I’d say one thing for Ginny: The woman knew how to budget. Fear of bouncing a check would have scared me into transferring money from savings into the account. Math wasn’t my strong point. Ginny had either nerves of steel, complete faith in her mathematical prowess, or no savings to transfer. Of course, the nine-thousand-dollar deposit and subsequent check belied the last option.
Or did it?
My search had turned up this one bankbook. Ginny didn’t own a computer, which indicated she wasn’t doing her banking online. If she had a savings account, I couldn’t find any evidence of it. Something wasn’t adding up about the deposit or the check. Too bad I hadn’t a clue what that something was.
Frowning, I tried to do a search on my phone for the recipient of the nine-thousand-dollar check. No signal. Predictable. I scribbled the name down in my notebook and slipped the bank register back into the drawer where I’d found it. Then I resumed my search.
Ginny’s bathroom would also pass the white-glove test. The medicine cabinet contained several over-the-counter vitamins, a hairbrush, and an almost empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol. The last was probably due to Ginny’s eating habits, which somehow managed to be worse than those of the kids working for me. Sitting on the green counter were a yellow toothbrush, a can of aerosol hair spray, and a prescription bottle for Ambien CR with Doc Truman’s name listed as the prescribing physician.
A glance at my watch told me it was time to clear out. Sean had probably learned about my foray into this apartment. If so, he would be on his way. For both our sakes, it would be best to avoid that particular confrontation. Still, I couldn’t help taking one last walk through the bedroom in the hopes I’d spot something more useful than Ginny’s love of sugar and her talent for keeping her life uncluttered. Although I suppose the lack of clutter was interesting. Most people who lived alone, me included, didn’t need lots of extra plates or bowls, yet we were compelled to stuff the cabinets with table settings for ten and enough kitschy coffee mugs to invite the state of Rhode Island to afternoon tea.
Huh.
I looked around the cabinets and frowned. Ginny didn’t have any mugs on her shelves. So why the teapot? To my way of thinking, microwaves had mostly usurped the teapot’s usefulness, but many coffee and tea lovers still felt compelled to have teapots on display even if they were never used. Pop did. The last time I took the lid off that teapot, I found a combination of dust and rust. Yum. Still, Pop kept the teapot as a backup in case the microwave went belly-up.
According to items on her shelves, though, Ginny didn’t drink tea. Or coffee or anything that required a mug. The woman didn’t appear to own anything that didn’t serve a purpose. So I had to wonder—what did Ginny use the teapot for?
There was one way to find out. I moved the teapot closer, removed the lid, and felt my heart stop. Inside the perfectly polished teapot was money.
Lots and lots of money.
Singles. Fives. Tens. Twenties. A couple of fifties thrown in, but nothing larger. Just stacks and stacks of small bills with a couple of rolls of quarters thrown in for good measure.
Eureka! I had found Ginny’s savings account.
I took a seat at the small square kitchen table and emptied the teapot’s cache onto the place mat in front of me. Three recounts later, I determined the teapot-trove total. Including the two rolls of quarters, Ginny had one thousand four hundred and thirty-six dollars’ worth of mad money. Not enough to retire on, but plenty to visit the riverboat casinos without fear of busting in the first twenty minutes. Especially if she played the penny slots like Pop.
I re-rubber-banded the bills, shoved them back into their steel safe, and then replaced the teapot on the stove. The sound of rustling paper stopped me in my tracks. I shifted the teapot and heard the sound again.
Sure enough, there was a piece of paper taped to the bottom of the teapot. Huzzah! The burner grill must have snagged on it when I put the pot down. Not exactly a skilled investigative technique, but I’d take it.
Careful not to tear the paper, I peeled the slip of lined notebook paper off the bottom of the kettle. On the paper were the numbers 8465793884 followed by WMCSA 765432. I read the series of letters and numbers again and waited for Ginny’s ghost to give me some insight into their meaning.
Nope. No ghost-whisperer moment. No great inspiration. Nothing.
I put the kettle back on the stove and slipped the paper into my pants pocket. These numbers and letters were important enough for Ginny to hide. Perhaps whatever they meant was important enough to kill for. That was more to go on than I had when I arrived here.
Once all the lights were off, I locked Ginny’s condo door and hurried down the hall. When I stepped into the covered walkway, I smiled. I’d made a clean getaway.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Or not.
Plastering what I hoped was an “I’m totally innocent” smile on my face, I turned around. “Are you talking to me?”
Sean stalked across the worn carpeting. His face was red from being out in the cold. At least that’s what I was telling myself. If my actions made his cheeks turn that color, no amount of fast talking was going to keep me from singing gospel with the EstroGenocide girls.
“You broke into Ginny Chapman’s condo?”
“I did no such thing.” Hurrah for honesty.
Sean didn’t look impressed. “A half-dozen people called to tell me you were spotted going into Ginny’s condominium.”
“Amy Jo and Mark Boggs gave me a key.” I dug into my pocket and did show-and-tell. “Ginny’s family said they’d feel better if I took a look around. The sheriff’s department didn’t have a notice on the door, so I assumed it was safe to go inside.”
Sean crossed his arms. “I didn’t put a department notice on the door because Ginny’s condo isn’t a crime scene. I also thought her family would want to select clothes for the funeral service.”
“That was nice of you,” I said, and I meant it. I remembered choosing my mother’s clothes. I stood in front of her closet, barely seeing anything through the tears. Luckily, Annette was standing next to me. She helped pull my mother’s favorite blue dress from the closet and drove me to the funeral home to deliver it. I was touched by Sean’s consideration for Ginny Chapman’s family. Arranging a funeral was hard enough without having to worry about police restrictions.
Sean shifted his feet and shrugged, which made me smile. The man was more comfortable being a pain in the ass than a nice guy. Behind him, I spotted several of my grandfather’s contemporaries watching us with avid interest.
Lowering my voice, I asked, “Did you have a chance to look through Ginny’s place before her family went in?”
“I performed a walk-through Monday morning.”
“So there shouldn’t be any problem with me going through it today. Right?”
Sean’s eyes shifted to something over my left shoulder. Our audience must be growing. “No, there’s no problem.” The overly cheerful tone made me wince. There was totally a problem. Something he confirmed when he quietly added, “Or there won’t be if you agree to talk about this in private.”
“I was just heading over to the senior center to find Pop and enlist his help in stopping the protest. Just like you asked.”
A male voice behind me whispered, “Should we tell her Arthur already left, or do you think she’s just trying to get away from Deputy Holmes?”
Sean smiled. I sighed and looked out the window, where the sky was a dreary gray. “It’s cold out there.”
He smiled. “I’m betting it’ll feel even colder in jail.”
Fair point.
“I’m dying for a cup of coffee,” I said, loud enough for those whose hearing aid batteries had failed. “Do you want one?”
While there was a smile on Sean’s face, his eyes were all steel as he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Sounds great. Let’s go.”
We both smiled like idiots as we passed a group of my grandfather’s a
doring female fans on our way to the exit. Once we hit the sidewalk, Sean asked, “Where did you park?”
“The rink. There weren’t any spots in the lot when I got here.”
Sean grinned. His sheriff’s department car was parked in front of a DO NOT PARK sign. Popping the locks, he said, “Get in.”
As Sean cranked the engine, I sent a text to Pop, telling him we needed to talk. Then I waited for Sean to hang a right toward the rink. He took a left.
“Where are we going?” I asked. If his giving me a ride was a trick so I’d quietly go to lockup, it was going to ruin my whole day.
“We’re getting coffee, as you suggested.” He took the next left. “We wouldn’t want the gossips to think we were lying. Right?”
He executed a perfect U-turn and parked in front of Indian Falls’ source for high-octane beverages, Something’s Brewing. Directly in front of another NO PARKING sign. The grin he flashed said he did it to prove he could. It was probably the same reason that, despite the forty-one-degree weather, he unzipped his coat. Because now I had a clear view of his gun.
Fun times.
Sean pretended to be a gentleman by holding open the door, and my spirits lifted as my nose caught a whiff of fresh coffee. Yum.
The store was empty, which was something of a surprise considering the popularity of Sinbad Smith’s brew and the homey hunting-lodge atmosphere he’d created. A cheerful fire crackled in a stone hearth to my right. A brown leather couch and two chairs formed a conversational area in front of the fire. Three small round oak tables were positioned around the rest of the room, and a large deer head—complete with pointy antlers—surveyed the view from above. The deer creeped me out, but I supposed there were worse things in the world. My run-in a few months ago with a dust-encrusted taxidermied bear had demonstrated that.
A tall, solidly built Egyptian man with wavy dark hair grinned at me from behind a long wood counter. “Good afternoon, Rebecca. Deputy Holmes. What can I get you?” Sinbad gestured toward a plate of baked goods on the counter. “Maybe a cinnamon apple muffin?”
The muffins were the size of my head and smelled fantastic. Too bad my stomach was still on the blink after my fast-food lunch bonanza. Sean didn’t have the same dilemma and ordered a muffin, two chocolate chip cookies, and a large hazelnut coffee.
“Cinnamon latte for you, Rebecca?” Sinbad asked as he filled a large cup.
Having Sinbad remember my favorite drink never got old. It was a part of small-town life I was truly grateful for. I also appreciated the way he smiled at me. As if he meant it. With the holidays approaching and his son not around to celebrate, Sinbad had every right to be bitter—and who better to take that unhappiness out on but me, who’d helped put his son away? Still, he always smiled and never screwed up my drink. How incredible was that?
Smiling back, I said, “How about a vanilla pumpkin latte with lots of whipped cream? I’m cooking dinner next week and need to get into the holiday spirit.”
“You got it.”
The cappuccino maker bubbled. The steamer hissed. Sinbad hummed. As he handed me my drink, he said, “There was a woman in here earlier, asking questions about you.”
“What kind of questions?”
“She asked if you ever came into the store to buy coffee.” Sinbad grabbed a rag and began to clean the machines. “The woman claimed she was looking to buy you a gift and didn’t know if a coffee mug would be appropriate.”
Weird. “Did the woman look familiar?”
Sinbad shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before, and I’m good with faces. Especially when the person has prominent features.”
“Was her nose long and pointy?”
“That’s her.” Sinbad smiled. “It makes me feel better to hear that you know her. I was worried. It’s one thing to tell Lionel what kind of coffee you like, but a complete stranger asking for information can be concerning. Even if the woman says she’s the mother of a minister.”
Bingo. Danielle’s soon-to-be mother-in-law had paid Sinbad a visit. Not only was she coming by my house, she was digging for dirt on me. Why? I had no idea. Whatever the reason, I doubted it was good.
Sinbad went back into his office looking more upbeat. Meanwhile, I took a seat on the couch with a sense of unease about both the woman stalking me and the conversation Sean wanted to have. Warming myself in front of the fire, I sipped my drink and waited for Sean to start talking.
He’d polished off both cookies and half of the muffin before he asked, “So what did you find?”
“What makes you think I found something? You went through Ginny’s condo. Did you find anything?”
Sean brushed a crumb off his shirt. “Do you think I’m going to tell you details about my ongoing investigation?”
“No.” Hey, a girl can dream.
Sean broke off another piece of muffin and popped it into his mouth. I took a sip of coffee, and he nudged the plate in my direction. Most people would see it as the act of a man who’d eaten his fill, but I knew and respected Sean’s bottomless stomach well enough to understand a peace offering when I saw one.
After taking a bite, I chewed, swallowed, and said, “There’s money in Ginny’s teapot.”
“Enough for someone to kill over?”
As far as I was concerned, no amount was large enough, but I got Sean’s point. “She had one thousand four hundred and thirty-six dollars on her stove. According to her bankbook, her checking account didn’t have a whole lot more, but there was a weird deposit and withdrawal.”
“Yeah, I saw that, too.” He leaned back. “I checked with the bank. Ginny doesn’t have a savings account, and all deposits other than the direct ones made by the government have been made in cash.”
In the city, Sean would have needed a warrant to acquire that information. In Indian Falls, all that was required was a badge and a box of DiBelka Bakery doughnuts. Small-town people did more than just remember coffee orders. They cared about finding the person who killed one of their own. If they had to bend a few laws in order to achieve that goal, so be it.
“Did you find out where she got the nine thousand dollars?” I asked.
“Not yet.” Sean looked over his cup at me. “Did you?”
I wanted to say yes, but we’d gotten this far without lying or juvenile behavior. There was no point in breaking the streak now. “Nope. Ginny didn’t appear to have many secrets.” Just the teapot trove, the bankbook, and the slip of paper. Sean knew two of the three. Since he was acting unusually rational, I decided to share the rest.
As I reached into my pocket, I heard the bells on the shop’s entrance ring. The fire flickered as wind and a woman wrapped in a bright red coat and hat swept in. Still holding the door open, the woman stopped in her tracks, took one look at me, and screamed.
Thirteen
Before I could stand up or squeak out a greeting, I was tackled with all the force my former college roommate could muster. “I can’t believe I finally found you. I’ve been driving around this town for hours.”
Jasmine’s exaggeration made me laugh. If an unfamiliar car and driver had cruised the downtown streets of Indian Falls for hours, I’d have heard. Especially since the driver had rich chocolate-colored skin and a current hairstyle that made it look like she’d stuck her finger in a light socket. The people in this town appreciated differences, which was obvious by their love of Pop’s band, their patronage of this store, and the fondness they felt for Bryan and Reginald. Even so, as Sinbad had just attested with his concern over Mother Lucas, strangers wigged them out.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, extricating myself from Jasmine’s iron grip. “I left you a message. You never called back.”
Jasmine plucked the cup out of my hand, sniffed at it, and took a taste. “Wow. Can I get one of these?”
Sinbad came out of the back and fired up the steamer. While the machines worked their magic, Jasmine shouted, “I tried to call you back, but my cell phone died and I couldn’t remember
what bag I’d packed my charger in. Besides, it was easier to tell you everything once I got here.”
“Why are you here?” I asked as Sinbad handed Jasmine her drink. “I’m happy to see you, but I thought you were going to the National Mortgage Brokers Conference in Reno.”
Jasmine shrugged and took a sip of her coffee. “That was before Neil made a pass and I had to quit. A woman has a right to work without threat of harassment.”
“Did you file a complaint?” Sean asked.
“He’s the boss.” Jasmine batted her heavily lined brown eyes at Sean before giving him one of her sexy pouts. It was an expression she’d perfected in our dorm-room mirror to elicit sympathy and protective instincts in her dates. “Unless I wanted to file an expensive lawsuit, there was nothing I could do.”
I raised an eyebrow but didn’t dispute her claim. As far as I knew, Jasmine was the only female employee Neil had never made a pass at. Something I envied, considering my personal experience with the matter.
Sean gave Jasmine a sympathetic nod. “A real man never intimidates a woman.”
I rolled my eyes and took a drink of my latte as Jasmine sashayed over to Sean and held out a sparkly-polished hand. “I can see why Rebecca is head over heels for you. I’m Jasmine Fields, former roommate and all-around best friend.”
I choked on my drink.
Jasmine fluttered her false eyelashes.
Sean raised an eyebrow. “Rebecca said she’s head over heels for me?”
“Well, sure.” Jasmine whacked me on the back. I pitched forward and smacked into Sean.
Sean grabbed my drink before it landed in his lap and gave me a big smile.
“Oops.” Jasmine laughed. “Sometimes I’m too enthusiastic. But considering the two of you are a couple, I don’t have to feel too bad. Right?”
“Wrong.” I pushed away from a leering Sean, snagged my drink, and got to my feet. Walking around to Jasmine’s side of the sofa, I said, “Jasmine, this is Sheriff’s Department Deputy Sean Holmes.”
Skating Under the Wire Page 14