The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(47)

“The one on High Street?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve heard tell that Abigail would walk up to the checkout with not a dime in her pocket and have to ask that Fairchild girl for a dab of money to pay for her groceries. Now, I ask, is that any way to live?”

Controlled money? Detective Nichols wrote on the pad. “This car of Missus Lannigan’s,” he said, “is Miss Fairchild still driving it?”

“No indeed. I guess that Buick was too tame for her; as soon as she got hold of Abigail’s money, she bought herself a brand new Thunderbird! Bright red!”

I watched Detective Nichols jot down car?

“How about relatives?” he asked. “Did Missus Lannigan have any relatives?”

“Her brother, but he died. And a nephew or something. I can’t say what his name was, a nice looking young man. He used to visit every so often.”

“This nephew, he been around recently?”

“Not so far as I know.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I suppose it was a while after Will passed on – Will was Abigail’s brother, you know, the one who died. He died not long before the Fairchild girl moved into the neighborhood and started carting away poor Abigail’s possessions. Uh-huh,” she said scrunching up her face like she’d given the matter careful consideration, “that’s when the nephew quit coming around.”

By now, Mary Beth was on a roll. Once she had someone to listen to her stories there was no stopping her.

“It’s a crime,” she told Detective Nichols, “A crime how some folks will take advantage of the elderly. There ought to be a law!”

“There is, Missus . . .?”

“McGurke. Mary Beth McGurke.”

“Well, Missus McGurke, you’ve been very helpful.” With that he closed his notebook and turned to leave.

Mary Beth, being Mary Beth, followed him all the way out to his car chattering on and on about how she’d be happy to answer lots more questions. Much as I wanted to smack her lying face, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do.



I kept watch over Detective Nichols as he drove off, and when he parked in front of the Bountiful Basket, it wasn’t all that much of a surprise. Had he held off and gone the following day, it would have been a Tuesday – Millicent works the register on Tuesday and she’d have been able to tell how it really was – but because it was Monday, he ended up talking to Harold. On the best of days, Harold had a hard time remembering how many dimes in a dollar, and he wasn’t one to admit to a poor memory so whatever somebody said, he’d agree with.

“Did you know Abigail Lannigan?” Detective Nichols asked.

“Missus Lannigan? Sure.”

“What about Destiny Fairchild?”

“Hmm?”

“She was the young woman who used to accompany Missus Lannigan, you remember her?”

“Remember? Of course, I remember.” Harold held up a honeydew melon and waved it toward the other register. “Hey, Monica, how much are these melons?”

“Dollar-forty-nine,” she answered.

“What can you tell me about their relationship?”

“Whose relationship?”

“Missus Lannigan and Destiny Fairchild.”

“Oh, them. Well, they used to do their shopping together; but it ain’t my way to carry gossip about folk’s personal business. Why don’t you tell me what you know and I’ll say if it’s true or not. Okay?”

“I’d rather not influence your opinions. How about if I just ask a few questions and you can answer to the best of your recollection?”

“Listen here, Sheriff Nichols, there’s nothing wrong with my recollections.”

“Detective.”

“Detective? What kind of question is that?”

“It’s not a question; I’m Detective Nichols, not Sheriff.”

“Okay. But you’d better get to those questions; I go to lunch at twelve-thirty.”

“When Missus Lannigan and Miss Fairchild came through the checkout, who paid for the groceries?”

“Say again?”

“Did Missus Lannigan have any money of her own?”

“We don’t give food away.”

“But did the money come from Missus Lannigan’s purse or did she have to get it from Miss Fairchild?”

“Umm . . . hold up a minute.” Harold dashed over to Monica and whispered something in her ear. Monica nodded and said something that the detective could not hear. When Harold returned, he said, “It was the young one. She wrote the checks, but both their names were on the account.”

I could tell Detective Nichols had more questions, but it was obvious that he wasn’t going to get any meaningful answers here, so he moved on to Monica. “You recall Missus Lannigan and Miss Fairchild?” he asked.

“Sort of,” she answered as she plucked a bunch of carrots from the conveyor belt.

“What can you tell me about their relationship?”

“Not much. The young one seemed to be in charge, but she was nice enough to the old lady. I never heard nothing worth repeating.”

“Thanks,” Detective Nichols said and left. So far it was looking like Mary Beth’s story was holding up.