A Mysterious Mix Up

by J. C. Kenney

  Everyone at our table turned their focus on her. The conversation was back where I wanted it.

  “I usually work in the afternoons, so I didn’t see him much. When I did, he always seemed harmless enough.” She ran a hand down the sleeve of her blouse. “He was quiet. Kind of lonely. Which makes sense, I guess, since he’s a widower.”

  “Or a killer.” Mike put up his hands like he was surrendering as we turned our gazes toward him. “I’m just saying the guy fits the personality type.”

  Jack shook his head. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows. I saw a lot of sketchy-looking souls when I was in Iraq who were our allies. I wouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

  Interesting. The military veteran coming to the defense of the accused. Maybe it was nothing, but I made a mental note to get Jack’s take on the murder later. His military background would give him insight I could never possess.

  The discussion continued until our glasses were empty. When Rachel came by to ask if anyone wanted another, I shook my head. I’d had enough. The others followed my lead, so Jack paid the bill and we made our goodbyes.

  I stepped from the warm light of the pub into the chilliness of a dark, spring night. As was typical for a Monday night in the off-season, traffic was nonexistent. The stars above twinkled like tiny cousins of the nearby streetlights that illuminated my walk home. The stillness of the night amplified my footfalls. It seemed like a gun was going off every time I took a step.

  Replaying the conversation in my head as I strolled north on the Boulevard, identifying the group’s consensus was easy enough. Porter used the poison from his flowers to kill Vicky.

  There’d been no consensus on why he did it, though. In fact, the group didn’t seem overly concerned about a motive.

  That bothered me. I’d learned many things about human behavior in recent years. One of them was always to look for a motive behind one’s actions. Porter had the means and he had the opportunity. Did he have the motive, though?

  He had a crush on Vicky. She was leaving town. Love often made people do crazy things. Especially lonely people.

  But kill her? I wasn’t convinced yet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I slept the sleep of the dead Monday night and didn’t open my eyes until Ursi roused me from blissful slumber by batting at my nose.

  “Okay, I’m up.” After a long yawn, I sat up and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. Only then did my alarm attract my attention. The persistent beep, beep, beep had been going off for a half hour. That woke me up.

  I silenced the clock radio with a flick of the wrist and vaulted out of bed. It was a trick I learned living in a dorm during my college years. I preferred morning classes. My roomies, not so much. Born of equal parts necessity and courtesy, I became adept at getting moving in the morning while not disturbing anyone else’s slumber.

  As I poured Ursi some dry food and started a pot of coffee, a small laugh escaped me. Sure, yesterday had been a busy and productive day, but to sleep through the alarm for so long Ursi got tired of waiting for me? That was a new record in the slumber category.

  While an English muffin toasted, I fetched my phone to check for any agency emergencies that needed my immediate attention. Unless I let my authors know I was going to be unavailable for a period of time, I responded to all messages within a day.

  There were no urgent e-mails, but a text from Rachel caught my attention. And then made my jaw drop.

  Goth Girl from the restaurant wanted to interview for the intern position.

  Okay, that was unexpected. Usually, the only time Rachel and I texted was to discuss something family related. Plus, if the young woman had wanted to meet me, why hadn’t Rachel introduced us at the pub?

  The coffee’s pot’s gurgling came to an end, so I poured a mug of the liquid gold into my Wonder Woman mug. The chocolaty aroma heightened my senses as I responded that I’d be happy to chat with her. After all, if my first interview was any indication, I was going to have to expand my candidate pool.

  The first part of my morning was consumed by preparing the manuscripts of two clients to go out on query. The authors, both of whom wrote thrillers, and I had agreed to submit the query materials, which included a cover e-mail and two-page synopsis, to editors at ten big publishing houses. By the time I sent the materials, which were accompanied by a personalized cover e-mail, and set up a spreadsheet to track the status of each submission, it was after ten.

  When I hit send on the final e-mail, I got to my feet and did a happy dance from my office into the living room. Ursi was watching the world from her favorite perch, so I bopped over to her, raised one paw, and gave her a high five.

  “Progress, girl. It’s a beautiful thing.”

  She responded to my enthusiasm by yawning and turning her backside to me.

  “Killjoy. Fine. I’m going out and you’re not invited.”

  Nothing had changed overnight to sway my nagging doubt about Porter being the murderer. Gary still seemed suspicious and the nasty e-mail exchanges between Ozzy and Vicky concerned me. Ozzy and my friend Shirley had become cozy over the past few months. While I was happy for my friend, I couldn’t deny concern for her well-being, should she get into an argument with the man.

  How solid was my friendship with Shirley? I was about to find out.

  It was a beautiful day as I left my building with a wave to Renee. Downtown Rushing Creek was bathed in a golden glow of sunshine and warmth that its citizens hadn’t enjoyed in months. To revel in the conditions to the max, I removed my jacket and whistled a bouncy tune from the musical Waitress as I bebopped my way to Soaps and Scents.

  Shirley was ringing up a sale when I entered the shop. We exchanged hellos, then I wandered up and down the aisles while I waited for her to finish. Halfway down the natural soap aisle, I stopped to breathe in the lovely aroma. The scent of lavender enveloped me and conjured images of lying in a field of freshly mown grass with a book by my side as the sun smiled down upon me.

  “Allie, my dear.” Shirley gave me a hug. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I sniffed a creamy sample of soap. The vanilla aroma was heavenly. “Can’t a girl just come in and check out your new products?”

  “Of course she can. But you were in here two weeks ago, I believe, and loaded up on enough things to last you months. I don’t want you going bankrupt on account of my shop.”

  It was always fun to exchange friendly banter with Shirley. Though she was my mom’s age and looked like she’d just arrived from a Grateful Dead concert, there was no generation gap between us.

  We were friends.

  And that made the reason for my visit even more troubling. So, instead of prolonging the agony, I ripped off the proverbial bandage.

  “It’s about Ozzy.” I looked around to make sure nobody was within earshot then told her about the disturbing e-mail exchanges. “Has he ever mentioned being angry with the library, or Vicky in particular?”

  “Never. It’s like I tell everyone, his bark is worse than his bite.” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “This is about the murder, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so. His language in the e-mails is pretty shocking. It worried me. For you. In case he ever got angry with you.”

  I pulled up one of the e-mails on my phone. I’d forwarded it from the library account to my personal account just in case.

  As she read it, she frowned. “I see. Well, I can see your point, given how he comes across to some people. Let’s talk to him about it.”

  Shirley told a part-time helper she’d be back in a little bit and led me out the door. On our way to Ozzy’s shop, I filled her in on the general context of the issue. By the time we crossed the threshold, Shirley had turned into an angry bull. Ozzy was the red cape.

  “Oswald Eugene Metcalf, I’d like a word with you.” Shirley paused for two seconds, while s
he glared at her boyfriend, then marched back outside.

  Oswald Eugene Metcalf? I’d never heard anyone use Ozzy’s full name before. As he scurried after Shirley, with his eyes as big as dinner plates, the cantankerous, intimidating man was nowhere to be found.

  I had to put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. By the time I caught up to them, I was no longer smiling.

  Shirley was reading him the riot act. When she finished, she brushed her long, gray hair from her face and planted her hands on her hips. It was a commanding side of her I’d never seen before. And one I didn’t want to be on the wrong end of.

  “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Shirley tilted her head forward to give the impression of an old-time school teacher staring down a troublemaking student.

  “Sure, things got a little heated, but it took me weeks to make those carvings. They were some of my best work ever.”

  “What Allie told me is true, then.”

  “More or less. Look, Vicky and I agreed on a price and I started the work. A few weeks later, she told me there was a problem with the number I quoted. By that time, I was too far down the road on the project to stop, so I held up my end of the bargain.”

  “By finishing the carvings.” In response to my interruption, Ozzy gave me a look so menacing, I took a step back.

  “Yeah. Then that woman tried to screw me over, so I sold the pieces.” He pointed a varnish-stained finger at me. “But I never laid a hand on her. And I sure as all get out didn’t kill her.”

  “What makes you say that?” Shirley’s scolding tone had been replaced by one of astonishment.

  Ozzy tilted his head in my direction. “Because that busybody’s here. I figured it was only a matter of time until she came after me claiming I killed someone.”

  Despite my blood reaching boiling state in an instant, I held my tongue. I would only pour gas on the fire if I responded to the slanderous accusation.

  “She is my friend. You don’t have to like her, but you do have to treat her with respect.”

  Ozzy tapped his foot and shoved his hands into the pockets of his canvas woodworking apron. Something in the direction opposite of me seemed to catch his attention.

  The pause in the verbal volleyball gave me an opening. “Since you didn’t do it, who do you think did?”

  I crossed my fingers. Hopefully, my choice of “since” instead of “if” would make a favorable impression.

  “Not Rasmussen. He doesn’t have the guts for something that ruthless. Her ex-husband’s another matter. If I was a betting man, I’d put my money on him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Gary Napier is as slippery as a greased pig. He’s been divorced for years, but he never looked into the deed situation until now? When, suddenly, he’ll get all the money when the house sells?” Porter shook his head. “No. If he had really cared about making sure the deed was right, he would have done it already.”

  It was the same conclusion I’d drawn. This was the most civil verbal exchange I’d ever had with Ozzy. I saw a lot of merit to his analysis, too. Porter was still the most likely suspect, but Gary definitely merited further investigation. While I was in the woodworker’s good graces, maybe I could get his take on a few other things.

  I asked him a few more questions about Gary and Porter. How well did he know them? Did he have recent interactions with either of them? After he answered them, I asked if I had more inquiries, would he be willing to talk to me further?

  At first he grumbled about me needing to stop sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. When Shirley cleared her throat, he stopped mid-grumble.

  “Okay, but don’t bother me when I’m helping a customer. Some of us have to work for a living.”

  Taking the high road, I brushed aside the swipe at my career and promised to do so. After shaking hands with Ozzy, I gave Shirley a hug and thanked them for both their time and candor.

  I wanted to get my thoughts down on paper, so I headed for the Brown County Diner. It was a short jaunt, only three blocks, but by the time I arrived, I was convinced of Ozzy’s innocence.

  It wasn’t that I believed his denial of any involvement in Vicky’s murder. It was more that, with each passing day, evidence continued to mount around Porter and Gary. Sure, it was circumstantial evidence, but I didn’t doubt that it would be enough to lead to an arrest soon.

  The diner’s aluminum door handle sent a shiver through me when my fingers touched its warm surface. The warmth was exhilarating. I took it as a sign of good things to come.

  My exhilaration was replaced by ravishing hunger the moment I stepped into the diner. The mouthwatering aroma of rhubarb pie, right out of the oven, greeted me and wrapped me in a blanket of blissful memories.

  Rhubarb pie had been Dad’s favorite. Growing up, pretty much any time my father liked something, I chose to like it, too. Becoming a fan of rhubarb pie wasn’t easy, though. The tart taste that was reminiscent of sour, green apples took some getting used to. Eventually, I learned that adding a couple of oversized scoops of ice cream to my pie made it rather enjoyable.

  Okay, maybe the ice cream made it more tolerable. Over time, though, I came to realize it wasn’t the pie that mattered. It was the time spent with Dad that mattered.

  Nobody else in the family would come within ten feet of a piece of rhubarb pie, so that meant when Dad brought one home, I was going to have time alone with my other hero. Just the old man and me. The books we discussed, the problems we solved, the memories we created over pieces of that baked good would stay with me forever. And with them, Dad would stay with me for the rest of my days.

  With heartwarming memories swirling around in my head like fireflies on a summer evening, I didn’t notice Jeanette until I was almost seated in a booth by the window. She was sipping coffee and munching on French fries while she watched something on her phone. She was so engrossed in whatever was on the screen that she hadn’t seen me. It was time to change that.

  The timing was perfect. I trusted Jeanette with every fiber of my being. She would be the perfect sounding board as I hashed out my thoughts about the investigation.

  I slid into the seat across from her and reached for a fry. My fingers were mere inches from my goal when she clamped a hand around my wrist.

  “It’s rude to take a fry from a friend.” Her gaze was still locked on her phone. “And it’s dumb to try to steal from a cop who’s on her lunch break.”

  “Um. How about I buy you another order to make up for my indiscretion.” Jeanette loved the diner’s French fries almost as much as I loved their coffee.

  “That’s acceptable.” She released my wrist and shifted her gaze to me. With a wink and a smile, she tossed a fry in my direction. “What’s up, A.C.?”

  “Nothing much.” I doused the fry with pepper and popped it in my mouth. “Just out and about talking to people, investigating murder. You know, the usual stuff.”

  “Care to share your intel with your best friend in blue?”

  “Sure.” After I ordered coffee and a salad, along with two orders of fries, I filled Jeanette in on my morning.

  “Interesting.” Jeanette stole back a fry. Then she took another. “That’s your penalty for theft.”

  I pushed my plate toward her. “What do I get for giving you all of these?”

  Jeanette raised an eyebrow.

  “Keep this between us?” When I nodded, she pulled the plate the rest of the way toward her. “We got the preliminary toxicology results. The report confirms she was poisoned. By a natural substance.”

  This time it was my turn to be surprised. Not by the information, but by Jeanette’s willingness to share it. She’d been reprimanded in the past for sharing information with me. Since the information had helped with the capture of murder suspects, she hadn’t been seriously penalized.

  She was ambitio
us, though, and wanted to go places in her career. That meant she would probably look for a position in a larger city in the near future. Black marks on her record wouldn’t help her in any future searches. To avoid getting any more, she’d been less forthcoming with police intel recently.

  “Sure makes it sound like Porter’s your perp. Are you guys going to make an arrest?”

  “Not yet. The evidence is still circumstantial at this point, and you know how Matt is on a murder case.”

  I did, indeed. Matt was an excellent cop and good police chief. He didn’t tolerate mischief in his town and wouldn’t hesitate to throw a vandal or petty thief behind bars. With Rushing Creek so dependent on tourism, the man was acutely aware of the importance of bringing the hammer down on misdemeanor crime. If the community ever lost its reputation for safety and quaintness, it would take massive efforts to get it back.

  Police Chief Matt Roberson’s main goal was to make sure that reputation stayed intact. If that meant slapping on the handcuffs first and asking questions later, so be it. The business community appreciated it and the residents felt safer because of it.

  Felony crimes were a different matter.

  Matt also freely acknowledged Rushing Creek PD lacked the resources a department in a larger city had. He didn’t use it as a reason to complain. He used it as motivation to deploy the resources at his disposal in the most effective way possible.

  That meant the department took a slow and methodical approach when the matter involved life and death. Matt didn’t want to make a mistake that would require backtracking. Starting over meant spending money the department didn’t have.

  If it took longer to make an arrest than some people liked, that was their problem. What mattered was that once the Rushing Creek Police Department arrested a suspect in a felony crime, that suspect ended up going to prison.

  I took a long drink of my coffee. “What happens next?”

  “We’ll keep an eye on Rasmussen while we work on connecting him to the poisoning. In the meantime, I’ll take a closer look at the ex-husband. Don’t want to leave any stone unturned.”