Word Has It (Wordplay Mysteries Book 1)

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  Then again, Old Mr. Edwards had seen two men amongst the trees. And there had been three jewelry robbers. Did that prove the body in the morgue had been one of them? Did Butch McClain lie there or did he still wander the woods?

  Todd had not been forthright in answering her about the identity of the body. How could she find out? Sneaking into the morgue for a peek seemed impractical. Todd would really be angry if she got caught. He might even arrest her.

  Wait, another way tapped on her brain. If Old Mr. Edwards recognized Butch McLain as one he’d seen trespassing in the past week then it would mean someone else lay cold on the slab. And a potentially dangerous ex-con wandered around the edge of town.

  She rushed to her car, retained the articles she had accumulated from her internet searches, and scurried back to Mr. Edwards. “Can you describe the older man you saw in the woods lately? Did he look like this?”

  He eyed the grainy photo while Wanda’s quick movements made her lungs rebel a bit. “Honestly can’t say. Never got a good look at his face. Looks mean, though don’t he?”

  She took in a deep inhale. “I think you should tell the police. And as the newly formed neighborhood-watch chairperson, I will spread the word to keep an eye out for those two. They may be up to no good.”

  Mr. Edwards handed her back the photo with a scowl. “Not necessarily. Ain’t the first time.”

  Wanda’s heart leapt. “What do you mean?”

  “See folks off and on over there ever since the old mansion’s been deserted. Like right before that rich lady’s husband got shot deer hunting. Ain’t that so, Mabel?”

  His wife’s head bobbed once more.

  “And you told no one?” Wanda tried to keep her voice steady.

  “We’s don’t like to stick our noses where they don’t belong. We keep ourselves to ourselves.”

  Wanda’s knees buckled. How many others in her small town felt the same way? Who knew what had been going on undetected?

  Well, it was high time she stuck her nose in. No matter what Todd or Aurora may think. Now that her reputation had been redeemed in the community, she considered it her civic duty to find out the reason for the connection between Robert’s death and that of the stranger last week. Especially given the ballistic evidence.

  Wouldn’t Pete’s lawn service have noticed anything unusual? Perhaps not. Once their lawnmowers revved up, the squatters would’ve hightailed it deeper into the woods.

  Then a thought slammed into her forehead. Had Aurora’s resentment to her snooping around her property on the other edge of the woods last fall been a ruse to keep Wanda from discovering her plans to have her hubby killed “by accident”?

  If so, how was Carl involved? Had he and Aurora plotted her husband’s demise to look like an accident? Betty Sue recalled he had a crush on her in high school. Oh, dear. She hoped not.

  It just didn’t seem like a thing Carl would do even if he did have a reputation of being hard to deal with at times.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wanda spent the rest of the afternoon trying to gather information about the fire and Carl’s youth. She baked her famous butterscotch chocolate brownies and took them to the fire station.

  Adam Arthur met her with a grin peeking from his bushy moustache. “I smelled those heavenly brownies from two blocks away.” He held out his hands to take the pan from her arms.

  “I remembered you bid the highest on them at the church bake-fest.”

  “For what do I owe this honor?” He opened the door to the kitchen area of the firehouse and ushered her inside.

  After he set the brownies on the table, lifted the foil, and took in a long whiff, she motioned if she could sit.

  “Sure, things have quieted down now. Want a cup of coffee? Just brewed it a while ago.”

  One whiff told her it had been recently brewed. “I’d love one, actually. Thank you.”

  He poured her a cup, set the sugar bowl and a pint of half and half near her, and got down two paper napkins for the brownies. Then he grabbed a mug with a fireman’s hat on it. It read “Firemen like it flaming hot.”

  “Do you?” Wanda motioned with her eyes toward the saying.

  His cheeks almost competed with the color of the engine now parked on the slab outside. “My coffee, yes. I am not fond of flames in general.” He took a sip and shrugged. “But it’s part of the job.”

  “Like today. Quite a ruckus.”

  “Yes, with the dry weather, fires like that can get out of hand quickly. We were lucky to have caught it at the early stage. Less than an eighth of an acre got charred.”

  Fresh or not the strength of the coffee could peel paint. She stirred in two teaspoons of sugar and a generous portion of cream. “Any idea of the cause? I mean if it were kids or vandals, I will want to let the newly forming neighborhood watches know.”

  He shifted in his chair. “Is that why you’re here? Tom Jacobs just left asking the same thing.”

  “Oh?” She peered over the rim of her cup.

  “Well, the Gazette comes out tomorrow so it will be public knowledge by then. Yes, it appears to have been started from a campfire. My guess is from someone hanging out in the old cave.”

  “Cave?” The words on the Scrabble board back home jumped into her mind.

  “Yes, an old bootleggers cave from the 1920’s lies somewhere on the property. That’s how old Ferguson Senior made his fortune. Didn’t you know that?”

  “No. Wasn’t he the first mayor of Scrub Oak?” His statue stood on the grounds of the Courthouse Square.

  “True. Back then the settlers were mostly Irish. They were against the prohibition. Then the Baptist and Seven Day Adventist ranchers and farmers moved in. Drinking is frowned on by them as you know. Almost split the town wide open just as it was forming.”

  “Really?” How did Wanda not know that? She’d lived there most of her life. Proved that a person could learn something new no matter their age.

  “Uh-huh. But Blake Ferguson, Senior, had a tongue of honey and a manner as smooth as butter on freshly baked cornbread. He donated a huge sum of money to build First Baptist and hired the first pastor, all the while continuing to conduct business-as-usual as a dairy farmer delivering bottles of fresh milk, among other things, if you get my drift.”

  “Wow. I had no idea. How come my parents never told me? Or the kids in school.”

  The chief took a bite of brownie and chewed on it while making “mmmm” sounds. A few brown crumbs dotted his peppered moustache. Then he answered her question.

  “Well, maybe I am telling tales on the playground. Honestly, it is a shady part of our township’s history most would like to be forgotten. But I guess most towns in these parts have one.”

  “He, I mean Ferguson, Senior, did a lot of good, though?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Became a teetotaler during the war. Established the library. Brought the first doctor here. Later, Blake, Junior, who we all called Old Mr. Ferguson, helped fund the Medical Center.” The chief chuckled at the irony. “Blake, Junior’s daughter married Pastor Richardson’s predecessor. They are the ones who are disputing the will.”

  She knew that much. But the cave? Why had she never learned of it? She’d lived here most of her life. In fact, the word had not hit Betty Sue’s radar either. And she was born here.

  “How many people know about this cave?”

  Adam Arthur leaned back in his chair. “Not too many I suppose. Most who did are probably pushing up daisies in the cemetery. I discovered it when my brothers and I stumbled upon it.”

  “Carl and Colton?”

  “That’s right. Half-brothers really. Colton supposedly went there with his buddies to smoke cigarettes behind my parents’ back when we lived at the brick Federalist-style home on 7th and West Elm. The Kings live there now, you know.”

  “I understand Colton was pretty wild.”

  The chief stared at the ceiling. “Yea, that’s true. He possessed an anger deep down inside that gnawed at him. But h
e had a bad-boy charm about him. All the girls were drawn to him like dieters to chocolate.” He lifted the remainder of his brownie, popped it in his mouth, and winked.

  “But not Carl, right? He always seemed shy to me.”

  “Carl remained the quiet one, believe it or not. Funny how two kids turn out so different. Especially after my parents shoved his brother into military school. Carl didn’t come out of his shell until after college. Sometimes, kids find themselves once they leave home. Some, of course, don’t. He did. Returned a confident man destined to make a name for himself.” The chief picked at his thumb nail. “Didn’t think it would be this way, though.”

  Wanda leaned in. “I don’t think he did it. A little voice inside of me keeps saying Carl is not the one.”

  The chief scoffed. “That makes two of us. Perhaps the only two.” He drained his mug and stood. “Getting a lawyer friend of mine from Dallas to represent him. He knew Carl at college as well. In the same fraternity.”

  “Good. He needs someone on his side. I went to see him.”

  “I know. He told me. You want to help prove his innocence, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I ask why? I know Carl has ruffled a few feathers the wrong way around here over the years. But to tell the truth, car salesmen are often that way.”

  She rose from the table and lifted her purse onto her shoulder. “I can’t place a finger on it, Chief. It is just a gut instinct.”

  He laid a hand on her arm. “It may be enough for you but a jury will need more. Anything I can do to help, you let me know.”

  “I will.” She turned to leave.

  Adam Arthur held the door open for her. “Thanks for the brownies. Oh, and Wanda?”

  “Yes?”

  “Stay away from that cave if you find it.”

  She flashed him a quick smile. How did he know she wanted to seek it out?

  Chapter Seventeen

  That evening she worked at her computer until her eyes saw spots. She read all she could about the town’s history, the Fergusons, and the Arthurs. The two families settled soon after the First World War. Blake Ferguson, Senior, and Adam’s father had been war buddies, and the idea of peace and quiet in the rural area of North Texas fit the bill. They bought some dairy cows and land along where Woodway Resort stood now, across the lake from the mansion. Adam’s father soon decided dairying was not his forte, so he instead opened the first general store in town. Both did well.

  Situated near the railroad that ran from Galveston to Fort Worth’s stockyards, the town had thrived in those years. Wanda wondered if perhaps Adam had not been entirely truthful, though. Had his dad and Ferguson, Senior, been in business together in other ways after the war? Is that how he knew about the cave?

  About nine, her vision began to blur through her yawns. She whistled for Sophie to come in from the backyard and remembered her scattered vincas. All dead now probably after being uprooted so viciously and then lying in the heat all day. Oh, well. She had other issues to handle besides planting flowers.

  After a wonderfully soothing hot shower, she crawled under her covers and didn’t stir the rest of the night, not even for a night trip to the bathroom.

  The next morning, Betty Sue rapped on her back door at 9:42 a.m., dressed in a summer frock of tiny pastel flowers. Wanda felt frumpy in her navy, pleated skirt and white blouse but smiled. “Have a thermos of cinnamon vanilla latte, with stevia, for the road.”

  “Yum. Let’s head out. Autumn Villas is about a thirty minute drive. I looked it up. It is northwest of Keene heading toward Joshua. It’s run by the Adventists. I figure we may as well scope it out. One day we may be roommates there.”

  The idea had never occurred to Wanda. “Let’s not rush it. We are only in our sixties.”

  Her friend’s laugh almost qualified as a melody. “I called ahead and told them we wanted to visit with Mrs. Tucker. The lady told me the timing was perfect. Mrs. Tucker is having a very lucid day today.”

  Wanda silently thanked God for this small favor. She didn’t know how Colton could possibly fit into this, but perhaps the old teacher’s long term memory held an answer.

  She poured them each a cup of coffee. “Betty Sue. Did you know there was a cave on the Fergusson property?”

  “Why, no.” Betty Sue swiveled to face Wanda. Her hands on the steering wheel followed her eyes, almost swerving them into the bar ditch. After she righted the car, she wrinkled her button nose. “Wait, wasn’t that one of the words on the Scrabble board?”

  “Yes. I heard about it from Adam Archer. I went to ask him about Carl and also the fire.”

  “Oh. I saw it made the front page of the Gazette but hadn’t read it yet.”

  “I did.” Wanda adjusted her belt. “But Tom mentioned nothing about a cave in his article. Simply that it had been a campfire left unattended. And get this. You know that aloof old couple that lives next to Hazel? They say they have seen people camping out in the woods off and on since the mansion was vacated.”

  “No way. And they never said a thing?”

  She scowled. “They keep themselves to themselves.”

  Betty Sue whistled. “Man, do we ever need that neighborhood watch then.”

  “I agree. But there is more.” Wanda filled her in on the history of the town’s beginnings, including the Ferguson enterprise.

  “I had no idea. My word. I wonder if old Mrs. Tucker knows anything about how the Fergusons empire came to be.”

  “I do, too, Betty Sue. I do, too.” Wanda peered out the side window as they pulled into the driveway leading to Autumn Villas.

  The setting oozed peace and quiet. Oaks shaded manicured lawns edged with flower beds. In the middle of the drive, a fountain danced and splashed into a turquoise tiled pool with koi and water lilies. Birdsong meandered through the grounds in a natural melody of calmness.

  Wanda rolled down her window. “I could do this one day.”

  “Um-hm.” Betty Sue turned off the ignition. “Maybe we should make reservations while we’re here. I understand their waiting list is long.”

  “Not that long, I hope. I don’t plan to move in until at least 2042.”

  Betty Sue laughed. “From your lips to God’s ears, my dear.”

  They strolled up the colonial stairs to the double-beveled doors. Comfortable, classic-seating groups perched on oriental rugs over marble floors. Off to the right, a lady smiled from behind a mahogany desk. In a soft voice, she asked if she could help them.

  “We are here to see Mrs. Tucker. I used to teach with her.” Betty Sue noticed the sign requiring them to sign in and produce a picture I.D. She dug in her wallet for her driver’s license and bent to sign in.

  Wanda did the same.

  The lady eyed their identifications and nodded. “Very well. She is in Room 248, but this time of day you will probably find her in the sunroom playing cards. It’s through the open French doors down on your right.”

  As they strolled in the direction the receptionist indicated, Wanda leaned closer to Betty Sue’s ear. “Will you recognize her?”

  “I hope so. It’s been sixteen years, I think. No wait. I visited her over Christmas in . . .” She halted and looked at the ceiling as if the answer would appear on the rafters. “Hmmm, 2012. Yes, that was it. The fiftieth anniversary for the school’s opening. We formed a committee to seek out all the retired teachers and present them or their heirs with a plaque. It read, Teachers help others be reachers. I know reachers isn’t a word, but the committee voted for the phrase.” She shrugged.

  Wanda kept silent and followed her into the softly-lit room dotted with potted plants, tables for four, and lounge chairs. Quiet, classical music played in the background. Some of the residents dosed in wheelchairs. A group of white-haired ladies sat around one of the tables, their voices cheerful.

  “Four spades.”

  “Five hearts.”

  “Now, Mildred, are you sure? You’ve been overbidding all day.”


  “I’m sure, Agnes.” She lifted her chin and set down the first trump card.

  “Mrs. Tucker?” Betty Sue approached the third lady in the group. “It’s Betty Sue Simpson. I taught first grade when you taught sixth. Remember?”

  A light behind the clouded blue eyes brightened. Then she held out shaky, blue-veined hands to Betty Sue. “My dear. How nice of you to visit. Shall we chat over there?” She pointed to a grouping of chairs by the fish tank. She put her cards on the table. “I’ll be the rummy.”

  The other ladies nodded.

  Betty Sue leant her an elbow as she wobbled to rise and grasp her cane. Once seated, she straightened her skirt over her knees, a touch of feminine modesty probably drummed into her memory by her mother decades ago.

  “Now, tell me why you ladies have come to visit.”

  Betty Sue introduced Wanda and briefly explained what had happened that landed Carl in jail.

  “Oh, dear. And he was the quiet one. Not like his brother.”

  Wanda inched forward in her chair, hands on her knees. “Can you tell us about the Smithers boys? I understand their parents were killed?”

  “Yes, in a car accident coming back from a football game in Waco. The authorities assumed that Mr. Smithers fell asleep at the wheel and edged over the I-35 median into oncoming traffic. Didn’t have barriers back then, you know. Only wildflowers and oleander, thanks to LBJ’s wife. What was her name?”

  “Lady Bird.” Wanda smiled.

  “Ah, yes. Classy lady. Anyway, the Arthurs took the boys in, even though they had two children of their own. A boy and a baby girl. Carl became even more withdrawn as I am sure you remember. Colton, well, he became a handful. Always smoking cigarettes. Sneaking out at night with Tommy Reynolds and Bubba Huffman in the eighth grade. They were a bad influence. I recall old Chief Robinson dragging them out of those woods by their ears a couple of times when they were truant.” She let off a little cackle, but her eyes drooped a bit. “The poor man tried until he practically turned blue and still could not turn them around.”