by Kym Roberts
I smiled. It was the first time I’d been recognized as the owner. Pride filled my chest. “Yes, I own it with my father.”
He sniffed in the air. “You are putting Mrs. Calloway and the entire town in danger with your reckless behavior. Had I known she was going to find a dead body that day in the park, I would have turned around and gone after her.”
I blinked and Mateo took advantage of my hesitation. “You were in the park that day?”
“Of course. I’m there every day with my dogs, but that day Mrs. Calloway was so distracted by that ridiculous game, she nearly ran over my precious French Bulldogs, Montague and Jacques, with her car. She was ever so sorry and stopped to make sure we were in one piece. Much more so than the man in that ridiculous red pickup truck moments later.”
“Ridiculous truck?” I asked.
“Yes, it was red with some vulgarity on the side that would be inappropriate for me to discuss.” Sensing he’d spouted off too much, the maître d’ began to turn away, but Mateo stopped him.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but did you report the incident to the police?”
“I most certainly did. But I was told no report could be taken, it was a traffic violation only.”
I started to ask another question, but Mateo silenced me as we walked out one of the arched doorways leading to the patio. “Would you mind giving that information to a detective, if I had one come out here to talk to you?” Mateo asked.
The maître d’ hesitated, sniffed and then responded. “Of course.”
If the inside was romantic, the outside was beyond romantic. Live oak trees, with branches that grew out instead of up, had been pruned back to create a canopy over the tables. White lights wrapped around the trunk and branches twinkled like the night. The maître d’ quickly grabbed a white tablecloth from the cabinet and snapped it open, covering a table near an outdoor fountain that looked like it was straight from Italy. It was the perfect setting for a romance novel.
I didn’t live in a romance novel.
We sat and the maître d’ handed us menus before placing a napkin across my lap. He quickly called for two workers to move three heaters around our table. It was overkill, but I wasn’t complaining. I liked to be toasty.
Once the maître d’ went to get our waiter, I couldn’t help but ask the question, “Why did you stop me from asking more questions?”
“We’re here on a date. I’ll call Detective Youngblood and ask him to come and get a statement from the man. For now, this is about us.”
His desire to leave work behind shocked me but stroked my feminine ego at the same time. “Have you been here before?” I asked.
“This is not my first time, no.”
“Oh.”
His left eyebrow raised as if he expected me to ask more. I refused to be brought to that level. The waiter came and Mateo chose a dry red wine created in the vineyard. After the wine was served, we placed our order and the heaters arrived. Although we were probably more secluded on the patio, I felt much more comfortable than I would have in one of the little closed-off booths.
“This is the last time I’m going to bring up work.”
Uh-oh. I began straightening my silverware in anticipation of a lecture that could ruin our meal.
“We found the Book Kreeper.”
My gaze shot up to his face. “You did?”
“Yes. It turns out, the world can be pretty small.”
“What do you mean?”
“Eduardo was the Book Kreeper.”
“Get out.”
Mateo smirked. “We’re already out.”
“You know what I mean. How did you find that out?”
“We conducted a search warrant on his house and truck. He was quite an artist.”
“Seriously?”
Our food arrived with aromas to die for and Mateo waited until the staff was gone before continuing. “What are the chances that your cousin would hire an artist in Hazel Rock?”
“Slim and none.”
“Exactly, but it happened. We’re not sure if Eduardo moved here because he heard of Hazel Rock through your cousin, or what. But he was the Kreeper.”
“But he didn’t kill Delbert?”
Mateo frowned and I could tell he was holding back when he said, “It doesn’t appear that way, no.”
“And he would hardly beat himself to death with my oar.”
Mateo choked on a piece of bread and took a drink of water before he answered. “He definitely didn’t beat himself with an oar…but that does provide an interesting image.” He winked and changed the subject. “You didn’t open your birthday present, did you?”
My eyes nearly popped out of my head. “I forgot all about it.” I grabbed my purse at my feet and opened it. Mateo’s gift had thankfully worked its way down toward the bottom, otherwise it would have been soaked through by the rain at the funeral. I pulled the ribbon off and asked, “Did you gift wrap this yourself?”
His lips quirked. “I’m a man of many talents…giftwrapping is not one of them.”
That changed everything. If he didn’t wrap it, I was tearing into it. I tore the paper and opened the little white box and found two concert tickets inside. When I read the name of the entertainer, I squealed. I actually squealed, and Mateo laughed.
“You didn’t!”
“I did.” He laughed and his eyes sparkled.
“But how did you know?”
“You said something about wanting to go, so I thought that would be a good birthday present.”
I thought back to when I would have mentioned the concert to anyone, and remembered Joe and Leila having a night to commemorate the singer’s birthday at the Tool Shed Tavern in August. “That was at the bar in August!”
For a moment, I thought Mateo blushed. Then again, it could have been a cocky shrug messing with the lighting.
“Tony Bennett is one of my favorites. I bought the tickets and then decided to give them to you. Since it’s in Dallas, I thought I’d let you decide who you wanted to ask.”
“Are you kidding, of course we’ll go together—oh.”
That time, it was definitely a cocky grin spreading across his face. Going to Dallas would mean an overnighter.
“Yeah, oh.” Mateo winked. “Think about it, Charli.”
It suddenly seemed very hot on the patio. “Thank you.” I put the tickets back in my purse and began to eat my fettucine Alfredo. Our food turned out to be very tasty and the night seemed to go by quickly. We’d eaten together at the diner on numerous occasions, sometimes just the two of us, but this date opened a side of Mateo I never knew existed. He was a good listener, attentive and sensitive. The waitstaff loved him, and I didn’t think it was because he was a regular. It was because of the way he treated them, the way he humanized them and appreciated their efforts. We talked until most of the patrons were gone, and before I knew it, Mateo was paying for our bill and we were headed for his vehicle. I climbed up into the passenger seat, Mateo closed my door and walked around to the driver’s side. We drove back to Hazel Rock in silence, but it wasn’t bad at all. If anything, it was perfect. Especially when he put his hand over mine on the console. I turned my hand palm up and our fingers entwined. It was the first time we’d held hands. His palm was callused, and his fingers were strong and masculine.
As we approached Hazel Rock, a line of red taillights illuminated the night and blocked the road.
“What the Sam Hill is going on?”
Mateo pulled out his cell phone and called his dispatch center. It took them eight rings to answer the call, and I could feel the tension rising in the truck. Mateo had lost that relaxed, easy-to-talk-to demeanor. It was like he’d put a Kevlar vest over his personality. A layer of protection to keep his soul safe.
I knew it sounded ridiculous, but I swore that’s what it felt like. When someon
e finally did answer the phone, Mateo demanded to know what was happening on Main Street.
He listened intently to the response, and despite the dim lighting, I had no doubt he rolled his eyes. “Do we have anyone running traffic?” While awaiting a response, his fingers began to drum on the steering wheel. It was an interesting insight to Mr. Calm, Cool, and Collected.
“Only one deputy? Isn’t there anyone else in-service that could help?”
He listened again, nodding his head, his jaw tightening more and more before he thanked his dispatcher and disconnected the call.
“What’s going on?”
“It seems Hazel Rock has been invaded.”
“Invaded?”
“Invaded by the Mystery Moms.”
“That’s impossible. We don’t have that many Mystery Moms.”
“The Hazel Rock chapter doesn’t, but it’s not the only chapter nationwide, is it?” Mateo’s voice held a gruffness I hadn’t heard in quite a while. Okay, make that a few days, but it was definitely irritation directed at me.
“Are you blaming me for this?”
“If you hadn’t started the local chapter, none of this would be happening.”
“We encouraged a bunch of moms who like mysteries to form a book club. A book club. That’s it.”
“Yet now there are more Mystery Moms in town than we have room for.”
“What are they doing here?”
“It seems Liza Twaine asked for help on the six o’clock news.”
“She did what?”
“You heard right. She asked for assistance solving this case and the Mystery Moms have answered the call to duty. Or at least that’s what they’re calling it.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. There were a bunch of moms crowding into town because they believed they could help solve a murder. With no expertise other than a few books as resumes. It was comical. It was ridiculous.
“I’m going to have to help my officer.”
It also ruined my date. I stop laughing. “But you don’t have a uniform.”
“I have a vest and a gun and a badge. That’ll have to do.”
I desperately grabbed for another reason. “But you don’t have your car.”
“I’ve got cones in back.” Mateo sounded about as enthused as I felt. At least I knew there were two of us who were disappointed and not just one.
“Do you mind if I park the truck and we walk to your apartment?”
At this rate, my date wasn’t even going to end up with a kiss. It figured.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I was back in plenty of time to open the store for the Midnight Poetry reading. We had ten people signed up for readings, most of them from the Oak Grove area, with a few locals as well. Mike Thompson was one of them. I dreaded the moment I had to let him in the store. To look at his hair. To listen to his voice. I know I shouldn’t harbor a grudge, but the hard feelings between Mike and me went way back to our time in high school. They returned in full force when I came home. What should’ve been a healthy appreciation for his long, brown, curly hair had turned into a bitter jealousy when he disparaged my name. At five-foot-six, Mike was several inches shorter than me and about 200 pounds heavier. At least he had been before he’d started dieting in late summer. His diet had minimized that 200-pound difference to about 170.
I should have congratulated him for it…if I was speaking to him, but I wasn’t. For so many different reasons, tonight was going to be a challenge for me to introduce him. He never came into the store when I was working. In fact, he wouldn’t step foot into the store if my dad was anywhere near it either. It was only Sugar’s presence that brought him in.
Introducing him would be a treat I was not looking forward to.
After the scheduled readings, we arranged for an open mic session for anyone who was inspired enough to get up and read their own poetry. As tired as I was, I really hoped that was kept to a minimum.
I’d changed into a black turtleneck to go with my leggings. Since my flats were ruined from the visitation, I ended up having to wear my combat boots, which was fine by me. I put on a black beret that I’d purchased just for the event and bobby pinned it on my head. I topped the outfit off with a pair of black vanity glasses.
My dad surprised me with his outfit. He was wearing white slacks with a black turtleneck and black boots that had two buckle straps across the toe. His hair was parted on the side, and he looked like a completely different person from the man who wore plaid shirts, jeans, and boots every day of his life.
“Are you going to tell me why your date ended early?”
“That would be the flock of yellow shirts that came into town. Mateo’s deputy needed help and the sheriff is always there when people need help.”
Dad nodded but didn’t say a word. He recognized the disappointment in my tone.
Sugar and Joellen arrived to help serve nonalcoholic drinks during the reading along with cookies and muffins, and we opened the doors at eleven o’clock on the dot. We were surprised to see how many people were lined up to come in. Some dressed in period costumes, others wore normal, everyday attire, and then there were way too many yellow shirts for my liking. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate who they were and their support of bookstores across the nation. They made me worry that things would get out of control, and the real investigation would take a backseat to the influx of Mystery Moms in town.
At eleven thirty we got started with the poetry readings. I made the introduction and started the snapping of fingers as our first reader came to the mic. A middle-aged woman in her forties, Betty Walker’s daughter was actually a very talented poet and received enthusiastic finger snapping. One by one the artists stepped up to the mic with the audience showing appreciation for each, despite the different levels of talent. Everyone appreciated the effort and the emotion behind the words. Like everyone else, my dad seemed to enjoy the escape to another era that was romanticized in our modern culture.
Scarlet walked in after the fourth reading in her typical showstopping entrance, on the arm of none other than Sterling Koch. Tonight, she had dressed the part, going for the look of a beatnik Barbie with red hair. Her hair was parted on the side and pulled into a ponytail. The tail looped around in a loose bun and hung down low on her neck. She wore a black turtleneck, just like me, but she had on a tan pencil skirt with a black belt that emphasized her curves and made her look like a movie star. It was the first time I’d ever seen Scarlet wearing flat shoes. She and Sterling sat with Betty and Franz as I introduced Mike Thompson to the crowd. Mike had one of those voices that everyone loved. He frequently sang at the Shed on ladies’ night. For me, he ruined a night out with the girls. Obviously, my relationship with Mike was different than most of the other women in town. How that was possible, I had no idea.
The finger snapping began as he stepped up to the mic to recite his poem.
“Perilous Journey,” he said in a voice that sounded more like Vincent Price than the smooth sultry voice of Mike Thompson singing at the Shed. He continued in that eerie tone. “Year after year you act in your own interest, without regret. As the hourglass empties…” He paused and let the sands of time fall. “You suddenly fear you may owe the creator a debt. Your fear of death”—Mike looked directly at me like I was next on the list to die—“builds from the uncertainty, the unknown. The stories, the tales, the fables; the terror and horror of being alone. Replaying all your personal evils, you hope to avoid hell…but it’s too late.”
Mike glared at the audience, pointing out individuals as he spoke. “You’ve made your cell. You plead, you beg,” he said with disdain before taking on a pathetic pleading voice. “There has to be a way to make some kind of deal. But the end is near, death will not stop, the end is real.” Mike completed his poem in a harsh unforgiving tone.
It was an ominous message that left the crowd in silence
. Sterling Koch was the first one to utter a sound. It wasn’t complimentary. Instead of clicking or snapping fingers, Sterling stood up and challenged his audacity.
“How dare you take advantage of another person’s death to promote yourself?”
Grumblings began in the crowd and quickly turned to jeers. I thought the whole thing had been creepy, the fact that we’d had two murders in town didn’t help the heebie-jeebies Mike had caused. In his defense, however, I didn’t think the poem had anything to do with homicide, but more like Mr. Scrooge seeing Christmas future. The rest of the crowd wasn’t as forgiving.
A Mystery Mom from out of town threw her cookie and hit Mike in the head. He ducked and got a second one hurdled toward his chest. People began standing up and arguing with each other while jeering Mike. Their comments were vicious and mean. I made my way toward the stage to try and calm the crowd down when tea was splattered on the side of my face. One of the poets I didn’t know, picked up his chair and threw it across the floor, and I began to feel like I was having an out-of-body experience.
This was a poetry reading. We had sweet tea and lemonade to drink. There was no alcohol. There was no football game. What the heck was happening? People were pushing and shoving to get out of the tearoom, to get at Mike, and in my case, to get things to calm down. Before I could get to him, Mike yelled into the mic, “It’s Betty’s poem! I didn’t write it,” he pointed out Betty to the crowd. He was good at pointing the finger. “She did it! She asked me to read it”—he dodged a muffin—“that’s what I did! That’s all I did!”
Franz turned to Betty with a look of shock on his face. “That’s the poem you wouldn’t let me hear? That’s the piece that you were too afraid to let me see? And yet you let him read it to the entire town?”
Knowing Betty was the artist, and not Mike, validated my suspicions about the poem. It changed the meaning behind the words. Betty didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She’d written about her own mortality as she approached the ripe old age of seventy-five. The local residents immediately understood, the visitors however, didn’t know who Betty was, nor did they care. More food was thrown at Mike as he left the tearoom. His shiny brown hair matted from a sticky bun that hit him above his left ear.