Rarity returned to her styling chair while I took several deep breaths.
Later, on my way to the coffee pot, I passed Patsy, deep in conversation with her customer. “You know Earl. He liked to have fun. He often stayed out until the wee hours. It was Sunday morning before I even noticed he wasn’t home.”
Chapter Twenty-two
V isions of Patsy’s interrogation played in my head until my shift ended. No, I wasn’t in the room, but I could imagine.
Still muttering about invasive police procedure, I slid over the hot vinyl upholstery of my car. I rolled down the windows and pulled into traffic, to drive the familiar route toward home.
My heart ached for Patsy, suddenly alone. The thought of her husband’s murder made my head spin. Who could’ve killed Earl? And why? He was a simple, small town, insurance agent—with a phobia for caffeine. Yet someone brought a gun to his office and shot him. That meant premeditation—not a crime of passion, didn’t it? A thief? Random gang initiation?
There aren’t any gangs in Evelynton.
Whoever it was, would that person kill again?
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice I’d rolled past the stop sign until the car horn blared. Tires squealed and a car swerved around me. I screamed and slammed on my brakes, noticing the other car for the first time. The driver, Paul Cooper, glared straight at me. His lips formed a tight, straight line. He whipped his attention back to the road ahead and sped away.
My heart pounded in free-form rhythm as I watched his car disappear down the street. Eventually, with big gulps of air, my breathing slowed.
After looking both ways, I continued through the intersection. Trading my resolve for auto safety for the safety of home, I pressed harder on the accelerator, and picked up speed as I got closer. By the time I skidded to a stop in the driveway, my fingers cramped from gripping the steering wheel.
Maybe it was the scare at the intersection or the hate in Paul’s face. Something brought back a memory locked away for years. I climbed out of the car, thrust open the front door, and ran to the closet under the stairs. Crawling on hands and knees, I reached to the back, found the box, and tugged it into the light.
Five-year-old packing tape crackled as I tore it off. Wedged into the bottom of the box, under wads of crumpled newspaper, was the item that had leapt to mind at the sight of the devil in Paul Cooper’s eyes.
I opened a black, hard-plastic container holding the handgun Marc had shocked me with long ago.
I could still hear his voice. “I know this will surprise you, but I keep a gun with me when I work. It’s for protection, and I want you to be safe, too.”
Surprised? Make that stunned. “I hate guns. Why do I need one? And why do you? You’re a photographer.”
“Photojournalist.” He corrected me.
Then he’d gripped my shoulders and gazed into my eyes. “Lauren, I want you to be able to defend yourself. The world isn’t as safe as you think. I keep mine in the glove compartment and I want you to take this with you when you go out.” He’d insisted on teaching me to use it, and dragged me to the shooting range for practice.
Not long after that conversation, I’d discovered the wisdom of his words. The world wasn’t safe. Only, the gun hadn’t helped my husband. He never had the chance to defend himself against the stray bullet that took his life.
Memories of my training flooded back. Marc’s hands loading the gun, unloading, and his insistence that I repeat the process. I remembered everything, performed each step, and slipped the cold black weapon into my handbag.
I’d be smarter from now on. No more questions about Paul Cooper. Why had I been so naive, believing I could get information without his knowledge? No one ever called me a good liar. Had I forgotten how small this town was? About the gossip? There must be other ways to obtain information.
I sat at my computer and spent the next few hours scrolling through Internet databases. Finally, I rested my elbows on the desk and my face in my hands.
Pages of the obviously wrong Paul Cooper—too old, too young. The little information pertaining to the man I looked for, was not nearly enough. Paul had been married after college but divorced six months later. I would’ve liked to talk to his ex-wife, but after the divorce decree, she disappeared from the search results.
Similarly, Paul had done nothing Internet worthy until he obtained his real estate license, a year before returning to Evelynton.
I found the license for his marriage to Missy. Very little information for twenty-five years. What use would it be?
Chapter Twenty-Three
I approached the door with caution, leery of answering the knock, even in daylight hours. Like everyone else in town, I wouldn’t open my door to just anyone. Evelynton had been eerily quiet in the two weeks since the murder. Less laughter at Ava’s. Fewer neighborly visits.
I peeked through the window. Anita peered back at me, bouncing on her toes. Clair hovered close behind.
As soon as the door opened, they crowded in and began talking simultaneously, then eyed each other. Clair opened her hand toward Anita, giving her the floor.
“Lauren, we were so glad to see your car in the drive. Couldn’t wait to tell you. They’ve made an arrest in Earl’s murder, but you won’t guess who it is.”
Clair headed for the kitchen. “I need a glass of water. Anyone else want one?”
Keeping my eyes on Anita, I shook my head.
Anita plopped down on the sofa. “You won’t believe it.
Yes, I will. They got him.
Allowing myself a smug smile, I sat next to Anita and waited to hear my suspicions confirmed. “Tell me.”
“A nurse, of all people. Her name’s Helen Peters, and she works at Beaver Creek Nursing Home.”
Wait, who?
I tucked my feet up underneath me and turned to face Anita. “You’re kidding. Helen Peters? I met her a few of weeks ago, when I went to the nursing home, um, to research a story.”
Clair rushed back into the room. “The labs came back yesterday. Remember my informant, Irma, at the police department? She called me this morning to report she overheard they’d matched Helen’s fingerprints to a coffee cup found at the crime scene. And they’re pretty sure her hair matches the strands found on the body.”
I shook my head and looked up at Clair. “That can’t be right. Why would they have Helen’s fingerprints? Does she have a record?”
“Complete stroke of luck.” Anita answered, drawing my attention back to her. “Remember the break-in at the nursing home last year?”
Clair shrieked and I flashed a glance at her. “Oh no, you wouldn’t. Before you moved back.”
Anita took over again. “Anyway, there was a robbery, and they fingerprinted all the employees in order to isolate the prints that didn’t belong. It was a big deal because drugs were involved.”
She shrugged and raised her hands in the air. “Turns out they didn’t need the prints because they caught a resident’s grandson selling prescription drugs. Not a very smart kid. The labels, with patient names, were still on the bottles.”
Clair took over and my gaze snapped back to her. “So, lo and behold, when they ran the prints from the coffee cup, up pops Helen. It was all top-secret, and Irma couldn’t say anything until today, when they made the arrest.”
“Melvin and Jimmy Farlow walked right into the nursing home and marched her out in handcuffs.” That was Anita.
I felt like a ping-pong ball.
I rubbed my neck, dizzy from the volley. “I only spoke to her a few minutes, but Helen seemed like a kind person. I wouldn’t have guessed she could hurt a flea. And who would think she’d own a gun? Did they find the gun?”
“Not yet.” Clair finished her water and hovered over us. ”But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. She probably disposed of it, maybe threw it in the lake.” She demonstrated with the glass, thankfully not releasing it.
Clair pointed the glass, splattering me with a few drops of water. “It
’s always the quiet ones. The ones you don’t suspect.” She paused for a breath and I rescued the glass, depositing it on the coffee table. “Don’t we always see on the news that someone’s nice quiet neighbor has bodies buried in the backyard?”
Anita and I were mute. That’s true. It’s always the ones you don’t suspect.
Clair broke the silence. “Gosh, I lost track of time. Anita, I have to drop you off and get back to work.”
“Lauren, I’m meeting Irma tonight at Burgers and Bean Sprouts. She’s going to fill me in on the story. Why don’t you meet us?”
“Absolutely. Where is this place?”
“It’s a new place on Route 27. Just drive north and you’ll see it. It’s a few miles, but Irma doesn’t want to be seen by anyone from work. Five o’clock. Want to come, Anita?”
Anita shook her head. “I’ll be cooking dinner. You can tell me about it later.”
After seeing them out, I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the door. I may have to rethink my goal of writing true crime. Obviously, I’m not a reliable judge of character. What if my niche is travelogues and informational articles, read only by senior citizens?
~
I found Burgers and Bean Sprouts at five minutes after five. Four cars parked around what seemed to be a converted 1960’s gas station, sans gas pumps. Once inside, the atmosphere became warm and inviting. Booths, with deep red upholstery, lined the perimeter, and eight or ten tables filled the center of the room. A mouth-watering aroma of hamburgers and sauteed onions drifted in from the kitchen. A waitress approached me and I pointed to the ladies at the only occupied booth.
I made my way to the far side of the room and Clair introduced me to the tiny woman sitting across from her. Irma reached up to shake my hand. Hers was childlike in size, bony, with soft, loose skin. I would have guessed her to be sixty or sixty-five if her eyes weren’t so bright.
The dialog seemed to have been in progress, but they made no attempt to bring me up to speed. I slid into the booth beside Clair, and Irma launched into a continuation of her story.
“Melvin worked so hard on this case—came in early and worked late. He was fit to be tied. Kept trudging from one office to the next, dragging Jimmy Farlow with him, carrying stacks of papers. Then half the papers would land in the trash.” Irma paused to sip her Coke while the waitress dropped off a basket of curly fries and asked me for my order.
I declined. Irma squirmed until the waitress left the table. Her face was so animated I revised my guess as to her age. Forty?
Her fingers worked vigorously rolling her straw wrapper into a little ball as she continued. “Melvin was making himself crazy, talking to himself all day long. Nothing I could make out—just muttering. But then the information about the fingerprints came in, and boy did his mood change. The way he strutted around, you’d have thought he’d been elected mayor.”
I rested my elbows on the table, leaning closer. “That’s all the evidence he has? Just the fingerprints?”
“That’s all he needs. They don’t have the forensics back on the hair, but it’s blond, just like Helen’s. Melvin went right over to Beaver Creek, took Farlow with him, and brought Helen Peters back in handcuffs.” Irma beamed.
“Melvin solved his first murder. That’ll make the paper, maybe even the nationals.” This was Clair.
Irma snickered. “He didn’t seem as happy after he got off the phone with Sharon.”
She looked pointedly at me. “For your information, Sharon is Melvin’s wife and just happens to be a good friend of the suspect.”
Irma returned her attention to Clair. “I guess Sharon’s so mad she could spit. She kept insisting Helen’s so nice, she wouldn’t do such a thing.”
Irma waved a curly fry at Clair. “Helen lied right off the bat. She insisted she hadn’t been in Earl’s office for months, but there was that cup still wet with coffee.”
Clair nodded. “ Even if she left the prints months ago—and nobody washed the cup—the coffee would’ve dried up.”
Irma popped the fry into her mouth and chewed between words. “Sharon yelled so loud I could hear her through the phone. She swore Helen was playing Bingo with her on the night in question. Melvin kept repeating, ‘Evidence doesn’t lie.’”
I raised my hand to get her attention. “Irma, was there a coffee pot in Earl’s office?”
Irma rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose so, since there was coffee.”
“It’s just that I was at Earl’s office the week before he died. I don’t remember a coffee maker. In fact, he made a point of telling me he couldn’t offer me coffee. He didn’t drink it because it’s a drug.”
Irma picked another curly fry. “Huh. She must have brought it with her.”
She turned to Clair. “These are good fries. I’m coming back here. It’s nice to have a new burger place in town. What’s with the name, Bean Sprouts?”
Warming to a new topic, Clair held up the menu. “There’s a whole page of healthy alternatives here. Look. Veggie-burgers, salads, bean sprouts to put on your burger.”
“Clair.” I interrupted. “Doesn’t it seem odd Helen took a gun with her, and also brought a cup of coffee?”
“I guess. But who’s to say what a murderer is thinking?” Clair smiled and pointed an index finger at me. “You’re such a detective.”
Still perusing the menu, Irma commented. “I don’t think I’d like sprouts on my burger.”
I slumped in the booth. “I’m heading home. Thanks for sharing the information with me.”
A frown crossed Irma’s face. “Don’t tell anyone what I told you. Especially, anyone from the department. I could lose my job.”
Having assured her of my discretion, I drove home repeating “It’s over. They caught the killer. Don’t read more into it.”
Chapter Twenty-four
I stood on the front porch and fumbled my keys. Me and my imagination. Helen. I would never have suspected. That shows how much insight I have into the criminal mind.
Something furry brushed across my ankle causing me to jump and drop the keys. Bending down to retrieve them, I found myself looking at a black and white face with golden eyes. “You again?” The cat went back to circling my feet with his tail brushing teasingly across my shins.
“Why don’t you go home?” Not only did I have a wild imagination and no insight into the criminal mind, I talked to cats.
He opened his mouth wide, letting out an earsplitting cry.
“Yikes. Are you hungry? Is that it?”
A low rumble seemed to be coming from his body as he sat down to rub the top of his head on my ankle.
“Okay, but just so you know, I’m not good at caring for pets. Can’t even take care of myself.” I narrowed my eyes at the cat. “I’ll feed you but you will stay outside.”
I opened the door, stuck out my foot to keep the unwelcome visitor outside, and slipped into the house. In the kitchen, I poured a saucer of milk, then carried it to the steps. He didn’t need an invitation. Milk splattered onto the step as the cat lapped, all the while purring loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
After watching him slurp for a minute, I became resigned to cat care. “I guess you’ll need more than milk.”
After I scooped up my keys and gingerly stepped over the cat, I hopped into the Chrysler and drove to the Grocery Mart.
Never having had a pet, I was stunned by the dietary selection, and stood rooted in the center of the aisle. Infinite varieties lined the shelves. There couldn’t be enough cats in Evelynton to warrant all this. Don’t they eat canned tuna or something? After reading the labels of at least a dozen cans, I chose four with pictures of cats that looked sort of like the one outside my house, and carried them to the checkout.
“Good evening. Did you find everything you need?” The curly haired check-out girl gave me a toothy grin and began passing each can over the scanner.
“Yep, just need the cat food. Um, do you have a cat, Candace?” Wit
h my keen investigative skills, I’d discovered her name on the tag she wore.
“No, but my grandma has seven.” She looked up from bagging the cans, to giggle. “Some people think she’s strange. They call her the cat lady, but she loves her cats. They keep her company.”
My wallet yielded a total of three dollars and twenty-eight cents, so I swiped my credit card. “Hmm. What does she feed them?”
“Oh, she buys fifty-pound bags of dry food. She couldn’t afford to feed them special canned food like this. I bet your cat is one happy kitty.”
“These are good? It’s my first cat.”
“Sure, all these are big sellers.” She handed me the receipt and bag.
Carrying my purchases to the car, I couldn’t help but think of the grandma with seven cats. Great, I’m a single woman and here I am with a cat—that I’ve been talking to. I will not be referred to as the cat lady. One cat, living in the box, outside. I’ll feed him. That’s all. Can’t let him starve.
When I arrived home, the cat stood sentinel beside the empty saucer. He watched me expectantly as I stepped around him and walked inside.
I’d neglected to buy a cat bowl. Rummaging in the back of a lower cabinet yielded a dull, well-used pie tin. I spooned a couple globs of cat food into it and took it to the back porch. I was about to do the “Here kitty kitty” thing, but found him waiting on the step. “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” He kept his eyes on the goal and attacked it as soon as I set it down.
One cat. And he stays outside.
Chapter Twenty-five
I hate it when people chat on their cell phones, not paying attention to where they’re walking. But there I was with mine to my ear, almost colliding with a woman exiting Ava’s. In my defense, Anita called as I stepped out of the car, and once she got going, it was impossible to cut in.
“You didn’t seem convinced of Helen’s guilt. You aren’t about to start detecting, are you?”
I moved to the side and stood next to the building, out of the path of foot-traffic. “No, I won’t be detecting. I’ll accept the professional verdict. I know they have evidence, but it’s hard for me to believe Helen’s a killer. I can’t say I really know her. Only met her that one time.”
Heart Strings Page 10