Word Has It (Wordplay Mysteries Book 1)

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  “They have a beginners’ Pilates on Mondays and Fridays at nine in the morning. She starts you off slow and easy, so you won’t waddle in pain the rest of the week.”

  Wanda blushed and slipped the schedule in her purse. Betty Sue obviously had not lost the eyes-in-the-back-of-her-head teacher feature even though she’d retired five years ago. That was when the pounds had piled on from couch-sitting and snacking while watching TV or reading. A widow’s common plight to keep the lonely moods at bay. Wanda knew it all too well. Ten years into her widowhood life, she still fought the urge.

  “And for what reason do I owe this pleasure?” Betty Sue swerved to miss a crack in the sidewalk protruding up from the pressure of an ancient live oak’s roots. A squirrel in its bough reprimanded them for having the audacity to walk by.

  “Todd told me something.” She caught her friend’s footsteps slowing as she swiveled to face Wanda. “Oh, nothing bad . . . Well, maybe. Not sure yet. Let’s wait until we’re seated. Then I’ll explain.”

  Betty Sue cocked her head a bit to the right but complied. They walked the next block in silence.

  When they arrived at the café, Wanda opened the door, and immediately a blast of luscious cool air hit her face. After all that walking in the mid-eighty-degree weather, it felt good.

  Betty Sue followed her inside and waved at Sally, who looked up from behind the clear plastic nose guard as she added more carrots and cucumbers to the myriad of bowls sitting in crushed ice.

  “Hi, Ladies. I just set out the veggie selections. Come make your own salads.”

  Sally offered three plate sizes, each priced accordingly. Her patrons could pile on what they wanted from the varieties of choices from organic greens to pasta and chicken salads, even egg salad though Wanda avoided it. It couldn’t beat her recipe with a stick. Muffins, crackers, and hot French bread slices lay at the next buffet section along with three cauldrons of piping hot soups. Bowls and bread plates were stacked like shiny white and blue striped soldiers at attention.

  The ladies remained quiet as they made their selections, then decided to sit at one of the blue gingham-covered bistro tables near the wall. As Wanda reached for the pepper, Betty Sue leaned in. “Well?”

  “Shouldn’t we pray first?”

  A slight sigh exited through her nose. “Of course. Sorry.” Betty Sue bowed her head and offered a simple, three sentence thanks for their food, their salvation, and their friends.

  “Amen.” Wanda spread her navy cloth napkin in her lap. “Okay, I will start at the beginning. Todd came over to play Scrabble, like he always does on Thursdays at nine.”

  Betty Sue stabbed a piece of arugula dripping with low-cal ranch with her fork and nodded as she lifted it to her mouth.

  “Well, he happened to tell me that there might be a gang of robbers hanging out in this area. You know, from that burglary in Burleson?”

  Betty Sue bobbed her head several times as she wiped her mouth. Her blue irises sparkled with interest and perhaps a tad bit of apprehension.

  “He told me because he wants me to be extra aware of strangers. I figured you should know as well.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There is more. I think. Maybe not. I don’t know.” She ran her hand down her water glass and flicked off a few drops of condensation.

  “Wanda Lee Warner, I have rarely seen you flustered. What is going on?” Betty Sue reached for her friend’s hand. “Are you on steroids for your arthritis again? You know they make you antsy.”

  Wanda squeezed her friend’s fingers and withdrew her hand. “No. But have you ever had the sensation that, as my grandmother used to say, someone tiptoed over your grave?”

  “You mean a premonition?”

  “Sort of. Here me out, then tell me if I need the pencils in my box sharpened.” She tapped her temple and then proceeded to relay the words on the Scrabble board and what they made her think about.

  After she finished, she sat back and watched Betty Sue’s reaction. As a teacher, she’d seen everything and heard even more. She’d always had an analytical mind and besides being an avid reader, Betty Sue could complete the New York Times daily crossword puzzle within fifteen minutes, most days. “Well?”

  “I am not sure, Wanda. I mean it could be a serendipity, or nothing at all. What other words were on that board?”

  Wanda thought for a long moment. “I can’t totally recall, but the board is still set up on my kitchen table. Want to come see?” Betty Sue lived two blocks north of her on 10th and Elm.

  “Sure. It’ll keep me from giving in and ordering Sally’s hot gingerbread with lemon sauce.”

  “By the way. I walked. I didn’t bring the car.”

  Betty Sue faked a shocked expression, then chuckled. “Good for you. I told you exercise would up your energy level. I always walk to Zumba and back.”

  They gobbled down the rest of their salads, paid, and power-walked back to Wanda’s house on Spruce. By the time they got there, Wanda’s knees were as wobbly as a dish of Jell-o on top of a washing machine in spin cycle. Her neck and back were sticky and her lungs complained about the abuse.

  Wanda led Betty Sue down the driveway and through the gate to her kitchen door stoop. Very few people ever used the front doors in Scrub Oak unless they were selling something or delivering a package. They entered the kitchen and Wanda made a sweeping gesture toward the kitchen table as if she played a hostess on a TV game show. “I’m going to get a wet washcloth. Want one?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks though.” Betty Sue nodded then sat down where Todd had and studied the board. She called out to Wanda down the hall so she’d hear her over the running water in the bathroom. “I also see zero, reduce, candy, under, and panel.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Wanda returned and tapped the Scrabble board with her finger. “These words were spelled last. Right before and while we were talking about the burglary.” She sat across from her friend. “I think Todd played ‘perp’ because he is a cop, and it is probably the first thing he thought of. In fact, I wasn’t sure it was a word.”

  “Yes, that makes sense. So does the word ‘escape’ if that was on his mind. If you were talking about the case, then wouldn’t it seem plausible that you both played words relating to it that floated to the forefront of your minds?”

  “I played the word “jewel” before he even told me.”

  “Yes, but it has been in the Gazette and everyone is talking about it.”

  “Lying? Woods? Neither have anything to do with a burglary.” She spun her rack to Betsy Sue’s line of focus. “And check out the letter tiles in my hand. What word pops into your brain?”

  “Mansion.” It came out in almost a whisper. She blinked and raised her attention to Wanda’s face. “You think they are staked out at the old Ferguson house on Woodway, don’t you?”

  “It has been ‘lying’ vacant.” She air-quoted the word. “Or is it laying?”

  “Lying, I am fairly certain.” Betty Sue’s face took on the teacher-look.

  “Whatever. But it does back up to the woods. Which Blake Ferguson, the original patriarch, purchased in 1919, if I recall correctly, so none of it would ever be developed.” Wanda leaned back into the chair spindles and crossed her arms. “So?”

  Betty Sue stood and tucked a brown curl behind her ear. “I don’t know. Maybe you need to tell Todd.”

  “And have him believe that I am ready for assisted living? I don’t think so.” She huffed and went to the fridge. “Want some raspberry tea?”

  Patting her tummy, which had flattened considerably in the past few months, her friend declined.

  Wanda sucked her abs in a bit and leaned her backside against the counter.

  “Woohoo. You two plotting the next coup without me?” Evelyn’s shrill but melodious voice bounced off the moss-green siding outside before she clomped onto the deck and opened the kitchen door. Evelyn lived next door.

  “Come in. Come in. We might be, but not exactly a coup. More like a conund
rum.”

  “Or a crime?” Betty Sue wiggled her eyebrows. “If the words define it correctly.”

  “What words? Don’t tell me you two have been playing with a Ouija board. Pastor Jim at First Baptist tells us to steer clear of stuff like that.” Evelyn harrumphed.

  Wanda plastered on a Who, me? innocent face.

  Evelyn waggled her finger. “Don’t give me that look, Wanda Lee Warner. I’ve known you for almost ten years now. What are you up to? You always stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “I do not.”

  Betty Sue grimaced and turned to Wanda. “Well, recall the time you thought Mr. Blake was rooting though people’s trash to find out their personal info. Turns out he didn’t have enough money to feed his four cats and was too embarrassed to say anything.”

  “Or the time you talked us into sitting by the lake all night because you swore you saw a flashlight shine across it?” Evelyn added. “You were sure a ring of thieves were casing the guests at the Woodway Resort last fall. It ended up being a reflection from Aurora Stewart’s metal wind chimes hitting her new spotlights from her backyard across the way.”

  Wanda lifted a shoulder to her ear.

  With both of her friends eyeing her as if she had robbed that jewelry store in Burleson, Wanda felt a chill sweep across her shoulder blades. What was she up to?

  And why did it seem she always was the one to get into scrapes?

  Chapter Three

  “Here’s what I think. We do nothing. It is merely a coincidence.” Evelyn reached under the sink for the plastic wrap. “But in case this does turn out to be of importance, I say we preserve the Scrabble board. As evidence.”

  Her late husband had been in Navy Intelligence under Bush-Senior. Evelyn watched every NCIS and CSI show on TV. She recorded them by date, crime, and city. Wanda guessed it somehow made her feel closer to his former line of work. Widows often had weird idiosyncrasies that few people, except other widows, understood.

  “What good will that do? Can’t we just take a picture. I mean, they don’t need fingerprints or anything, right?” Betty Sue spread her palm and hovered it over the word tiles to stop Evelyn from mummifying the game in Saranwrap.

  “She’s right, Evelyn. A picture will suffice.” Wanda took the roll from her friend and put it back in the slot in the wire rack. “Besides, Todd and I are scheduled to finish the game Sunday afternoon.”

  After taking pictures with her cell phone of the board and the tiles in her rack, Wanda placed a tea towel over the letters and slid the board on top of the fridge. Then she put the racks inside the box and set it on top. “I am being silly. Evelyn is right. Only a mere coincidence.”

  But a wad of doubt sat in her gut the rest of the afternoon. As she dust-mopped the floor, tidied the counters even though they didn’t need it, and rearranged the cooking utensils in the drawer, her eyes kept lifting to the top of the refrigerator. She felt like a kid with the cookie jar stuffed with snickerdoodles barely out of reach.

  “Ugh. Enough.” She stomped out of the kitchen, plopped in her easy chair, and opened the historical novel she had been reading until her eyelids drooped the night before. As if on cue, her black dachshund, Sophie, lumbered over and laid her chin on Wanda’s right foot.

  The next thing she knew, the duchess had been exonerated and the duke’s nephew hauled off to the Tower of London. The end. The mantle clock chimed seven as she closed the book.

  She added it to the basket for the library’s used book bazaar next week and waddled back into the kitchen to heat up some leftovers.

  The box on top of the fridge almost whispered her name as she sat at the kitchen table. She pushed her cheesy chicken and rice casserole around on the plate, took six bites and decided her stomach had handled enough. Besides, the recipe served six to eight, so she’d heated it up twice this week already. Maybe she’d freeze the rest and give it to Todd on Sunday.

  Gingerly, she reached up on tiptoes and took everything back down from on top of the refrigerator, uncovered the towel, and scooted the slightly misaligned tiles back into their places on the board with her pinkie finger.

  Jewels. Woods. Perp. Lying. What did it mean?

  Then there was the word mansion sitting in her tile rack. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to stroll by the Ferguson place after dinner, would it? It was still light until almost eight o’clock now. She wouldn’t venture inside the wrought iron fence onto the lawn—everyone in town knew that was a major no-no—just circle the block it sat on. Maybe she’d see a neighbor out watering their lawn in the cool of the evening. Catch a few fireflies emerging from the blades of the carpet grass in Pecan Park. Listen for that old hoot owl in the hollow of the sprawling tree at the corner of 9th and Oak.

  Her hips and tummy would thank her for the exercise. Sophie would enjoy it as well. Decided.

  Her whistle perked Sophie’s floppy ears. When she saw the turquoise leash dangling from her master’s fingers, she came plodding to her feet. Wanda hooked it to her collar and they headed out.

  A fine evening, even though it still hovered in the high seventies and the humidity off the lake made the air seem a bit heavy. The blue sky had begun to dim, and off to the horizon, white cirrus clouds took on pink and orange hues near the far northern edge of the Texas Hill Country.

  The pair strolled past the park and turned up 8th Street. Three elementary-aged kids whisked by on their bikes, giggling. She knew their names but only waved in silence. They lifted their chins in unison and sped around the corner.

  Then, providence smiled on her. Hazel Peters watered her prize rose bushes along her front walk. They had never been the best of friends, but they remained acquaintances, often attending the same service at Holy Hill Church and sitting on the city beautification committee.

  “Hi, Hazel.”

  The older woman jumped, then waved with the hose, almost drenching Sophie. “Oh, sorry.”

  Wanda walked up the sidewalk. “Your roses are really coming out now. Such gorgeous colors, especially the yellow ones with the blushed edges.”

  Hazel’s cheeks took on the same color as the roses. “Thank you. I mix my own fertilizer, you know.”

  No, she didn’t. And the idea made the casserole flip a bit in her tummy. “Good for you.” Now, how to steer the conversation. “Any word on who will get the Ferguson house?”

  She shook her head. “Haven’t heard a peep in months. Though yesterday about this time, I did see two workmen go around the back. Not sure if they went inside or not. Never saw a light come on. Think they were contractors of some sort. Jeans and t-shirt types.” She sniffed a slight disapproval.

  “I see. Are there often people over there? I mean the lawn always looks nice.”

  “Oh, yes. Pete’s Lawn Service comes every Tuesday morning from eight to ten, like clockwork.”

  Hmmm. Could it be the so-called contractors she saw on Wednesday were not that at all? The robbery was on Monday night according to Todd. If they waited until after the landscapers had left Tuesday morning, then they’d have a safe hideout for at least a week.

  “Well, it is good to know it’s being taken care of. Blake Ferguson, Jr. was so particular about his castle and the grounds, especially that maze.”

  Hazel agreed. “What surprises me is that no one patrols by there on a regular basis. I mean I know Scrub Oak is a small town with hardly any real crime, but that place must be chock-full of antiques, silver, and paintings. Who knows what all?”

  Wanda hadn’t considered that. “Well, have a good evening. I better get little Sophie home before dark.”

  “Good night.” Hazel returned her attention to her roses.

  Wanda glanced back down the lane at the mansion looming in the dusk like a sleepy giant assigned to overlook the town in case dragons descended. She chuckled to herself. Too many epic medieval novels. But Katy Huth Jones wrote them so very well. She’d read just about every one of them in her Mercy series.

  Even so, Wanda couldn’t ignore
the eerie feeling she had about the abandoned chateau with its turrets, stately balconies, and peaked roofs. A shame, really. Someone should turn it into a museum, or a B&B, or something.

  Then movement caught her eye. A figure dashing around the corner of the mansion, or only the sprawling oak branches playing tricks with their shadows in the sunset? She couldn’t be sure.

  But one thing she did know. The house needed watching. Especially if it still held valuables inside. If the police didn’t have time, she and a few of her friends certainly did.

  Chapter Four

  That night Wanda sat in bed, her laptop propped up on her knees. She made up a schedule of two hour shifts over the next week. Perhaps she could get people to sign up for them. Those at night should probably be men, or neighbors who lived close enough on West Elm or 8th to have a view of the mansion from their upstairs windows.

  Hazel might sign up and encourage the others on her block to do the same. Wanda figured it would benefit them to know a house lying vacant in their area was secure, right? In fact, wasn’t it the town’s duty to watch out for each other’s properties?

  Of course, it was. Wait, would she need the mayor’s permission to set up a . . . what did they call it? Oh, yes. A neighborhood watch. Many cities had them, so why not Scrub Oak?

  Yes, that way she could make sure the Ferguson House was properly guarded, and also secure the whole town. Burglars in the area, if they were there, could pilfer anyone’s domains, rob the grocery, or even hit the stores like Hardware Haven or Anna’s Antiques.

  If she did need permission, she’d have to stand up before the entire town council—Mayor Arnold Porter, Pastor Paul Richardson of First Baptist, Carl Smithers who owned a full-service gas station and used car lot in town, retired principal Fred Ballinger, and the librarian, Barbara Mills, who served as secretary—this upcoming Monday and make her request.