Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky

by Sharon Love Cook

  “And the ones who have perfect scores are dweebs, just interested in having an impressive r?sum?,” Meggie said.

  “Old people forget what it’s like to be young,” Seth said. “They’re afraid to be spontaneous. They might lose control. We’re not talking about a drug orgy, we’re talking about kidnapping a plastic pig. It’s a prank, for God’s sake. Now the principal has blown it all out of proportion.”

  Meggie leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Two days ago his car was stolen. Now he blames our group. He says anyone taking part in Prank Night won’t graduate.” She rolled his eyes. “Who cares? I’ve already been accepted to college anyway.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “MIT.”

  Seth turned to me. “What’s ironic is, in the beginning we were like, okay, maybe we’ll do something for Prank Night, and maybe we won’t. Then when Mr. Sheedy, the principal, banned it, we had no choice but to get involved.”

  “It’s just the two of you?” I asked.

  “There’s a couple others,” Seth said. “They used to be apathetic like the majority of students. Now they’re psyched for Prank Night.”

  The school bell rang in the distance, too long and too loudly, as it had twenty years ago. Outside the van we shook hands. “Whatever you kids decide, be careful,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Meggie said. “Want to hear our cheer?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  They leaned back and shouted “Prank Night, it’s our right!” leaping into the air and pumping their fists.

  Heading back to the Jetta, I noticed the number of students’ cars in the lot. I wondered how they paid their insurance, considering the state’s high premiums for teenage drivers. I didn’t envy today’s young people. Life had changed in the decades since I’d been a student. Back then, misbehavior was often chalked up to youthful indiscretion. Today, the consequences were harsh with more to lose. I wondered if in future years Prank Night would be regarded as an anachronism, a pointless pursuit. Was keeping it alive a doomed mission?

  I didn’t know the answer, but I knew whose side I was on. “Prank Night, it’s our right!”

  On my way back to the office, I stopped at Stella’s. In the parking lot, a photographer crouched below the pigs. I hoped he was a hobbyist and not with the media. If word got out about Prank Night, it would spoil everything. So many good ideas are ruined by over-exposure. Look what happened to yoga.

  The little bell over the door tinkled when I walked in. Distracted, I was stunned when Stella yelled my name, adding, “I wanna talk to you!” With her quivering jowls, she looked like an enraged bulldog.

  “Me?” I squeaked.

  She laughed and pointed her spatula at me. “You should see the look on your face. Just like my husband when I caught him sneaking out the window one night.”

  “Really? What did you do?”

  “He broke his neck. Drunker than a mule.” She grabbed a newspaper on the counter and opened it, pointing to her photo. “My brother says I look like a junk yard dog.”

  I relaxed. “Then you’re not mad at me?”

  “Nah. I know you gotta sell papers. I just want kids to get the message that my pigs are off limits. Touch them, and I assault their asses.”

  “Don’t worry, they got the message.” I looked around. “Is Brandi here?”

  Stella went to the back door and yelled for Brandi. Moments later she arrived, wearing jeans and a candy pink tee shirt. “Can we talk for a minute?” I asked.

  She nodded and led me to a window table. The minute we sat down she asked, “Did you talk to Cal?”

  “I did.” I hesitated, wondering how much I should say about Cal’s indifference to her murder theory.

  “Let me guess. He thinks I’m crazy.”

  “He didn’t exactly say that.”

  “He didn’t have to. None of the cops take me seriously, especially Chief Alfano. When he didn’t return my calls, I decided to visit the police station, talk to him in person. I had something important to tell him about the bottle found next to Rusty’s body.” She leaned toward me. “It was Jack Daniel’s.”

  “Pretty good stuff.”

  “Too good,” she said, sitting back. “Rusty couldn’t afford Jack Daniel’s. He bought the cheap stuff. ‘Whatever works,’ he used to say.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Someone must have given it to him.”

  “Or he stole it.”

  She shook her head. “It was from the Liquor Chest downtown. The receipt was still in the bag. Paid for with cash, a hundred dollar bill. Where would Rusty get a hundred dollars?”

  “Do you have the receipt?”

  She nodded. “I showed it to Chief Alfano, told him Rusty not only didn’t have the money, he was banned from the Liquor Chest.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “A couple of weeks ago he asked me to pick him up a bottle. I asked why he couldn’t get it himself. He said he’d had a fight with the clerk, an old guy who works there. The clerk thought Rusty was drunk and tried to stiff him.”

  “Did you tell the chief?”

  She nodded. “He wasn’t impressed. I asked if they were performing an autopsy. He said they’re following protocol, that Doc Moss has over thirty years’ experience. The whole time, he didn’t once look at me.” She stared at her hands. “It gets worse. Maybe I had it coming, trying to stand up for myself.”

  “Had what coming? What happened?”

  She hesitated. “When I didn’t appear satisfied with his explanation, he took a folder out of a file cabinet. Then he slapped a photo down in front of me.” She closed her eyes. “It was a picture of Rusty underwater. His eyes… they stared.”

  I grabbed her hand. “Don’t worry, Brandi, he won’t get away with that.”

  She got to her feet. “It doesn’t matter. I’m used to it.”

  Fifteen minutes later I sat in Stella’s parking lot recalling Brandi’s story. Chief Alfano had known what he was doing. His brand of shock therapy had had the desired effect of silencing Brandi. He had abused his power. It was the Golden Rule: Those with the gold shall rule. In this case, the chief had something more valuable than gold. He had power.

  Vowing to bring his sleazy tactics to light, I switched on the ignition, shifted into reverse, and stepped on the gas. Behind me, a horn blared. I glanced in the rearview mirror. I’d narrowly missed hitting a police cruiser.

  Cal Devine, shaking his head, pulled in next to me. We lowered our windows at the same time. “What’s the big rush?” he asked.

  “Sorry, Cal. I wasn’t paying attention. Have you heard anything from the coroner?”

  “No, but I heard there’ll be a memorial service for Rusty. Donations go to the high school athletic fund.”

  “Thank you for that information. Would you mind telling me what the department has learned? Any tests results?”

  “The blood alcohol was three-point-five with a hefty dose of Valium that would have put me in a coma.”

  “Rusty’s death was timely, wasn’t it? The chief has an answer to the murder. Forget an autopsy. Get the body into the ground, and get on with our lives.”

  “Rose, it’s not homicide. You’ve been talking to Brandi, haven’t you?”

  “What of it? She raised some serious issues, and no one’s taking her seriously, certainly not the chief.”

  “The department isn’t perfect, but it functions. Doc Moss has been coroner a long time. If he thought there was just cause, he’d perform an autopsy. In any case, don’t complain to me, tell the chief.”

  “You tell him, Cal. Tell him he’s through pushing women around. If he asks what I’m talking about, he can read about it in the Granite Cove Gazette.” With that, I stepped on the gas and roared back. Shifting into drive, I fishtailed out of the parking lot. I hadn’t felt so alive since high school Prank Night. Up your exhaust pipe, Chief!

  That night I got into bed to write my column, cushioning the laptop with a pil
low. The wind shook the casings on the drafty, old windows. Outside, a car drove by, sloshing through potholes. Was it my imagination, or did it slow down? If it did, I hoped it was a police cruiser. Cal assured me my road was being patrolled regularly. Although I believed him, how often was regularly? Hourly, daily?

  Waiting for the ancient computer to boot, I reached for the TV remote. Maybe the local cable news had more on Rusty’s death. Setting the laptop aside, I clicked on the power.

  News anchor Myranda Trowt appeared onscreen standing in front of a tall stockade fence. Occupying the upper left portion of the screen was a familiar face, pale and sullen. It was a young face that begged to be slapped. I reached for my glasses to read the name underneath and almost lost control of my bladder. The face belonged to Jonah Zagrobski.

  The news anchor continued her report: “The thirteen-year-old, an honor student at Granite Cove Middle School, apparently wandered into Moles Used Car lot where he was bitten by the dog.”

  Honor student? According to B.A., Jonah was flunking every subject.

  Now a new face appeared opposite Jonah’s, that of a pit bull, its ears pressed tight to its head. Beady eyes glared at the viewer. The camera moved in for a close-up of Miranda Trowt’s concerned face. “The dog is believed to be owned by Buster Moles, who at this time cannot be located. Unless Mr. Moles provides authorities with a current rabies certificate, the dog will be euthanized, and young Jonah will undergo a series of painful, precautionary inoculations. In the meantime, Granite Cove Police continue their search. If anyone has information regarding Buster Moles’ whereabouts, notify police immediately.”

  I clicked off the TV and grabbed the phone, punching in B.A.’s number. It was late, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep unless I spoke to her. After six rings the call was routed to her voice mail. I left a message: “Betty Ann, I just saw the news on TV. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hung up and sank back into the pillows, the image of Jonah’s face stuck in my mind. The situation didn’t bode well for Tiny’s custody fight.

  Finally, I sat up and began typing. The crisis would have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight I had a column to write.

  Dear Auntie Pearl:

  My friends all warned me about Warren. They said a man of forty still living at home with his mother had issues. But instead of listening to them, I married him. Five years later I’m considering divorce.

  Why? Because every Sunday and holiday is spent with Mother, who ignores me and dotes on her son. The last straw was his birthday. I’d invited our friends for a party, and Warren showed up four hours later. He’d been at Mother’s, enjoying her triple-layer coconut cream cake.

  Auntie Pearl, do you think I’d be better off alone?

  Disrespected in Dorchester

  Dear Disrespected:

  My first thought was, did your mother-in-law use fresh or packaged coconut? It seems to me that if you’re going to make a cake from scratch, why resort to store-bought coconut? On the other hand, you don’t have to go to the trouble of grating your own. Do you know that fresh-shaved coconut from the supermarket can be frozen and used as needed? It keeps surprisingly well, remaining moist.

  Getting back to your concerns, you are obviously in need of help. Send a stamped, self-addressed envelope with five dollars c/o this newspaper for a collection of fabulous Butterworth family cake recipes. I guarantee your husband will stick around on his next birthday. Bon appétit!

  Auntie Pearl

  Fourteen

  The next morning, as I was leaving a message on the Zagrobskis’ answering machine, a breathless Betty Ann picked up the phone. “Rose! I’ve turned off this phone—too many calls. I’m also taking a sick day to bring Jonah to Doc Moss’s office. He wants to check the stitches.””

  “Jonah had stitches?”

  “Seven on his right buttock. I’ll give the little bugger credit, he didn’t even cry.”

  “How did it all happen?”

  She let out a long breath. “From what he’s told us, around seven o’clock last night Jonah and a friend climbed over the fence at Moles Used Motors. He claims they wanted to look at the junk. Once inside, they were charged by a pit bull that guards the lot.

  “The other kid made it back over the fence, but not Jonah. The dog leaped up and bit him.” She lowered her voice. “He had some deep puncture wounds. Doc Moss said the buttocks are a particularly painful area. To make matters worse, along with the antibiotic injections, he needed anti-rabies shots because no one knows if the dog’s been vaccinated.”

  “I guess that means they didn’t find Buster.”

  “That sleazebag took off leaving nobody in charge.”

  “How’s Tiny holding up?”

  Doc Moss made him lie on a cot in the emergency room. He feared Tiny would pass out.”

  “How’s Jonah?”

  “He hates having to drop his pants so I can change the dressing, but he’s got no choice.”

  “What happens now?”

  “If the police don’t locate Buster in the next twelve hours, the dog will be put down.” She let out a sigh. “This morning while Jonah was watching the local news, he asked Tiny what euthanize meant. When Tiny told him, he started blubbering. He said it wasn’t the dog’s fault, he was only doing his job. Now if the dog dies, Jonah’s gonna feel terrible. He’s in his room crying his eyes out. Tell you the truth, I feel sorry for the little runt.”

  “Let’s hope Buster will be found. Call me as soon as you hear anything.” Before hanging up, I added, “Remember, B.A., you don’t have to smoke over this.”

  “Are you kidding? Between the cops and visits to the doctor’s office, I don’t have time to pee.”

  Later that afternoon I stood outside the door to my dad’s apartment. His TV was so loud I felt the vibrations through the floor. After I pounded on the door, he finally appeared. “Rose, it’s you.”

  “I’ve been knocking on your door for five minutes.”

  “Didn’t I give you a key?”

  “You did. It’s in my glove compartment.”

  “You’re the one who told me to lock my door,” he said. “I don’t care about my stuff. Let ‘em have it.”

  “Never mind, Dad. I brought your favorite, an egg and sausage sandwich.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I can’t have it now. Doris Zack is coming any minute. If I start eating, she might show. I always leave when she arrives.”

  “Okay, have it when you get back.”

  He shook his head. “That’ll be close to supper, and I took a macaroni and cheese from the freezer.”

  I threw up my hands. “In that case I’ll give it to Chester.”

  “Don’t do that,” he said, taking the bag from me. “I’ll have it tomorrow.”

  “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

  He headed for the kitchen. “You didn’t ask.”

  Like many elders, my dad is set in his ways. It was one of the reasons our earlier attempt at living together failed. Another reason was the fact we’re too much alike.

  I had my epiphany one evening about a month after he’d moved in. Dad had gone to bed, and I was looking forward to being alone with a glass of wine and the latest issue of Yankee. Stretched out on the sofa, I opened the magazine. A tiny pile of toenail clippings fell onto my chest. I knew our roommate days were numbered.

  And yet, as Betty Ann pointed out to me in the parking lot of Marilyn’s Pie Palace, I’d been the one who’d insisted he move in with me. “Dad, can I ask you something?”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “After Mom died, do you think I was trying to take her place?”

  He was in the process of wrapping a scarf around his neck. “You could never be as neat as your mother.”

  “Would you say I suffered from guilt?”

  “If you did, you had nothing to feel guilty about.”

  “Mom was disappointed that I didn’t marry Cal and have a storybook wedding.”

  He stuffed the ends of the scarf insi
de his cardigan. “That was your mother’s way. If she found a stray sock in the washing machine, she’d turn the house upside down searching for its mate. She hated loose ends.”

  A brisk knocking interrupted us. I opened the door and found Doris Zack in the hallway, an upright vacuum cleaner at her side and bucket of cleaning supplies at her feet. The plastic name tag on her pocket read: Doris, Granite Cove Elderly Services. I grabbed the vacuum cleaner and dragged it inside.

  “Put it over there, Rose. I use the outlet behind the sofa.” She turned to my dad. “I’m doing the bathroom first, Mr. McNichols. If you’ve got any business in there, you better go now.”

  “I already went,” he said. “Are you coming, Rose?”

  “I want to talk to Doris, Dad. I’ll see you later.”

  I watched her removing supplies from the plastic bucket and setting them on the kitchen counter. “How are things at the Harbour Building?” I said. “Has anyone moved into Dr. Klinger’s office?”

  “You wouldn’t think anyone would want it, but a young fella’s moved in, a stockbroker. First thing he did was hire one of those cleaning teams. If you ask me, they do a punk job.”

  “You’re still working for Mr. Farley?”

  “Uh huh. I don’t mind saying it gives me the chills. The connecting door’s locked now. It’s sad to see his mug all alone on the shelf.” She shook her head. “I don’t suppose he’ll be doing any drinking with the new fella.”

  At the mention of Spencer Farley’s mug, a thought formed in the back of my mind. “Doris, the morning you discovered Dr. Klinger’s body, do you remember if Mr. Farley’s mug was still on the tray with hers?”

  She stopped and scratched her head. “Hmm, it’s been a while, but I got a good head for details. My Harold says I can remember every lottery number I’ve played, including the new one that’s all the rage in New Hampshire.”

  “Think back for a minute,” I said. “Think back to that morning. Did you see both mugs on the cart?”

  She put her hands on her hips and peered at the ceiling, as if the answer was encoded there. “Let me go back and remember what I did that day. One thing that was different, I deodorized the Oriental runner in the reception area. I used to do it every week, but folks complained about how the smell lingers. Another thing I remember was how Mr. Farley’s secretary left a plant on her desk. When I picked it up there was a white ring on the wood. What I did was, I brought some olive oil from home and some ash from Harold’s cigar. You mix the two together and rub it into the wood with a cloth. Let it set overnight. The next day the stain’s gone. I never waste money on that commercial stuff.”