Word Has It (Wordplay Mysteries Book 1)

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  “See, ladies. It pays to eat right and exercise.” She sat back with a nod of satisfaction.

  Evelyn and Wanda glanced at each other, then waggled their heads. Betty Sue’s logic didn’t quite work itself out.

  “Wait.” Wanda snapped her fingers. “Todd, if you identified him as Tommy, why send off the fingerprints and mug shot?”

  “To make sure, as I said. I mean the face resembles him but all I had to go by was my memory of a decades-old high school photo. Jim Bob recalls him, though he was in elementary school when Tommy was quietly expelled.”

  “So that’s what happened to him.” Betty Sue snapped her fingers. “Mrs. Tucker figured as much.”

  “Who?” Todd turned to her.

  “An old teacher in a nursing home. We went to visit her.”

  Todd blew out a giant exhale. “Really, Aunt Wanda? You only just thought to tell me about that?”

  Betty Sue and Wanda both studied their fingernails.

  “I thought we had an understanding. You would share things with me. Not keep me in the dark.” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “And stop investigating.”

  Wanda opened her mouth to further explain. Then she stopped. A thought hit her out of the blue . . . again. “Wait. That would mean Carl recognized him, too. Could it be he took revenge because Tommy led his brother astray all those years ago?”

  Todd leaned back and took a long sip of his coffee. Then he set the mug down with purpose. “Okay. That’s one theory we are working on. I shouldn’t tell you this, and I don’t know why in Heaven’s name I am. But since you ladies insist on snooping, you would probably figure it out anyway.”

  “What?” the three all replied in union, their spines erect and feet flat to the floor.

  “The first victim, the one Carl supposedly shot that is in the morgue?”

  Betty Sue gasped. “Is Bubba Huffman.”

  “Bingo.” Todd shot his forefinger at her. She was right on target.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Wanda couldn’t sleep. Todd had convinced her friends that it was safe to return to their homes, but the things he had revealed that night twirled in her brain like a smoothie in a blender. The whispering in her head telling her that Carl was not the one wouldn’t go away, yet all the evidence pointed to him. And why would he escape if he were innocent? That stunt made him appear even more guilty.

  She threw off her covers, padded to the desk, and got out a spiral notebook and pen. Back to the old-school way of doing things.

  She wrote down the names of Carl, Colton, Bubba, Tommy, Otto, and Mr. Ferguson. Then off to the side she added Butch McClain and Robert Stewart. Then she sketched a timeline.

  1981 – Carl and Colton’s parents killed in a car accident and the boys adopted by the Arthurs.

  1982 – oil bust and dairy farm sold. Colton off to military school? Tommy’s dad worked on the dairy farm almost fifteen years. Now out of a job? What happened to the dad? Is it relevant?

  1982 – Otto buys the land and builds the resort. Seems an odd time to do that during an economic bust like none other the state had ever seen. Why?

  2019 – Robert Stewart buys the resort. Was killed in hunting “accident” within a few months of moving across the lake with Aurora. Has to be connected somehow.

  2019 – Two months later Ferguson dies. Estate in probate. Any connection??

  2020 – robbery in Burleson. Tommy, Bubba, and Butch hang out at old Ferguson’s. Tommy and Bubba killed.

  Where is Butch? AND CARL????

  She thumped the pen on the paper and read her notes again. Too many holes. Too many loose ends. And the feeling still gnawed at her gut that Carl Smithers could not be a murderer. Who then? Butch McClain? Lurking in the shadows behind Carl the first time and now the perp this time? Made some sort of sense.

  Maybe Butch helped Carl escape and followed him to meet with Tommy. Or, he let Carl escape and then killed Tommy so he could have all the jewelry to himself and finger Carl in the process. It would seem a reasonable thing for a hardened criminal to do—make sure someone else got the blame.

  Whatever the scenario, Wanda bet Butch and Carl had words with each other.

  Wait. Words. The inscription in her dictionary from Todd. We will always have words with each other.

  The Scrabble letters.

  She scurried off the bed, rousing Sophie who groaned and padded after her into the kitchen.

  Flicking on the light over the sink, Wanda squinted until her eyes adjusted. Then she made a cup of hot herbal tea and pulled the Scrabble board down to the kitchen table.

  Then she returned to the bedroom, snatched the notebook, and waddled in her bare feet back to the kitchen. Head resting in her hand, she wrote down the words. Maybe some of the others they had spelled were clues as well?

  Or none of them were.

  Cave, bushes, auto, shot. Jewels, perp, lying, woods. Then she looked at the other ones. Candy, zero, reduce, panel, under, swing, park.

  Wait, now “swing” and “park” made sense. There was a cave, near the woods. Jewels were stolen, Carl was the perp(?), two men had been shot now, and one was lying by the bushes leading into the woods.

  So, the rest had to be clues. They simply had to be. But “candy”, “zero”, “reduce” and “panel”? She yawned and stretched the kink from her spine, then she got up and opened her back door. Sitting on the porch she listened to the peaceful night sounds of a small town fast asleep. Sophie plodded out and rested her chin on Wanda’s foot.

  As she bent to scratch her pet’s velvety ears, Wanda gazed into the darkness, barely dimmed by the golden glow of the streetlight.

  The answers lay out there somewhere. If the police found Carl, or Butch, perhaps they would be able to discover them. She certainly didn’t plan join in the man hunt. The two were probably halfway to Canada or crossing into Mexico by now anyway.

  She rubbed her eyes and pulled her nightgown around her knees. Bowing her head, she prayed that no more killings would happen in her community, that these tragedies would be used for good―a catalyst to rev up interest in the neighborhood watch, and that her life would get back to normal, whatever that was.

  Then she felt Sophie’s cold nose rub her ankle. Patting her pooch, she went back inside, bolted the doorsomething she rarely ever did―and then headed down the hall to her bed, the fast clicks of puppy dog nails following behind her.

  The next morning, a chirpy cardinal, perched on the oak tree limb outside of her bedroom window, woke her up. Wanda let Sophie out, fixed breakfast, and listened to the morning news out of the DFW Metroplex just in case they mentioned any of the events that had happened in Scrub Oak. They did.

  “And in other news, the sleepy little town of Scrub Oak, southeast of Cleburne, has had two murders in the past week. Police will not say the two are related at this time, however, the local citizen accused of the first murder escaped from jail less than an hour before the second one occurred. The suspect is still at large. A sketch of his face can be found on our website. If you think you see this man, tweet us or call 9-1-1. And now here is Mike with today’s forecast . . .”

  Great.

  The phone began ringing at a little after eight. Wanda must have received fifteen calls over the next hour about the shooting, asking her what she was doing about forming the watches. Part of her prayers answered. Time to get busy.

  She spent the rest of the day canvassing those she had not reached Friday, and then contacting the people who had signed up to participate in the neighborhood watch. She secured the fellowship hall at the church for an emergency meeting at seven that night. She decided not to involve Officer McIntyre, but she did phone the police station and let them know.

  No one she queried had seen or heard anything unusual. At noon, Betty Sue, Hazel, and Evelyn reported that they had not gleaned any more useful information from the people they spoke with either. Maybe it was because these people worked during the day or everyone had become tight-lipp
ed, not wishing to get involved. Especially the younger ones. They spent all their time with their eyes glued to lighted screens on their phone, computer monitors, or tablets. No one ever caught up on the local gossip and news over the back fence anymore.

  Before she left for the meeting Saturday evening, she fed Sophie, let her out for her nightly constitution, and then took a picture of the Scrabble board. Next, she sluffed the tiles into the draw bag, and put the game away. The first clues had been discovered to be relevant only as an afterthought. Perhaps it would be the same with the last ones.

  Who knew? Maybe they were just words.

  When she arrived at the church, several people had already gathered. She had one-hundred percent attendance by the time the meeting started, minus any of the police. Oh, well. She hoped that meant they were busy with the manhunt.

  She organized everyone into four groups, as the expert had suggested. Each group voted for a captain. Neighbors, if they spotted anything suspicious, were supposed to report to the watchers and the watchers to the captains. Wanda and the captains were to stay in contact, and she was then to report any such activity to the police. Of course, in dire cases, anyone could bypass the system and dial 9-1-1.

  Everyone exchanged phone numbers up the line. Wanda placed the four captains on speed dial. Luckily, all of the watchers had cell phones and emails. She’d worried about that considering many of them were retired.

  That night she typed up a directory, dividing the four quadrants, and emailed the list to everyone. By the time the news came on at ten, she was too tired to concentrate on it.

  Instead, she crawled under the covers, reviewed her Bible study lesson one more time, said her prayers, and let her head sink into her pillow. But she flipped and flopped all night like a fish on a riverbank. She dreamt she was walking by the lake when she heard weeping. A disheveled Aurora sat barefoot on the bank in a muddied pink chiffon dress. Her shoulders heaved as she buried her bleached-blonde head in her hands. On them were tattooed the words “lonely” and “lost” in Scrabble tiled fashion.

  That did it.

  After church the next morning, she cornered Betty Sue and Evelyn. “Let’s meet to organize the invite for Aurora, make it a brunch for next Saturday. I have been thinking we should invite Hazel and Beverly, too. They are both widows as well. That way it won’t seem so awkward. And six will fit around Betty Sue’s dining room table anyway. We can call it the Scrub Oak Widow’s Society.”

  “Great idea.” Betty Sue peered into her face. “You okay? Your eyes look as if they are going to sink into your cheeks.”

  “Didn’t sleep well.”

  Evelyn let out a “pfft” sound. “Who has? Carl is still at large. Every dog bark jolted me out of my slumber last night.”

  “You need more iron, and probably magnesium. I put vitamin and mineral drops in my water every morning.” Betty Sue laid a hand on Evelyn’s arm.

  “Your water?”

  “Yes. Water.” Betty Sue turned to her. “Didn’t you know you should drink at least eight ounces upon rising every day? It is good for the ol’ ticker.” She patted her chest.

  “I do drink eight ounces. In my coffee mug.”

  “Wanda Lee Warner, really.” Betty Sue scoffed at her. “Why do I even try?”

  She tromped down the hallway, her head in the air.

  Evelyn turned to Wanda. “Now you did it.”

  “What?” She picked up her Bible from the pew. “She’ll be over it by the time she pulls into her driveway.”

  “How’d ya know that?”

  “Because I am going to text her to help me pick out the invites at Kay’s Flowers tomorrow morning and also decide on the floral bouquet for her table.”

  “Ah, she’ll like that.”

  “We’ll use my grandmother’s high tea set. It will be fun, right?”

  Evelyn shrugged. “It will be interesting. Guess there isn’t a chance of ordering Irish stew from the Hook & Owl, then?”

  Wanda chuckled. “For a moment, I thought you were serious.”

  From the expression Evelyn wiped from her face, perhaps she had been.

  “Evelyn, this has to be girlie. Besides, it is summer. Too hot for stew.”

  “Oh, okay.” Her tone drooped. “What were you thinking of?”

  “Iced raspberry tea. Crustless sandwich points, fresh fruit, scones from Sally’s. We could have tarragon chicken salad on Batavia lettuce boats.” She knew Evelyn liked chicken salad, especially the way Wanda made it.

  “Okay, count on me for getting the scones and fruit. Brownies, too. And definitely go with the chicken salad. You make a great one with the pecans, celery, and grapes in it. Oh, and how about your deviled eggs?”

  “Done. I’ll tell Betty Sue to make the sandwiches. She makes a great homemade palmetto cheese. And some with cucumber with creamed cheese would be nice. We’ll make it a real old fashioned tea.”

  “As long as we don’t have to wear white laced gloves.” Evelyn waved goodbye.

  Wanda’s footsteps lightened. She almost skipped to her car. It felt nice to have something else besides crime and murder on her mind.

  Then she looked across the street and saw Todd dash to his squad car, rev it up, and peal out of the back lot of the police station.

  Her hand froze on her car fob. He didn’t use his siren or lights. Why the rush?

  Should she follow?

  Definitely.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Wanda knew if she tailed Todd, he’d figure it out as soon as he glanced a few times in his rearview mirror. So, when she saw him turn north on 8th, she took 7th instead since Scrub Oak was basically laid out in a grid pattern. Through the side yards between the houses and off the side streets she could spot him as he continued north toward the Ferguson Mansion, she gathered.

  She called up her digital system to ring the captain of the northern quadrant, Melissa Suntych, who was a local artist and animal rescuer. She also attended Holy Hill but went to the earlier service, so even though she lived on Woodway at the edge of town she should be home by now.

  “Melissa. Glad I caught you. Listen, Todd is high-tailing it up 8th as we speak. See if you can see if he turns on Woodway . . . yes, in his squad car. There is something going on.”

  She then called the middle quadrant’s captain, Vlad, Zelda’s hubby, a cabinetry and furniture maker who lived on Pecan. “Be on the lookout. Todd may be turning in your direction. He is in his cruiser going pretty fast.”

  There. She had the bases covered, so to speak. If someone had reported a suspicious man lurking, she’d know about it soon enough. Her eyebrows crinkled. Wait. If there was danger in the area, wouldn’t the police be obligated to contact the neighborhood watch to spread the word? To secure safety of the citizens, of course. She needed to ask Officer McIntyre about it and have him contact Chief Brooks. Seemed to her the word “communication” meant information should pass along a two-way street.

  Within a few minutes, Vlad called back. Todd was helping to herd Mrs. Porter’s fifteen chickens out of the neighbors’ front yards and back into their backyard coop. She had mistakenly left the latch unhooked when she gathered the eggs. It wasn’t until the basset hound next door began frantically barking that she noticed the empty coop. She had never fenced in her property.

  Wanda sat back and sighed. Small town stuff. What did she expect?

  She laughed at herself and headed home.

  The next morning at ten, she met Betty Sue at Kay’s. Wanda stopped her as they entered the shop. “Betty Sue. Sorry about the snarky coffee mug reference yesterday after church.”

  Betty Sue swatted it away. “I can be a bit of a nag about your health. It’s only because I love you, dear friend.”

  Wanda nudged her with her shoulder. “I know. Back at ya.”

  “These are nice. I like the garden scene on them with the bistro table set for two.” Betty Sue held one up a painted invitation from the turnstile.

  “Okay. Let’s get three. Y
ou, Evelyn, and I don’t need one. I will drop off Hazel’s and Beverly’s in their mailboxes if you drop off Aurora’s.”

  “Wanda, what if Aurora declines?”

  “Well then, at least we made the effort and the five of us can have a good time anyway.”

  “True. Though chicken salad is a tad fattening. So are deviled eggs.”

  “Betty Sue. It’s a party.”

  “True. However, I plan on using low-carb whole grain bread for the cucumber sandwiches and cloud bread for the palmetto cheese.”

  “Cloud bread?”

  “It’s gluten free, Wanda. Fluffy and tasty.” She wandered over to the cut flowers. “Don’t scrunch up your nose. You’ll like it.”

  They decided on pink tea roses and white daisies with baby’s breath and fern leaves for the center decoration. Kay even offered to bring it to over early Saturday morning so it would be fresh. “I think what you are planning is the greatest idea. You widows need to be there for each other.” Her lip curled a bit downward.

  Wanda smiled back. She hated the awkward sympathy married women gave widows. Always had. No one knew what it was like to have half of yourself ripped away and stuck inside a coffin until it happened to them. She missed her hubby every single day, though the pain had dissipated slowly, like a breath does on a cold windowpane. The sorrow had retreated to a background comfort somehow, like a friendly shadow to remind her she had been loved.

  Plus, God had been faithful to remind her of His presence ever since the numbness of grief had begun to morph into sharp prickles of loss. She could not fathom what widowhood would be like for someone without faith.

  Betty Sue gave her a soft smile as if she thought the same thing. Maybe she did. They had known each other long enough and had both experienced death’s rude descent on a couple. They paid for the cards and flowers and then left.

  As Wanda walked Betty Sue to her car, her friend laughed. “I guess you heard about the chicken escapade yesterday?”

  “Yes.” Wanda groaned. “Poor Todd. The things police do for their town.”