guess my perpetrator needs to get to a florist shop.”

“Or raise them in a garden.”

“You sound like an expert.”

“I don't have a green thumb, but I do like to putter around the yard.” He slid the glasses back on. “Why not go visit Horace's garden?”

Jenny swallowed. Her palms sweated. “He grew foxgloves?”

“No, but his wife did. Last time he and I went fishing I carried some of his poles back to the garage. I distinctly remember a patch of foxgloves next to her newly planted tomatoes.”

Jenny wondered if the doctor would even talk to her about Horace. Patient confidentiality prevented giving information to a neighbor. Besides, he wouldn't even be in on Saturday. She'd have to wait until Tuesday after the Memorial Day weekend. The funeral director would be in; at least she hoped so.

She parked beneath a maple tree and walked into the funeral parlor. The soft background music and dim lighting created a somber mood that hit her like a blast of arctic air. Plush carpet masked any footsteps. A man dressed in a dark blue suit approached, hands folded at his waist. “May I help you?”

“Are you the manager?”

“I am the assistant director. How can I be of assistance?”

“I'm the neighbor of a recent client of yours.” Jenny blushed as soon as she spoke. “Horace Hankins.”

The man nodded at her.

She said, “I was wondering if an autopsy had been performed.”

“We don't do them here.”

“I understand. But you could tell because… well, you know, the body…. I've seen those TV shows, you can always tell when there's been one.”

“Are you referring to the stitches?”

“Exactly.”

“I'm not sure I can discuss this matter with you. Who are you again?”

“His neighbor.”

“Wait here a moment, please.”

He disappeared down the hallway. She couldn't hear a thing except that dreadful music. When he returned even the faint smile had faded. “I can't discuss this matter with you.”

She turned to leave. He stepped beside her and said, “Let me get the door for you.”

“Thank you for your time.”

He opened the door and leaned close to her ear. “Unofficially I can tell you I saw no evidence of an autopsy.”

She drove to Auntie Louise's Antiques, a favorite haunt of Horace. Jenny set the wooden box on the old fashioned glass counter. A clerk stepped forward, dressed in a Victorian style black dress with a white lace collar. Her nametag read Louise . Jenny smiled; she hadn't known a Louise actually owned the store. She said, “Do you recognize this box?”

“Sure. I sold it a couple of months ago.”

“How can you tell it's the same one?”

The shopkeeper picked it up and opened the lid. She pried up the bottom with a quick flick of a letter opener. “See here,” she pointed to a pair of tiny initials. “These are the artist's. He only painted one of each design.”

“You knew about the secret compartment?”

“Sure. It was the novelty of the day. A place to keep precious items, supposedly. Or maybe some money for a rainy day, you know.”

“Do you remember who bought it?”

“Of course. Horace Hankins.” Her smile faded. “I read in the obits he passed away. I was sure sorry to hear that. He was a real nice man, you know.”

Jenny nodded. “He was my neighbor.”

“Why are you asking about the box?”

“Just wondering when he bought it. I thought maybe he got it as a gift.”

“He wanted a box with a secret compartment. He was very specific about that. I didn't have but this one, you know. He said it would do just fine.”

Sunshine dappled the sidewalks and lawns. A picture perfect day for a picnic or leisurely stroll in the park. Jenny had other plans. The only nursery in town sprawled in a lot across from the diner a few blocks down Hillside Street . She parked in the gravel parking area and followed the wooden signs. A square sign with a yellow pansy directed her to flowers. An array of petunias, marigolds, zinnias, hollyhocks, and bachelor buttons greeted her. Thank goodness for signs, she didn't know much about plants.

The foxgloves sent their long flower spikes up toward the sun. They looked so innocent, not capable of murder. She understood why people planted them; they'd be a lovely addition to any garden. Jenny rubbed her arms. Shouldn't there be a sign warning people of the danger? A man dressed in khaki pants and a blue work shirt approached her. A pith helmet protected his head from the sun. “Afternoon. Can I help you find anything?”

“Just browsing. My neighbor has some of these.” She pointed to the foxgloves. “Are they easy to grow?”

“Sure are. Give them sun and water, and they'll bloom all summer for you.”

She couldn't even look at him. “Are they safe?”

“Not sure what you mean, miss.”

“You know. Are they poisonous?”

“Only if you eat them. You're not planning to put them in a salad are you?” He laughed.

“No, just checking.” She felt the flush creep up her neck. He raised his eyebrows at her. Guilt at her deception crept up her back and into her mind. Her tongue stumbled around a humorous retort. The funny answer dissolved, and she blurted out a torrent of words. “Mr. Fred said they were poison. My neighbor has some. And well, you see, her husband died. I thought it odd.” She stopped. Dear God in heaven shut me up. She backed away, tried to smile, and then caught a glimpse of the man's face.

Jenny jaywalked to the diner. Booths lined three sides of the oblong room. She slid onto a round blue vinyl seat at the Formica topped counter. Someone had plugged a few quarters in the old jukebox and Sinatra sang, “I Did It My Way”; it provided a backdrop to the conversation. After the waitress took her order, Jenny sipped some water. At least her heart had stopped its frantic throb in her throat. A long mirror hung against the back wall. She watched cars and trucks drive past, their images slightly distorted in the old glass. Another waitress stood next to a corner booth, order pad ready, deep in conversation with two customers.

“Here's your sandwich.”

“Thanks.” Jenny pasted a smile on her face until the waitress left. The grilled cheese on rye teased her with a delightful aroma of melted butter. She bit into the toasted bread and let the warm goodness calm her nerves. Half the sandwich disappeared in a few bites. As she lifted the second triangle to her mouth she glanced in the mirror and saw the other waitress saunter back to the corner booth. The sandwich slid from her hand. Her fingers gripped the edge of the counter. The funeral home guy sat in the booth with Auntie Louise. As he spoke he underlined the words with sharp jabs in the air with one finger. His companion nodded several times.

Her own fingers refused to cooperate. At last she found a five dollar bill and tucked it under the edge of the plate. Maybe they wouldn't see her. If they did would it even matter? Only after she left the diner did she remember her car sat in the nursery parking lot. Some kind of luck dogged her path; at least she didn't run into the nursery man. As she drove toward the market she wondered what the funeral guy and Auntie Louise were talking about.

Jenny cringed when widow Hankins shoved her grocery cart in line behind her. The old lady struck up a conversation at once. “Jenny, my dear, how nice to see you.”

“Likewise Mrs. Hankins.”

“Your eyes look puffy. Are you getting enough sleep? What are you doing?”

“Just buying some groceries to get me through the rest of the week-end.”

“Well, dear, when I was being a good wife to my poor departed Horace, I only shopped once a week. Makes the house money go further when you're not popping in and out of the market every other day.”

In her mind Jenny counted to ten. It didn't help. She still wanted to tell the widow a few things, like how many time she'd seen Horace hiding in the garage to get away from his wife's nagging. Or the times he'd sat on Jenny's porch just to escape the constant bitter remarks. She blinked rapidly to fight an onslaught of tears. Maybe she should show the bereaved widow the notebook.

She saw the nursery man at the next checkout counter. Embarrassed by her behavior earlier, she turned her back on him and dashed outside. Luck abandoned her. “Aren't you the one who asked me all the questions about Foxgloves?”

Unable to think of a fib she nodded her head.

He said, “I saw you talking to Mrs. Hankins. Didn't her husband die recently?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“And you think his wife poisoned him?”

Jenny's throat tightened as her voice strangled in a cough. “I never said that.”

His thin lips folded back as if to smile; it reminded her of a lion just before it pounced on an unsuspecting mouse.

Thank goodness, she had only three bags of groceries to lug inside the house. In record time she put the veggies, lunch meat and milk in the refrigerator. Everything else could wait. Fifteen minutes later she entered the antique shop. If the bell hadn't announced her arrival she might have left, but before she could escape Louise greeted her. “I remember you from this morning.”

Jenny felt a flush creep up her neck. Now what? She'd been spotted at the diner and there would be questions to answer. What could she say?

“You were in here asking about that box. Right?”

“Yeah, that was me.”

“You know,” Louise leaned both elbows on the glass top counter, “I hadn't wanted to say anything this morning. Not wanting to be a gossip, you know, but I think there's something fishy about Horace's death.”

“Fishy?”

“Yeah, strange. Did you know they'd didn't even do one of those autopsy things?”

“Really? But why would they?”

“He died real sudden like. No warning. Nothing. Just up and died. You know?”

Jenny's skin prickled. “He was almost seventy-four. And…”

“I never did like that wife of his. If you ask me, she did it.”

“Did what?”

“Why murdered him, of course.”

Jenny wished for the tenth time she hadn't gone back to the antique shop. As she put the groceries away her mind drifted to Deputy Ron Saunders. Perhaps she should tell him about the notebook, and then she could put it all aside and let a trained investigator handle it. Before she could reach for the telephone she remembered how he dumped her. Nope. Not going to call him.

Out the kitchen window she spied the widow weeding her garden. Jenny hurried outside, jogged across the backyard, and then opened the side gate. “Hi Mrs. Hankins. Got a minute?”

The old woman sat back on her heels and shaded her eyes with one hand. “Jenny. Hello. Of course.” She lurched awkwardly to her feet.

“I'm thinking about planting a few flowers. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Petunias and marigolds are always nice. Don't take too much care. Good for a beginner like yourself.”

Jenny surveyed the garden and didn't spot any flowers at all. Low growing shrubs filled most of the flower bed. Taller bushes had been planted toward the back and some kind of vine grew up strings at one end. “Which of these are petunias?”

Mrs. Hankins wiped both hands on her apron. “None. I don't have time to take care of flowers.”

“Your garden is filled with flowers. I see you out here taking care of all this.”

The widow laughed. She began to point to various plants. “Basil. Marjoram. Dill. Parsley. Thyme. Herbs. For cooking. Those bigger ones are tomatoes. These are pole beans. Can't eat flowers, so why waste time and water on them, I always say.”

Jenny peered over at the tomatoes. Where were the foxgloves? She saw a large triangle of fresh earth. “What's that for?”

“Horace planted a few flowers each year. I'm going to plant some squash there now.”

“He planted them? Or you did it for him?”

“Why would I plant them for him? If he wanted them, he could do it himself. A waste of good earth, if you ask me.” She knelt down and began to weed. “He planted foxgloves this year. I don't know why. Lots of flowers prettier than them. But he never did listen much.”

Sunday morning service lasted forever. Jenny couldn't concentrate on the hymns, prayers or sermon. A nice cup of coffee would help. Since most people ate at the nicer restaurants after church, she chose a booth at the diner. She recognized the waitress at once. The funeral guy's confidant. “Coffee and a raspberry danish, please.”

“You're that guy's neighbor, aren't you?”

“What guy?”

“The one who….” She smiled. “Who died real sudden like.” The waitress winked at her.

Her mind reacted very slowly. She must have a response when the waitress returned. Words tumbled back and forth in random patterns of nonsense. Joe from the auto repair shop came in with his wife and three teen-age sons. Jenny watched the waitress stop at their table and bend close to the husband and wife. As she talked Joe's mouth gaped open; his wife covered her lips with one hand. The youngest son shouted, “Finally some excitement around here.”

The uneaten Danish lay on the plate as she fiddled with her mug of coffee. What's happening? What have I started? I only wanted some information . Jenny reached for her purse when the diner door swung open; Deputy Ron swung one leg over a stool and sat at the counter. She knew exactly what he'd order. A mug of black coffee and sour dough toast with orange marmalade. Please don't let the waitress talk to him. Just bring his coffee and go. The request fell on deaf ears. The waitress leaned across the counter and babbled on and on.

Jenny couldn't believe it. Didn't that girl have work to do? Money to collect? Orders to take? Ron spread marmalade across the toast. He bit into it while the waitress leaned back and waited for his response. Jenny knew he'd feign disinterest, no matter what he might think. He kept eating and merely shrugged his shoulders. She forced herself to wait until he exited before she paid her own bill and left.

The front door swung open and within seconds the telephone rang. She'd barely uttered hello when Mr. Fred's voice sounded loud in her ear. “Is that you Jenny?”

“Yes, I…”

“What's going on? I've had six, no more like seven or eight phone calls already today.

Everyone is talking. People I hardly know stop me on the street. What have you been up to young lady?”

“Me? Nothing. I just got back from church.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

She cringed at his harsh voice. The pharmacist usually spoke in soft gentle tones. “I did stop by the diner.”

“Stop playing word games. People are saying Horace was poisoned with Foxglove tea. And that I confirmed it with you. Me! How could you spread such lies?”

“I never told anyone.” Jenny scanned her memory. She'd mentioned foxgloves to the nursery man. “Honest, I…”

“Are you really writing a book? Or is this some scheme cooked up by you and your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend? Whatever are you talking about?”

“You and that deputy. Everyone in town knows you two are dating.”

“Were dating. That's long been over, we …”

“Is he having you check up on things? You shouldn't have lied to me. If something happened to Horace I deserve to know. He was my friend. Tell me, Jenny. Now.”

She knew she'd blurt it all out if she uttered even one word. Already the words formed in her mind. What a relief it'd be to tell someone. The telephone rang a minute after she slammed the receiver down. Jenny heard Mr. Fred's voice leave a message on the answering machine.

With shaky fingers she pressed six on her speed dial. For a brief second a wave of relief coursed through her body when she heard her mom's voice. Reality followed. Voice mail, the wonderful invention of the technical age, invited her to leave a message.

Desperate to give her mind a rest, she vacuumed upstairs and down. A thorough dust job claimed another couple of hours. She'd swept half the kitchen floor when the doorbell rang. Widow Hankins stood on the porch. As soon as Jenny opened the screen door, the old woman grabbed her arm. “Oh dear, what should I do? I found this under my front door.” She waved a folded piece of paper in the air. “What does it mean?”

“Can I see it?”

“Take it. I don't want it.” She began to cry.

Jenny unfolded the paper. Someone had used a red marker to print the words: Everyone knows what you did. The police will arrest you any day now.

Oh dear God in heaven help me. She reread the words as if there might be a solution hidden on the paper. The red ink shouted its ugly message. Did the police even suspect the widow? Deputy Ron must know, what else could that gossipy waitress have whispered in his ear?

The widow grabbed Jenny's arm. “What does it mean?”

Time for another lie. “Just some prank. You know how kids are when they're bored.”

Memorial Day Monday meant no work. Jenny planned to lounge in bed until nine, but the telephone woke her at half past eight. A man's voice said, “We have to meet today.”

“Who is this?”

“Ron. Are you up? I can be there in ten minutes.”

“I'm not meeting you here or anywhere. We're over, remember?”

“This is business. You will meet me within the hour. How about the diner?”

“What's this about? You can't order me around like I'm some grade school kid.” She knew exactly why he'd called. That darn gossipy waitress had told him everything.

“If you aren't there within the hour I'll drive to your house with flashing lights and siren.” He didn't give her a chance to respond before the dial tone sounded in her ear.

Jenny sat in her car ten minutes before she switched the ignition off. Her stomach churned. For the umpteenth time she checked her purse. Horace's notebook still rested inside. Maybe Ron'd be called away to a minor traffic accident or to find someone's lost cat. She should've called him when she found the notebook. Now she had to come up with a plausible reason for hiding it. A tap on her window sounded like a woodpecker learning Morse code. She gazed out the windshield. Ron's voice penetrated the safety of her car. “Put the window down.”

She pressed the button and the glass slid open. Time to gain control of this awkward situation. “I wondered when you'd get here.”

“Inside the diner. Not out here in the parking lot.”

“My mistake. Sorry.” Jenny didn't feel remorseful. Her feelings swung like an out of control pendulum.

Ron opened the car door and waited for her. In silence she followed him inside. He'd chosen a booth at the back of the diner, away from the few customers eating breakfast. A half empty mug of coffee sat on one side. Before she'd even taken a seat he'd motioned the waitress for another cup of coffee for her. He said, “You hungry? Eggs? A muffin?”

“Not really.”

“If I woke you then I doubt you ate. They've got fresh baked blueberry muffins.”

She nodded. Her favorite kind. Eaten with him countless times back then. Neither exchanged a word until the waitress left.

Ron said, “Rumors are flying about Horace. People are speculating his wife poisoned him. The poor widow can't go anywhere without people pointing, staring, and whispering.”

“Poor widow? Do you have any idea how miserable she made Horace's life? The things she said and did?”

“That doesn't make her a murderer.”

Jenny broke off a piece of the muffin. She nibbled the edge. The moist, sweet cake reminded her of happier times. Now she had to find out who killed Horace. “What did the autopsy report say?”

“You already know there wasn't an autopsy. He'd been ill. The doctor assured us he died from a heart attack.”

“What about poison? Did anyone consider that as a possibility?”

“Not until you started all these rumors.”

“Don't blame me for all the gossip. I only asked a few questions.”

“Leave detective work to the police. Maybe we don't have all the high tech equipment you see on those CSI shows, but we do know what we're doing.”

“Like getting to the truth?”

“We're not country bumpkins. Amateurs, like you, cause unnecessary problems.”

“I didn't ask you to butt in here. You called me, remember?”

“You can be so unreasonable.”

“Me? What about you?”

“I'm doing my job. What are you doing? Meddling in affairs that aren't any of your business.”

“He's my friend.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Was my friend. He asked for my help, how can I let him down? I have to find out who murdered him. Don't you see? I can't turn my back on him now.” Like stepping from a fog shrouded bog she heard her own words. She'd almost blurted out about the notebook.

Ron reached across the table and patted her hand. His kindness would be her undoing. She must keep her distance from him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Auntie Louise enter the diner. The shopkeeper had sold Horace the box. “Oh my God. The box.”

“What box?”

“Horace left it for me. I thought he'd forgotten about the mementos inside, but he couldn't have.” She clutched the mug of coffee, letting the warmth seep into her cold hands. “He only bought the box two months before he died, so he must have put them there for me to find.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don't know. His widow brought me the box. You know what a busy body she is, she didn't leave. She sat down and waited to see what was inside it. When I open the box Mrs. Hankins saw the letters and pictures. She began to cry.” Jenny's cell phone buzzed; caller ID showed her mom's number.

“Hi, Jenny. What's all this about foxgloves?”

Oh great. Talk about bad timing. “Just curious about them, that's all.” Jenny stared at the table top.

“Horace found some seedlings grown in a greenhouse. He said it'd give him a head start on everyone else's garden. We planted them in the corner of the flower bed.”

“We?”

“His knees bothered him, so I offered to plant them.”

After she hung up, Jenny handed the notebook to Ron. When he finished reading he picked up his mug and swallowed the last of the coffee.

She said, “I guess I've been acting like Nancy Drew.”

“I suppose you think I'm Joe Hardy?”

Jenny's hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes opened wide. Her tongue flicked against her upper lip. “Oh dear God. If I hadn't asked all those questions, people wouldn't be gossiping about his wife. What have I done?” Tears brimmed her eyes then cascaded down her cheeks. She whispered, “I'd forgotten.”

“Forgot what?”

“I told you. Back when we were dating.” Her cheeks turned red.

“What are you talking about?”

“When I was about nine I read every Nancy Drew book in the library. Then I started on the Hardy Boys.” She pressed her hands flat against the table. “I'd ramble on and on to Horace about the stories. I must've bored him to tears.”

“Okay. Nice memory. But we're dealing with a murder accusation. Everyone in town is talking about this. The whispers are so loud they reach my desk in the sheriff's office.” He tapped her hand. “Are you listening to me? There isn't one piece of evidence that points to murder.”

“Horace and I played detective. One of us made up a crime and we'd leave clues for the other one to find. It was great fun.” She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. She fumbled in her purse for a tissue. “That's what this is. A crime for me to solve.”

“But there isn't a crime. Haven't you been listening?” Ron stared at her.

She couldn't read the expression on his face or in his eyes. She started to sob. He grabbed her arm. “Come on. We need someplace else to talk.”

Jenny followed him outside. Memories flooded her mind. They'd even given their crimes names, like in the books. Horace created “The Missing Silver Spoon”. She did “Hidden Acorns”. Her final clue had been in the old sycamore tree near the lake. After that they'd leave the final explanation in an envelope in that tree. Her mother sometimes joined them, bringing sandwiches and sweet tea for a picnic. Then the envelope would be retrieved, and the detective would see if their solution was correct. “Can you drive me to the lake?”

He didn't ask why. In fact he didn't say a word on the short drive to the lake. She could barely keep her tears under control as she pointed to the tree. “That's where we placed the envelope.”

Ron knew what she wanted. She remembered the hole being much higher. But at nine things were very different. He reached in and pulled out some leaves. Next a brown clasp envelope, dirty and smudged. On the outside her name and address had been printed with a black marker. Without a word Ron handed her the envelope.

Jenny sat on the grass, like she and Horace had done all those years ago. She unsealed the flap and peered inside. Another envelope with her name on it rested inside. Ron snatched the brown envelope from her and shook out the white envelope. “Open it.”

Inside she found a sheet of paper. She read the letter out loud. “Dear Jenny. If you found this, then you are still the great detective Nancy Drew. The solution to this crime might be different than you expected. You see, there is no solution because there was no crime. I'm sure I died from a heart attack. No poison did me in.”

Ron said, “That's it? No poison?” A flush crept up his neck. His jaw tightened. Jenny thought Ron might punch the tree, but he stood with his arms hanging by his sides. She continued to read. “I know this town. Once the gossip begins no one can stop it. They'll make her life as miserable as she made mine. Please don't think too harshly of your old friend. Love, Horace.”