by J. C. Kenney
More importantly, I had a lead on Gary.
Chapter Twelve
I made a beeline for my case notebook the moment I was inside the apartment. Ursi yowled in indignation at me when I didn’t give her something to eat the moment I walked through the door.
“Give me a minute, Miss Bossypants. I need to get this down before I forget.” My pen flew across the page as I transferred my notes from phone to page. The more I wrote, the more Gary looked like a credible suspect.
As I worked on a to-do list of Gary-related leads to follow, my feline bumped her head against my shin and let out a muffled meow, like her mouth was full. I ignored her until she put her paw on my leg and gently dug her claws into my flesh. Ouch.
That got my attention.
“All right, you win.” I rolled my chair away from the desk. The nanosecond I laid eyes on Ursi, I froze.
She had something small and furry in her mouth. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, hoping when I opened them, the fur would really be a collection of dust bunnies from under the bookcases.
No such luck.
With her tail straight as a flagpole, she trotted toward me. At the foot of the chair, she sat and, radiating with pride, dropped a dead mouse at my feet.
Meow.
I hated mice. Growing up, I’d mostly ignored them. Living in an old house close to a patch of woods meant a few showed up in the basement every year when the temperature dropped. Dad would set out the traps, and in a week or so, the varmints were no more to be seen.
It was when I got to New York that I grew to loathe the creatures. To be fair, it wasn’t mice I loathed. It was their rodent cousin the rat.
One night, a few weeks after moving to New York, I got up to go to the bathroom. I turned on a light and right there, in the middle of the hallway, a big, fat, scary rat was gnawing on a chicken bone it had scavenged from my trash. It looked at me with its beady midnight black eyes and seemed to sneer at me before it scurried away, the bone still in its mouth.
A scream loud enough to wake the whole ten-story apartment building escaped my lips as I collapsed against the wall. It took a full five minutes before my heart stopped pounding against my ribcage like a jackhammer and my ragged breathing returned to normal.
Once I calmed down, I went to the kitchen to find the contents of the trash can strewn all over the floor. With a growl, I fetched a broom and cleaned up the mess.
Unable to get back to sleep, I spent the rest of the night packing my things. Three days later, I moved into a new apartment building. The rent was a hundred dollars a month higher, but well worth it as the landlord provided me documentation that the place had been pest-free for ten years.
I never fully recovered from that scare. To this day, every time I saw a mouse, the disgusting face of that rat flashed before my eyes.
Ursi wasn’t trying to frighten me, though. I knew enough about cat behavior to appreciate her act of giving me a present. It was kind of a gross present, but the way she was sitting so erect made it clear she was proud of herself.
“What a ferocious hunter you are.” I scratched her head as I kept up a steady stream of compliments. This was the first mouse she’d brought me in the three years we’d been living together. The least I could do was act appreciative.
A few minutes of lavish praise and ear scratching made Ursi happy, so, after a quick rub of her head against my ankle, she sauntered off to the kitchen. When she was out of sight, I leapt from my chair, grabbed a half-dozen tissues from the box on my desk, and wrapped up the creature until it was a little mouse mummy.
Crisis over.
I tossed a couple of kitty treats to my live-in predator and, while she was distracted, dumped the mouse into the trash can in the corner of the kitchen. After feeding my little huntress, I removed the bag from the can and took it to the dumpster, even though it was only half full. I was in no mood for taking chances that Ursi’s present was still alive.
After a ham and Colby sandwich on wheat toast for dinner, I was right back out the door. I had my first meeting with the Rushing Creek 9/11 Memorial Planning Committee.
Every year, the committee held a ceremony on the county courthouse grounds in the middle of town to commemorate that history-altering day. Over the years, the committee had run out of ideas how to keep the observance fresh and engaging. Even though I didn’t live in New York on the day the towers came down, I was there when the new World Trade Center opened. Because of that, folks had asked me to join the committee, believing my years in New York could bring new ideas to the committee.
I had my doubts about having something to offer, but as I stepped outside, I vowed to participate in the meeting in good faith. Who knew, maybe I’d have something of value to add, after all.
If nothing else, I could always try to pump the committee members for information about my murder suspects. Good Lord, I was becoming way too jaded.
The meeting was being held in the private room at the Rushing Creek Public House. When I told my sister I was joining the committee, she insisted the pub host the gathering.
She greeted me with a hug when I arrived and even escorted me to the back, where the private room was located.
“What’s with the red-carpet treatment?” I navigated around a four-seater table and came to a stop.
The entrance to the room was ten feet away. My stomach had gotten jumpier with each step I’d taken through the restaurant. I wiped my palms on my jeans to try them out.
“I know Mom cornered you into joining this group. I also know you’re not a fan of joining committees.”
“So, you’re going to sit in for me?”
Rachel and I shared a difficult past. Since I’d returned to Rushing Creek, our relationship had improved from barely tolerating each other to getting along most of the time.
Growing up, the two of us couldn’t have been more different. Two years ahead of me in school, she was a glamorous cheerleader who hung out with the cool kids. I was a bookish brainiac with only one real friend—Sloane. Since I was so different, Rachel and her friends made fun of me and made it clear in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t welcome among them.
Over the years, I went from wanting to be like Rachel to resenting her. She and her friends looked down on me, simply because I didn’t share their interests. Because I was different. By the time I graduated from high school, I despised my sister, who was shallow and vain in my view. She, in turn, thought I was a stuck-up, pseudo-intellectual snob and had no problem sharing that opinion with everyone.
When I moved to New York, I thought I’d never speak to Rachel again. Life had other things in mind, though. Traumatic events like her divorce and then our father’s cancer battle opened the doors for communication. We began to exchange text messages, which over time led to a few phone calls.
With our teen years behind us, we both came to realize, and regret, the pain we’d caused each other. The wounds were deep, though. Repairing those wounds was going to take a long time.
The improvement had occurred in baby steps through small gestures. Was this Rachel’s latest kind gesture?
“Heck, no.” She snorted. “I figured if I didn’t get you into that room, you’d come up with a way to weasel out of it.”
“Oh. Well then.” The words stung, not because they were hurtful, but because they were true.
I looked toward the front of the restaurant. “If I make a break for it, you’ll chase me down, won’t you?” Despite my desire to sound serious, I cracked a smile.
Rachel placed her hand against the wall. My escape route was blocked. “I’ll tackle you before you take two steps.”
We broke into a fit of giggles that eventually led to some curious stares from nearby diners.
“Let me introduce you to the committee.” She draped her arm around my shoulders. “I promise they won’t bite.”
The chair of the committee w
as a man named Jack Rogers, the middle school science teacher. He was also a veteran who’d enlisted in the army after graduating from Rushing Creek High School in 2004. After two tours in the Middle East, he returned to Rushing Creek and a well-deserved hero’s welcome. He used the GI Bill to get a degree in elementary education and had been teaching kids the scientific method ever since.
“Welcome to the group, Allie.” With a big smile, he shook my hand with a little more enthusiasm than usual. “We’re stoked to have you join us.”
His dark hair was cropped short, no doubt a remnant of his time in the service. A bodybuilder’s physique that went with the hairstyle made me think he could return to active duty at the drop of a hat. He had penetrating green eyes that sparkled but also told of unimaginable horrors he must have seen overseas.
I was thankful for Jack, and people like him.
The enthusiastic greeting left me a little dazed, so I resorted to nodding and saying hi as Jack introduced me to the other four committee members. Two were women. One, who was named Ashley, had auburn hair that looked like it came from a bottle.
The other was Vivian Franklin, a retired woman who worked part-time at the library. With snow-white hair and reading glasses that hung on a sparkly necklace around her neck, she looked right out of a casting call for an older librarian.
The final two members were guys, one named Bob, the other named Mike. Bob sported a shaved head and had colorful tattoos covering both of his arms.
Mike had a bushy, hipster beard. Between the beard and his red-and-black flannel shirt, I imagined his music collection being filled with Mumford & Sons and the Avett Brothers. Then again, I liked both of those bands, so hopefully Mike and I would get along just fine.
With introductions concluded, Rachel made her exit with a promise to return with complimentary soft drinks and appetizers. My sister was smart. Not only was she fulfilling her civic duty by letting the committee use the room, she knew how to take advantage of an advertising opportunity.
There was no doubt in my mind the committee members would share how well they were treated at the Rushing Creek Public House. The word-of-mouth advertising would prove to be priceless. The generosity she showed tonight would be recouped in a couple of weeks. It was a win for all involved.
Seeing Rachel’s business acumen firsthand made me proud to be her little sister. I sat in my chair a little straighter throughout the meeting. And made a note to compliment her on her astuteness.
Jack brought the meeting to order by unfurling a little flag and asking us to all rise and recite the national anthem. Until that moment, I hadn’t fully appreciated the importance the man put on the committee. When we finished, his eyes were watery. Now, I knew better.
I gave my fellow committee members background about my time in New York and then we got down to business. The five veterans of the group were unanimous in their opinion that the existing ceremony needed a complete overhaul. The goal for tonight’s meeting was to spend the hour brainstorming.
Since I was the newbie, I offered to take notes.
Bob shook his head. “Thanks, Allie, but tonight we really want your input, okay? Since you lived in New York, we want you to tell us how people there observe 9/11 since the day it happened, okay?”
“Alrighty, then.” I searched my memory banks for a couple of minutes. I’d seen that day observed in so many forms and fashions during my decade in the Big Apple, it was hard to know where to begin. I started with my first year there.
At first, the others stuck to nodding their heads and saying, “Uh-huh.” That changed when Vivian asked a question about a song I’d mentioned, the gorgeously moving “Empire State of Mind” by Alicia Keys. After that, it was like someone had opened the barn door and the horses had barreled out.
Once the conversation and ideas began flowing, the only time the discussion came to a halt was when Rachel, assisted by a server, brought in the drinks and food.
I wasn’t sure whether the room became silent because of the food or because of the server. The food consisted of a plate of Rachel’s famous six-inch tall supreme nachos, along with a sampler platter of wings, potato skins, carrots, celery, cherry tomatoes, and a variety of dipping sauces. My stomach growled the moment the aroma of the nachos reached my nostrils.
The thing, or more precisely person, that stopped me from attacking the delightful Mexican dish was the server. Her skin was the color of bone china. The whiteness of it was exacerbated by the girl’s jet-black hair, which was shaved above her left ear; she had matching nail polish. The goth look was completed by her use of thick, black eyeliner and a black teardrop tattoo at the corner of one eye.
“Diet Pepsi for you, Miss Cobb.” The young woman smiled as she handed me a glass filled with the fizzy, dark soda. A silver stud nose ring glittered in the light as she moved past me.
I looked from my glass to Rachel. She’d evidently been watching me because, when our gazes met, she ran her fingers along the collar of her blouse then started doing something on her phone.
A second later, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Rachel that said the look on my face was priceless.
The others were digging into the food, so Rachel and her helper made a quiet exit while I sipped my drink and munched on a handful of cheese-laden tortilla chips.
After a few moments of relative quiet, which was interrupted only by a request for a napkin or dining utensil, Jack brought us back on task by asking for more ideas. The food disappeared as the ideas kept flying.
Ninety minutes after the meeting began, Jack brought the meeting to a close. We’d come up with fifty ideas of things to incorporate into the service. Some, like inviting former President George W. Bush to speak, were a little far-fetched. Others, such as Vivian’s suggestion to pass out cupcakes decorated with red, white, and blue icing, were much more doable.
Poor Ashley, who had been taking notes by hand, flexed her fingers and grimaced. I took a travel-sized bottle of Advil from my purse and offered her one.
“I feel for you. Sometimes it takes me hours to complete my clients’ royalty statements, and when I finish, my hands always ache. I think a lot of it comes from the stress of double and triple checking my calculations.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” She accepted the bottle without a moment’s hesitation. “This is my fifth year on the committee. It feels like I took more notes tonight than all the other meetings combined.”
“You probably did.” Jack gathered his things and gave her shoulder a light pat as he went around the table to thank each of us individually. “Great meeting, everyone. You all have your assignments. We’ll reconvene in a month. On a lighter note, who wants a drink? I’m buying.”
Everyone else in the group said yes, so I promised I’d join them in a minute after I tidied up the room a bit. The others offered to help, but I insisted they go get their drinks. I wanted some time alone to decompress from the meeting.
And formulate questions to ask the group about Vicky’s murder.
Once I was satisfied with a coherent, and subtle, line of questions in my head, I joined the group. They were seated at a round table near the front picture window. A glass of white wine was waiting for me.
It looked like getting involved in a local committee wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.
Jack lifted his glass. “To us, and the promise of the best nine-eleven ceremony Rushing Creek has ever seen.”
Amid a chorus of cheers, we clinked glasses. I took a sip of my wine. While I rolled the fruity Moscato around my tongue and over my taste buds, I debated how to bring up my first question.
Vivian beat me to the punch by asking if I knew how the investigation was going.
“I know how close you and Vicky were. I thought between that and your ex-brother-in-law being police chief, you might know something.” The white-haired woman put down her mixed drink. Her hands were shaking.
If my sixth sense for investigation was right, she’d been waiting all evening to ask the question. Well, she’d opened the door for me. It would be rude not to walk through.
“The chief has a few suspects. They believe she was poisoned.” I left it at that. Better to offer them a few breadcrumbs and see where it took me.
“I thought they arrested someone already.” Bob pointed at Vivian. “Someone you work with at the library, wasn’t it?”
“You must mean Porter Rasmussen.” I spoke up to keep Vivian from answering. The goal was to control the conversation. “He was taken in for questioning but hasn’t been charged with anything.”
“Anything, yet.” Ashley leaned forward, as if to share a well-kept secret. “I have a friend who works for the fire department. According to her, it’s only a matter of time until they arrest him. He’s as guilty as sin.”
“Why do you say that?” One of the things I’d learned about conducting an investigation was to use open-ended questions whenever possible. It allowed a witness to tell the story without them thinking I was looking for a specific answer. It wasn’t a foolproof approach, but, in a situation like now, it usually worked.
The redhead’s lips curved up at the ends in a menace-filled smile. “The guy’s a legend in gardening circles around here. He probably cooked up some poison from the flowers he grows. Did you know there are, like, over a hundred flower species that are poisonous to humans? I looked it up. I’ll bet you guys another drink some of the flowers he’s grown are like that and he’s got a bunch of other poisons hidden somewhere in his house.”
“Come on, Ashley.” Jack gave her a long look. “You sound like you’ve been talking to Maybelle Schuman.”
“Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t. Just because she embellishes her stories sometimes doesn’t mean she’s wrong on this one.”
Maybelle’s rumormongering was a thing of legend in Rushing Creek. If I wasn’t careful, the conversation would descend into the morass of gossip and innuendo.
“I’m sure you crossed paths with Porter at the library, Vivian. What do you think of him?” I sipped my wine.