by Ritter Ames
I gasped. “Abby, you’re scaring me. You make it sound like they’re ready to arrest me and the jury is chosen.”
Her voice softened slightly, “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m only trying to make you see how serious this is. Someone else killed him, but you found him, and if the police find out what you said the previous night, they can make things difficult for you while they search for the murderer.”
“Okay, yeah, I get it. I understood the message yesterday.” I swallowed hard. “No one gets anything out of me until you’re back in Rogerston.”
“I’ll be your shadow for the next week,” she said. “This all may sound redundant, and that I’m worrying too much, but it’s serious, Lissa. Especially when you’re around longtime Rogerston residents. As soon as word gets out, everyone will be asking you for details, and decades-long acquaintances will bug you the most with questions. Trust me on this.”
“What do I do?”
“For the police, keep repeating you won’t say anything until I’m present. For everyone else, tell them the police don’t like people talking about an active investigation, and you’ve been told not to discuss it with anyone.”
“Everyone will assume the police have ordered me not to talk, instead of you.”
“Let them. It’s all still fact, regardless. The police dislike the public talking about active cases. And believe me, I’ve groaned over too many horror stories about witnesses being called in court to testify about conversations they had with people who later became suspects in crimes. That kind of situation usually doesn’t go well for a defendant. Too easy for witnesses to assume things not really in evidence. And do not talk to reporters either. Especially don’t talk to reporters! I’m telling you as a friend and your lawyer to please keep your mouth shut.”
“Got it.”
Her voice quieted a little. “You know I love you, Liss. None of this is criticism. It’s for your own good.”
“I’m glad you called. Thank you. I probably would have slipped up and said something to someone I shouldn’t. I promise to play mute.”
She chuckled. I’d heard that rueful sound before. Every time she told me not to do something, and I did it anyway.
“No, really,” I said. “I get what you’re saying. Thank you. I mean it.”
Her voice turned brisk again. “Okay, great. Gotta go. Lots to accomplish before I hit the road. And if I don’t get there tonight, Brian Baker will probably put out an APB on me and my license plate. He probably already notified the Texas Rangers.”
I chuckled. “Drive safely.”
“Will do.”
As we hung up, the sound of the boys’ alarm chimed from upstairs, and I put the computer on standby. No more online work this morning. I started their oatmeal.
When the boys trouped down, fairly dressed and still bleary-eyed, Honey followed them in and trotted to the back door. I ushered her out to do her business and left the door ajar. About a minute later, she pushed the door open with her nose and made her way into the living room, then sprawled in the middle of the carpet. I think she was asleep before she landed.
“Can we have cinnamon toast?” Mac asked, getting my attention away from the dog.
“Tomorrow you can,” I replied. “Today, you’re having oatmeal. But I can add cinnamon instead of blueberries.”
“No, blueberries are okay.” Mac rubbed one eye and pull out his chair. “I just thought cinnamon toast sounded good this morning. Don’t know if I’ll still want it tomorrow.”
“Let me know tonight if it remains your favorite breakfast option.”
My youngest nodded gravely. “I will, Mom.”
I set out their bowls and reached for the container of nuts and seeds I kept mixed up ahead of time. “Jamey, if you’ll get the blueberries from the fridge—”
“Can I add them to the oatmeal too?” he asked.
“Yes, as long as you and your brother get the same amount,” I said, hoping to head off any “not fair” fight at the table.
But Mac was one up on me, and he scooted over to hop up on the countertop. “I’ll super vice.”
“You mean supervise.” I tried not to laugh.
“Yeah, supervise,” he echoed.
I handed him the container of mixed crunchy goodies. “Remember to gently shake these across the top of the bowl. Don’t go overboard.”
He nodded, but I didn’t doubt I’d have some cleanup to do on counter #1. When they finished their production line, the boys carried the bowls to the table, and I opened the fridge to get the rest of Jamey’s lunch ready.
Neither boy likes bread crusts, so I kept large cookie cutters to make sandwiches into shapes and remove the evil crusts in one efficient maneuver. That day, Jamey would lunch on large bulldog-faced sandwiches, and vegetable “bugs” I’d made last night. Finger fruit went in for dessert. A little more work, but a lot of fun to get creative this way, and it was definitely easier on our budget than paying for a month of meals. I always made a duplicate picnic meal for Mac, too, which meant his lunch was ready when he got home at noon “starving.” In the winter, if I didn’t send something hot in a Thermos, I sent Jamey to school with cash for a cafeteria ticket.
“Milk money is in your lunchbox,” I reminded. “Also, we’ll go to the library after school, so take the books you need to return out to the car this morning, or set them by the front door for me to grab later. We’ll go straight to the library after Jamey gets out of school.”
Both boys nodded, as they shoveled in oatmeal as fast as humanly possible.
Ten minutes later, we headed out the door, only having to send Mac back upstairs one time to re-brush his teeth and wash his face again. This last time he remembered to look in the mirror as he did both, so there were no longer traces of blueberries marring his grin. Honey still lay sleeping on the living room floor. To her, there seemed to be no point in waking up before nine-thirty.
Behind the wheel of my Honda, I smiled as I glanced out the windows. I loved our tree-shaded street on spring mornings. The neighborhood was long established, and the leafy trees stood like tall oak sentries in front of most homes. There were other types of trees unique to individual yards, like Mrs. G’s huge pecan, but the oaks were in the majority near the curb. Several neighbors were already working in gardens. Mrs. G was out and dressed in a cornflower dress, retrieving her morning paper. I rolled down my window as we neared her house. “I have an errand after I drop off the boys. Then I’ll be back to get you. Be no more than an hour.”
Since the boys were listening, I didn’t mention that she and I were going to the police station to give them our fingerprints. Last night, my neighbor and I had talked about the need to go there, however, so she nodded and waved as I drove off.
As we turned the corner onto Waverly Road, I noticed Mr. Harper standing in front of the second house from the corner. He had a piece of paper in his hand and looked to be studying the front of the house. I started to toot my horn and wave, but given the first impression of me he’d received, I figured I’d better pass. I’d probably just scare the guy half to death. And giving a neighbor a heart attack wasn’t the best second impression I could make. Might even have to forget about getting back my cake plate.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
THE BOYS’ SCHOOL TOOK a whole block a few streets away, and we arrived well ahead of the bell signaling the start of class. When the brick building was originally erected, it housed students up to eighth grade, but that was decades ago. It had been modernized, enlarged as needed, and now educated students through third grade. However, as the school board periodically reduced the number of grades in the building through the years, our community population grew steadily. More people enjoyed living close to Tulsa, but wanted the space and lower taxes of surrounding communities like Rogerston, leaving the student population and school facilities stretched to meet that growing need. Next year, Jamey would be transferred two miles over to the newer fourth through sixth grade campus, with
more concrete and less architectural character—at least in my opinion. He was already excited about the move. Me, not so much. And not just about the site design.
Both boys started fumbling for their seat belt releases as soon as the building and all their friends came into view.
“Don’t hit those red buttons until I’m completely stopped,” I warned. “And remember, Mac, I’ll be right here when you get out of class at noon. Don’t forget.”
“I’ll tell Robbie not to let me walk home with him,” Mac said. “He’ll remember, even if I forget.”
“We can give Robbie a ride home if he’d like.”
“Yeah!” He high-fived the dashboard.
I braked at the door, and the boys grabbed their belongings and bolted, heading for their respective knots of friends. I called out, “Have a good day. See you soon.” They both waved, and Mac half-turned so I saw most of his grin, then they entered the building, and I watched their backs through the large plate-glass windows when they separated and disappeared into the crush of students.
All the kids were so cute at this age, not yet into that first gawky middle school stage. I wondered what Jamey would be like in another year.
Several teachers stood outside to keep the foot traffic moving steadily through the dark green metal doors as more vehicles pulled up to the entrance. I put the Honda into gear and drove out of the school circle, turning at the street to head into the main part of town.
First on my list, before my big outing to get fingerprinted with Mrs. G, was to make an attempt at gaining intel from my banker. In some computer somewhere, my house, and probably Dek’s and my names, were on a list. I needed to determine why, where, and how to make sure that list became Eller-free.
The bank lobby didn’t open until nine, but the drive-thru business window was open. I waited behind a white Caddy that had an “Ask Me About Avon” sticker in her back glass.
“I would if you’d give me a few sample lipsticks,” I muttered, and watched as the teller sent the security drawer out toward the driver’s window. The Avon lady removed a folded zippered leather bank bag, and I wondered how much she made each month, and whether I should consider adding cosmetics to my repertoire of ways to add extra to our household budget each month. Nah, I’m lousy at direct sales. Maybe her husband was loaded, and she needed an assistant. That was more my speed.
As I pulled forward, I recognized the teller as the sister of a guy Abby and I graduated with. I explained I had no business with her but wondered if there was any way she could find out when my loan officer had time free in his schedule for the day. She responded, “He’s here already. The lobby doors don’t open until nine, but most of the honchos come in by eight. Let me call up and learn what I can. Any time in particular?”
“Whatever works for him.”
She nodded through the bulletproof glass and walked to a phone. I fiddled with the stations on the radio, then ended up turning back to the 80s station it played ninety percent of the time. A favorite Bon Jovi tune started playing as she returned. I hit the off-button regretfully.
“He says he can see you at eight-forty-five,” she said. “The bank entrance will still be locked then, so just tell the guard you have an appointment with Arnie.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.”
“Have a nice day,” she called out through the speaker.
“You too.”
With about a half-hour to kill, I drove three streets over to grab a coffee at the Bean Shack. Designer coffee was one of my weaknesses, but this visit was as much for defensive purposes as it was caffeinated goals. Vonda had picked up a second—or possibly third—job at the Shack to help the ends of her shrinking budget meet while her husband looked for work. I hoped she was on-shift for this morning’s rush and could dish on what happened at karaoke after we’d left Saturday night.
Inside was like entering a tiki hut. I didn’t understand the connection, but I loved the coffee, and figured the owner was trying to live his retirement dreams early. Still, the place stayed packed. It was a little darker than I liked, but I patronized the place for the coffee rather than the ambience, and I assumed most others did too. As the bell rang over the door, Vonda looked up from behind the counter, flanked by two college-age baristas. My friend’s blonde hair was frizzier than normal and her smile telegraphed stress along with its welcome to me, giving her a harried look as she prepped another cup to order. I chewed my lip and hoped I wouldn’t add to her load, but Abby’s warning had scared me more than I’d realized at first. I almost felt Brian and his team zeroing in on me. If I was going to ensure that the police didn’t crown me the prime suspect, it was critical I throw a light on others who had a motive. Not that I wanted to make another innocent person look guilty, but I wanted to make sure the cops understood that I truly was innocent, and there were better suspects to consider for the murder.
Besides, I didn’t look good in orange, and jumpsuits were never my style.
The coffee line was four-deep when I entered the store, and I took a slow breath to calm my nerves as I took my place at the end. Nothing like the aroma of good coffee to offer a brighter side to things. At the same time, I reminded myself again what Abby preached to me over the phone an hour before and considered the fact I might be making a mistake being there.
No, I decided, I wouldn’t talk about the murder. I’d get Vonda to talk, then leave for the bank. All good. No worries.
So, why was I chewing my lip again?
Vonda grinned as I neared and said, “Your regular?” When I nodded, she closed one eye and recited, “Two espressos...in a skinny latte with a touch of vanilla and caramel. Right?”
“Perfect,” I said, sliding the Shack’s reward card from my wallet. Sure, the order sounded high maintenance, and I’m not really a high maintenance type girl, but when I bought specialty coffee, I figured I may as well get it exactly the way I wanted. Plus, this purchase gained me a free one next time I came by.
Vonda delivered the lovely concoction to my table a few minutes later.
“You’re timing is stellar.” She set down the cup and a napkin. “The line’s been a killer, but the rush is nearly gone.”
Only one business suited customer stood waiting to place an order.
She pulled out a chair and joined me, grasping my hand. “Billy came in this morning and told me you’d found that Carlisle guy dead yesterday. Sounds like the most awful experience. I’m so sorry you had to be the one who found him.”
No, she didn’t ask, but the old me would have launched into at least some details I knew she wanted to hear. Instead, I shifted the conversation. I needed to play this carefully. Vonda’s whole work life revolved around serving people, and there was no telling how many she spoke to daily. “It wasn’t great. But I was wondering how things evolved Saturday night after Abby and I left. Did he come back to the bar?”
“Yeah, for a while,” Vonda said, watching the door. I crossed my fingers for no new customers until she finished. She said, “I could tell you were mad when you ran out the door, but I didn’t understand why until I talked to Billy. What did Carlisle say to you?”
“He started talking about personal things and wanted to meet with me. He kept pushing when I told him no.”
“Ugh, a letch. I hate guys like that.”
Okay, so she misunderstood, and I didn’t correct her assumption. I pretended to shrug it off. “No biggie. I thought, though, that he might go back in to bother someone else.”
Vonda frowned, looking off in the distance for a second. “He didn’t talk to any women alone. He probably fixated on you because of your singing. Your own groupie or stage door daddy.” She laughed. “But I saw him talk to a married couple who got up and left soon afterward. Also, Pete Jenkins. But Pete just ordered more double shots than usual when Carlisle left him, and he continued drinking heavily all night. Looked more and more depressed each time I served him.”
“I don’t think I’ve met Jenkins—”
�
��Owns the exotic fish and aquarium place out on the highway. Rumor has it he’s losing the business soon. I’m feeling so bad for him. Wish we could do some kind of ‘save the fish’ fundraiser, but it would probably humiliate him.”
The woman’s heart was as oversized as her wallet was skinny.
Three customers walked through the door, and Vonda stood. “Looks like I need to get back to work.” She started walking away, but turned back and added in a quiet voice, “There’s one funny thing, though. Not funny ha-ha. The kind that worries me instead. Billy said he’d heard that Jenkins bought a gun Saturday and told people it was for protection at his store. Still...I hoped he wasn’t... you know... thinking to use it on himself.”
“Or Carlisle?” I mused.
“Was he shot? Billy thought he got stabbed or strangled.”
Ack! Blew my covert interrogation. Time to backpedal. “That is interesting. You’re right. Hopefully, someone will keep an eye on Pete in case he has any self-destructive ideas.”
Thankfully, one of the other baristas called out to Vonda in that second. She gave me a guilty grimace and sketched a wave goodbye. I scooped up my cup, hurrying out into the sunshine and to my Honda.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
THE BANK WAS LITTLE changed from how I’d left it earlier—a boxlike two-story structure with lots of glass and concrete, though the front looked prettier than the drive-thru located behind it. Several more cars were parked along the perimeter, but it was still a buyer’s market for open customer spaces, and I snagged one right outside the glass entry. Per directions, I tapped on the frame. When the guard got close enough to understand me, I told him who I came to see. He nodded and unlocked the left-hand door, re-locking it after I’d entered.
Halfway up the carpeted stairs I suddenly wished I hadn’t been so impetuous. What exactly should I ask? Did this bank put my house on a fire sale list? Not really a socially acceptable opening gambit. I slowed down and thought fiercely over the problem, coming up with two more openers that were equally unimpressive.