Mint Juleps, Mayhem, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “You okay?” Mitch asked as he picked up Nathan and washed his hands before settling him at the table for lunch.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to think that Denise might be capable of any of this, but I can’t help but see there’s a possibility…”

  “I know. I can tell you’re upset—you’re eating a carrot.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d taken one from the cutting board and had been munching on it as I paced. I smiled ruefully and leaned back against the counter. “I still don’t see the connection between you and Colonel Pershall—that’s the one thing that keeps me from believing Denise did it.”

  “Waraday and Montigue don’t care about a connection between me, Colonel Pershall, and Dan. They’re only looking at Colonel Pershall’s murder. They’re not trying to link his death to any of the things that have happened to me.”

  I sagged against the countertop. “If you looked only at the murder, then Denise is a very viable suspect, but if you throw in the ‘accidents,’ and the coin—the coins! I almost forgot about them. They have to fit into this somehow. That shows there’s more going on here than they’re taking into account.”

  “It looks like that, but I don’t think anyone’s really interested in the coins.” Mitch checked the time and said, “I have to change and get back. Henry and Jeff have an afternoon show time and I’m covering the office.” His mental focus was already shifting back to work.

  Ten minutes later, Mitch was wearing a fresh flight suit and on his way back to the squadron. I pushed away my sandwich after a few bites. I couldn’t eat, with my thoughts racing between all the things that had happened. I kept thinking of Denise, wondering if she was being questioned, if she’d been able to get a criminal attorney, if she was—hopefully—out on bail. I called her house and left a message, then vowed that if she wasn’t out by the next morning, I was going to try and visit her. I needed to at least make the attempt.

  The rest of the afternoon took on a weird fractured kind of reality. On the surface, I went through the motions—I put Nathan down for a nap, I loaded the dishwasher, sorted the laundry, and replied to an e-mail from a potential organizing client, all very normal day-to-day stuff, but I wasn’t able to give anything my full attention, because my thoughts skittered from one strange incident to the next.

  Nathan woke from his nap grumpy and irritable, which was unusual. I wondered if he was coming down with something since he was so fussy. He wasn’t happy with anything—refusing to play with the mini-basketball hoop or his block set, two things he usually loved. Every time I tried to set him up with a game or activity, he abandoned it and climbed into my lap with a board book. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading books to him and trying to read the pages Mitch had printed, but didn’t make much progress.

  When three o’clock came, I strapped Nathan in his car seat and headed to the school where I took my place in the long car-rider line. Nathan settled down in his car seat and I was able to read through the pages while we waited for school to let out. I wasn’t surprised to see that Denise belonged to several online knitting discussion sites. Her name also came up occasionally in the local newspaper, usually in connection with something related to the base. There was a photograph of her and several other military spouses and a local high school senior, a scholarship recipient.

  I had to smile at a mention of Henry Fleet that Mitch had found. Another pilot from the squadron, Paul Roanoke, complained in his blog that Henry had ditched him in Atlanta on the first day of one of their trips, taking the crew’s rental car and stranding Paul at the blocky, chain-hotel with an overpriced restaurant. I didn’t think pilots were supposed to have blogs that described their activities, but apparently the information in this blog wasn’t sensitive enough to warrant it being shut down, or else the military hadn’t run across this one yet.

  The last set of pages was about Colonel Barnes. He must not have expected to win a writing contest, because he had entered under his real name, and anyone who searched for his name online would be able to discover his secret.

  A honk sounded from behind me and I looked up to find the line of cars was moving. I inched forward until it was my turn. Once Livvy hopped in the car, her excited chatter about her day didn’t stop until we reached home.

  The afternoon continued its semblance of normalcy—the kids had their snacks and I signed the paperwork that Livvy brought home for me—she was quite insistent that it had to be turned in on Monday and we had to do it this afternoon so we didn’t forget it. I chopped onions and melted butter for a barbeque sauce recipe I was trying out, while Livvy gave Nathan a school lesson. She’d set him up at the coffee table with paper and crayons, and wrapped her hand around his chubby fist to help him form the letter N. Something about that picture made me pause, and not just in an oh-my-kids-are-so-cute way. A memory stirred faintly, but I couldn’t quite grasp it. It was like overhearing bits of dialogue at the table next to you in a restaurant, a few words caught here and there, but the meaning of the conversation was undistinguishable. I shook my head at myself, knowing it would come to me later. I added Worcestershire sauce and brown sugar to the pan and stirred until it bubbled and filled the house with a tangy-sweet aroma. I drenched a brisket with the sauce, tucked the whole thing in the oven, and set the timer.

  Nathan pushed Livvy away. “Do it myself,” he announced.

  “But you’re not doing it right,” Livvy said in a bossy voice, and I had to intervene before things got out of hand. Livvy’s friend Geneva, from down the street, rang the doorbell and asked if Livvy and Nathan could play at her house. Since they were hardly ever invited over to Geneva’s house, I said they could go.

  Geneva brushed a braid off her shoulder. “My mom says you can come get them at five-thirty. I have dance.”

  “Fine,” I said, a bit shortly because Geneva played at our house for hours on end. “Have fun,” I called as the three kids trooped down the street to Geneva’s house. I went back inside and again picked up the pages Mitch had printed out earlier.

  I was about a third of the way into the stack when Mitch came home, gave me a quick kiss, and said, “Smells great in here,” as he disappeared into our bedroom.

  “I’m trying out a new barbeque sauce recipe. We’re bringing the main dish to the next supper club,” I called after him. He emerged a few minutes later in his running clothes. “You’re not going running, are you?”

  He propped his foot up on the dining room chair to tie his shoelace. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I didn’t get to run today during lunch and the indoor running track at the gym on base is being resurfaced, so I can’t run there.” He saw the look on my face. “Ellie, I know what you’re thinking—that it’s not safe—but it is.”

  “How can you say that? Whoever killed Colonel Pershall and tried to hurt you is still out there.”

  He adjusted his music player, which was strapped to his arm, then gently put his hand on my shoulder. “No. The person who killed Colonel Pershall has been arrested. You have to accept that. It’s over. As much as you don’t want to believe it—well, there it is. She did it.”

  I rolled the papers into a tube as I said, “Mitch, what happened to you? At lunch you were agreeing with me that there’s no connection between you and Colonel Pershall that Denise would care about.”

  “I thought about it a lot this afternoon. She had the opportunity and the murder weapon was in her house.”

  “But there’s no connection to you,” I repeated as I broke free from his hand. “And what about the coins?” I asked, pointing the tube of papers at him accusingly.

  “I think she’s a little unhinged. I don’t know why she’d single me out. Maybe she’s out to get anyone associated with the military, but I’m sure that the police will figure it out.”

  “So she’s just crazy—there’s no explanation,” I said, my grip tightening on the roll of papers.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “What about the coins?”

  Mitch sh
ook his head. “Ellie. The coins aren’t that important. She probably sent them. Maybe Colonel Pershall had some extra around the house and she added that skull and crossbones thing, then sent them to the people she’d tried to take out.”

  I tossed the papers on the table in frustration and crossed my arms. “She mailed one to herself?”

  “See, unhinged. You can’t make it make sense when the person doing it is…mentally disturbed.”

  “Fine. Okay. Whatever,” I said, pacing into the kitchen and back to the dining room, my arms still tightly crossed. “You think she’s the murderer and she’s in police custody, but I still don’t want you running today.” I wished I’d bought him that treadmill for Christmas instead of a watch.

  His voice became even quieter as he unwound the cords of his ear buds. “It’s full daylight and I’m not going to be kept prisoner in my house. I’ve been through survival training courses and threat reduction courses. I think I can handle a jog through my neighborhood.”

  I tried another angle. “You shouldn’t run after a head injury.”

  “It’s a scratch, not a concussion,” he said.

  He’d replaced the large bandage with a smaller Band-Aid and, while I wouldn’t call it a scratch, it certainly didn’t look like anything you’d run to the hospital about. But I had to try and keep him home. “You don’t know that. You could have a concussion.”

  “Ellie,” Mitch said warningly as he ran one hand through his short haircut, causing it to spike up. His exasperated tone verged on anger, something I rarely heard from him.

  I flung my arms out. “Okay,” I said, backing off. Mitch could be as stubborn as…well, me. “Just take your phone.”

  “Already got it,” he said, pointing to his waistband where the phone was clipped. He tucked the ear buds into his ears and headed out.

  I snatched up the papers and unrolled the tight tube. I sat down at the table and tried to concentrate on the pages. There had to be something to show Denise wasn’t a murderer. I read through everything again, taking frequent breaks to look out the window. I read the last page, then flipped it over onto the stack on the table.

  I sat back, frustrated. Nothing. There was nothing there to help Denise.

  A large brown delivery truck rumbled past the dining room window. I pushed myself out of the chair. I might as well go check for Megan’s package. By the time I did that it would be almost time to get the kids from Geneva’s house and, Lord knows, I didn’t want to be late. They wouldn’t receive another royal summons if I made Geneva’s mom mad.

  I tucked the piece of paper with the garage code that Megan had given me into my pocket with my cell phone, put Rex in his kennel, and punched in the code to close our garage door. It seemed like a waste of gasoline to drive over to Megan’s house since it was only a short distance away and a walk would be good for me.

  I hesitated a moment in the driveway. I hadn’t wanted Mitch to jog around the neighborhood alone, but here I was heading out by myself. Maybe I should wait until he got back. I dismissed the thought. No one was after me.

  I strode past the pond and around the curve to the newer section of the neighborhood, then climbed the incline that was the toughest part of the stroller brigade workout. I was always relieved when we reached the top where the trees fell away for a short stretch and there was a view down into the rest of the neighborhood. Of course by then my thighs were screaming and it was hard to enjoy the view, but the rest of the workout was easy going. The road flattened out and followed the plateau-like ridge that swept around in a curve, then gradually dropped off in gentle dips back to the valley and the cluster of houses that make up Magnolia Estates.

  I caught my breath after the climb and thought about Dan. This was where he’d been shot at, where the ambulance and crowd had been. I usually didn’t think about it, probably because I was normally in a group of chatting women and the commands from Tina kept me focused on the workout, but today in the quiet afternoon, I couldn’t help but think of how scary that day had been. I hurried by the gap in the trees and felt better as the road flattened and the trees closed in around the mix of finished houses and houses still under construction. There were two moms at the small park where the stroller brigade often stopped to work with elastic bands or do push-ups using the benches ringing the playground equipment.

  Today there were two empty jogging strollers parked at the curb and the moms were relaxing on the benches watching their kids play. The normal scene steadied me and I shook off the uneasiness I felt. I hurried on, glad there were no push-ups in my routine today. I walked up the sidewalk to Megan’s porch and saw the medium-sized cardboard box standing beside the front door.

  I carried it to the garage where I set it down while I found the code, then punched it in. The door clanked up, revealing an empty garage with plastic bins scattered around, some with the lids off. It looked like Megan was in the middle of putting away clothes that Tyler had outgrown or were too warm.

  I carried the cardboard box over to the door that led into the house. I intended to hit the button to close the garage door and scurry back outside, skipping over the invisible beam that would automatically reopen the door if it was broken, but I glanced into a plastic bin near the wall that was full of baby clothes, shoes, and a blue blanket. A few balls of blue yarn were shoved in along the edge.

  My steps slowed. I’d seen that blanket before. It had fallen out of Tyler’s stroller during a stroller brigade workout, but I’d seen it before then. I stopped with my hand on the garage door button, thinking. Where had I seen it?

  At the spouse coffee, I realized. It was like a replay running in my head, the memory was so clear. Megan had been working on knitting the blanket and had gotten stuck on the last few rows. Denise had helped her, putting her hands over Megan’s to show her how to make the stitch—that’s why watching Livvy guide Nathan’s hand to write letters had stirred a memory.

  After a few attempts, Megan had said, “Oh, I messed it up again,” and handed it back to Denise. “I’m so frustrated with this.” Denise had taken the needles, circular needles, I remembered as my heartbeat sped up. Denise had finished the blanket, then removed the needles. She’d wound them together in her hand, then said, “Here, let me get you a plastic bag to store these. That way they won’t get tangled. That’s what I do.” She’d hurried off, then returned with the needles tucked inside a plastic zippered bag.

  The day the blanket fell out of the stroller during the workout, Megan had told me she’d never knitted again. I stood motionless. If Megan had never knitted again and she’d kept the needles in that plastic bag, then they would still have Denise’s fingerprints on them. If someone wanted to implicate Denise in a murder, they could use the knitting needles. My heartbeat was racing as I stood in the quiet garage. As long as the murderer only grabbed the cord with gloves and used that to strangle Colonel Pershall, then Denise’s fingerprints would remain on the needle portion.

  Even though the garage was blazing hot, I felt shivery. Who could be that cold and calculating? Megan? Somehow I didn’t think she cared about anything as much as her diet and exercise program. Henry? Hardworking, always dependable Henry? That didn’t fit either.

  I don’t like things that don’t fit together. It’s the organizer in me—I have to shift and sort until everything matches up neatly. There was something here that bothered me.

  “Atlanta!” That was it. Megan had said Henry would be in Atlanta today. My thoughts skipped to the printout from Paul’s blog that I’d read earlier today. Paul had complained that Henry ditched him in Atlanta…and Megan told me that Henry was out of town the weekend that Colonel Pershall was murdered. But Henry hadn’t been that far out of town—it was the medical support mission, the one that overnighted in Atlanta, so Henry would have been in Atlanta the afternoon Colonel Pershall was killed.

  My legs felt unsteady and I sat down on a nearby plastic bin, trying to work out if it was possible. Had Henry killed Colonel Pershall? If he was in Atl
anta that day, he could easily have driven back. North Dawkins was less than two hours away from Atlanta and if he took the rental car as Paul complained, it would give Henry anonymity to move around town without anyone knowing he was here. It was an excellent alibi. And Colonel Pershall played golf every weekend. It wouldn’t be that hard to find out which course he’d be playing that weekend—a question or two during the week at the squadron would uncover that information.

  But why would he go after Colonel Pershall? I ran my hands over my face. What had Denise said Henry was upset about? A promotion thing. I sat up straighter. Megan had mentioned the same thing when she was talking about their reassignment to the unmanned reconnaissance squadron. Henry wanted the school slot instead of the position flying the unmanned aerial vehicles.

  I stood up and circled around a few steps. Henry wanted the school slot, the slot that Mitch had. He wanted Mitch’s school slot! There it was, the connection between Colonel Pershall and Mitch—and it was Henry Fleet, of all people! And hadn’t Megan told me Henry knew about Denise being the last person to handle the knitting needles? Yes, she’d mentioned it when she offered to give me her knitting supplies, I was sure of it.

  I paced around, trying to figure out what to do. I should call Waraday. I reached for my phone but stopped. Would Waraday believe me? I knew he’d listen, but what did I have that would convince him that the wrong person had been arrested? I had a blog entry, which I didn’t even have with me, a memory of Denise handling Megan’s circular knitting needles, Henry’s reassignment, and his desire to go to a military school “in residence.” Somehow I didn’t think that would be enough to convince Waraday that Henry was a murderer.