“This long tangent about the Gable picture seems to be heading toward a box of missing bullets,” Jackson said.
The slightly sarcastic statement pulled Larson from his worried thoughts. “Oh yes, sorry. I was just going over the whole thing in my head, and I remember setting the box next to the picture. But, yes, the box is gone. It’s as if someone broke into the store and somehow managed to open the cabinet without breaking the lock and then the same person walked straight to the box of bullets in the cupboard.”
“Is anything else missing from the store?” Jackson asked.
“No,” Larson glanced around. “I mean I’d have to check my inventory thoroughly, but everything looks in place.”
“How many people have keys to the locking cabinet?”
Larson grew more confused and paler with each question. It was hard to tell if he was more worried about becoming a suspect or about losing his mind. I was going for the latter. He looked genuinely perplexed about the missing bullets. “Just me. Oh, and my daughter, Belinda. She works here after school.”
The name Belinda rang like a bell in my head. I wondered how many girls in town could be named Belinda. It was an unusual name. I was deep in thought trying to calculate just how old Mr. Larson’s daughter would be when I accidentally kicked a vintage toy truck. It rolled out from its corner and stopped in the middle of the floor. Both men stared down at it and then looked at me.
“Sorry.” I quickly walked over to pick up the toy and returned it to its spot in the corner
“Why don’t you help this customer before we continue,” Detective Jackson suggested.
“Actually, I was just looking around. I’m new in town and I thought I’d stop in to see what you had.”
Larson seemingly forgot he was being questioned by a detective and switched to gracious shop owner mode. “Welcome to town.” He stuck out his hand. “Dick Larson, owner of Larson’s Pawn Shop.”
I shook his hand. “Sunni Taylor, nice to meet you.”
“Do you live in Hickory Flats?” Larson asked. “I’m a Smithville resident myself.”
I smiled and walked forward, completely aware that Detective Jackson was casting an annoyed brow lift my way. I took it as a small victory over his habit of calling me ‘bluebird’. “I moved to Firefly Junction recently. Cider Ridge Inn to be exact.”
Larson’s face beamed with interest. “Is that right? I hear that old place is haunted by the unfulfilled spirit of a man whose heart was broken. Have you run into him?”
I wasn’t terribly interested in following the ghost topic, but since it seemed to irritate the detective even more, I joined in enthusiastically. “There have been some unexplained events, but I confess, I have yet to meet the actual ghost.”
A scoffing sound came from Jackson.
I looked up at him. At close range he was so tall, I had to crane my neck some. “You don’t believe in ghosts, Detective Jackson?”
Jackson’s eyes were an unearthly pale amber color, very unique and not like any I’d ever seen. His lashes were solid black though, and he stared down at me through them. “If you’re finished browsing, Mr. Larson and I have some things to discuss.”
Larson’s posture crumpled some as he was reminded about the serious topic of missing guns and bullets. “Yes, if there’s anything special you’re looking for just let me know,” he said politely.
“Thank you.”
Detective Jackson turned and leaned against the glass counter. He crossed his arms, which only made them look bigger. It seemed he was waiting for me to leave.
I pointed to the door. “I’ll just be on my way.”
“Bye.” Jackson waved.
“Yes, come again,” Larson called as I walked out the door.
Chapter 21
I was someone who tended to push harder when things got tough. It was the only way to be successful as a journalist. And when someone as cocky and smug as Detective Jackson got in my way, I not only pushed harder, I climbed, jumped and if necessary tunneled to get to the story. In this case, no physical exertion or dynamite for tunnels was needed. I reached into my purse and pulled out the bright yellow visitor’s pass sticker I’d carefully peeled from my shirt the day before. The fuzz of shirt fabric had dulled the stickiness, so I’d stuck doubled sided tape on the back. I pressed it against my shirt. The tape was weak but it would suffice. I didn’t plan to stay long.
On my long walk around campus the day before, I took note of places where I could park my car to avoid both the school parking lot near the office and the lengthy walk back to the car if I used my secret back entrance. And since I was using a recycled visitor’s pass, I had no choice but to use the back gate. I knew I was pushing the boundary on the rules, but I was determined to get answers to some questions. I left the pawn shop disappointed that I wasn’t able to hear the rest of the conversation between Detective Jackson and Dick Larson, but a few intriguing details came to light while I was lurking behind the book rack. The gun used to kill Alder Stevens had been taken from the pawn shop, from a locked cabinet, no less. And the bullets were taken from the same shop. It had to be someone who had access to both the cabinet and the storage cupboards in back. And that someone seemed to be Larson’s daughter, Belinda. I didn’t have definitive proof that Belinda was the same girl I’d spoken to the day before, but since Larson mentioned she worked after school and he was a resident of Smithville, I was feeling pretty certain.
I parked the jeep a few blocks away from the back entrance. My biggest obstacle was the long meandering stretch of asphalt leading up to and through the back gate. The kitchen windows looked out onto the back lot, most likely so the staff could keep an eye out for truck deliveries. And something told me, Ms. Mills, the kitchen manager watched the back gate like a hawk. That stretch of asphalt was a black line through a flat, virtually landscape free patch of dirt, so there was no place to duck out of sight. Anyone walking along that path would be easy to spot from the kitchen windows.
I was considering my options, which other than running like a cheetah toward the back gate, weren’t many. But I got lucky. I reached the asphalt delivery road and saw that the entire set of kitchen windows was blocked by a large box truck. The delivery man was just lowering his ramp as I stepped onto the path. After a few minutes of loading boxes onto his dolly, he disappeared through the back door of the kitchen. I’d found my chance. I was more thankful than ever that Parker allowed a casual dress code. My sneakers came in handy for my mad dash toward the back gate. (Not cheetah fast but not too shabby, considering my athletic days were far behind me.)
I didn’t take even a breath as I snuck past the kitchen and the cafeteria. If the schedule stayed the same each day, the students should be gathered in the quad and hallways for nutrition break. That would make it much easier to move about the campus unnoticed … hopefully.
The first group of students I passed were a group of boys who had carried their breakfast burritos out to the shade trees outside of the quad area. Three of them were huddled around, looking at a book, which made me smile. It was nice to think that books could still hold the interest of a group of teenage boys munching on greasy breakfast burritos.
I found that very few kids gave me even a second glance as I walked through the campus, but as I got closer to the burrito group, one of the boys looked up, elbowed his friend and the book slammed shut. The boy holding the book slipped it quickly into his backpack, but I managed to get a glimpse of it. It was a brand new yearbook.
I walked cheerily up to them. “Can you boys point me toward the library?”
“Sure, the shortcut is around the quad. The library is a small yellow building on the northeast corner of campus,” the boy who had shoved the yearbook in his backpack said quickly.
My eyes drifted down to his open backpack. I caught the words Smithville High emblazoned in gold letters across the top. “Looks like they got the yearbooks out on time after all,” I said lightly.
A highly noticeable exchange of
guilty looks crisscrossed the group. The boy lifted his backpack and zipped it up. “No, this is just a proof. I’m part of the yearbook staff,” he said with just enough hesitation to make me think he was making stuff up as he went.
“I see. Well, that’s a shame. I’m sure kids are waiting for them. Since you’re on the yearbook staff, you probably know why they are delayed.”
He eyed my visitor’s pass and shrugged. “Just printing problems. Library is just around this side of the quad and straight out.” It seemed I was being summarily dismissed by a kid with pimples and a slight hitch in his deepening voice.
“Yes, thank you so much and good luck with the yearbook.” I moved on. I’d pressed the boys too hard on something they absolutely didn’t want to be pressed about. I headed around the quad as instructed, even though I had no plans to go to the library.
The clamor of voices in the quad dropped low and then to silence. I stopped just behind the cinderblock wall on the far side of the quad to see what had everyone’s attention. The boy I’d seen with Belinda hopped up on a bench with a megaphone. Belinda stood nearby watching with starry eyes as the boy addressed the students.
“Hey everyone, Carter Greer, your class president here. How y’all doing?”
A cheer roared back at him.
“Just wanted to let you know that the school dance is back on this Saturday.”
A cheer that was loud enough to rattle even the cinderblock wall thundered through the quad. As the roar died down, I heard a tongue cluck behind me. I looked back with a fast beating heart, sure I’d been spotted by the principal or a staff member. It was Patty, the girl who’d told me the coat story.
I smiled politely. “You aren’t happy about the dance?”
She shrugged. “I never go to those things. It was delayed because of what happened to Mr. Stevens. The staff thought it was disrespectful to hold a dance the same week he was killed. But Carter used his important connections to get it reinstated.”
“Important connections?”
She looked at me with surprise. “Yeah, you know, his dad.” She could see I was confused. “He’s the school board president. Like father, like son, as they say. His dad was some star high school quarterback just like Carter.” Patty blew out a puff of disgust. “Not fair how some people get showered with all the luck. I work hard to keep up my grades, hoping I can get a scholarship, but that guy, who is hardly ever in class, lands a full scholarship just for throwing a football.”
“Yes, I agree wholeheartedly with you, Patty. But I’ve found it’s easier to ignore them and concentrate on my own life. You’re doing the right thing by studying hard. I’ve also found that people like Carter come face to face with the real world once they leave their little high school kingdom, and the real world isn’t so apt to shower them with adoration. Lady Luck sometimes skips right by them once they’ve left their high school glory days.”
Patty smiled. “You don’t look all that old, but you are very wise.”
“Thanks. On both accounts.”
Carter was still talking when an announcement came over the loudspeaker for Belinda Larson to report to the office.
“I hope she’s in trouble,” Patty muttered.
“I take it you don’t like Belinda. I can remember girls just like her when I went to school, and I didn’t like those girls much either.”
“I’ll bet they weren’t nearly as mean as Belinda. She’s the one who got Mr. Stevens fired. She and her friends spread the rumor about him walking into the locker room when the girls were changing after class.”
I hadn’t expected her to say anything so shocking, and it took me a second to recover. “Oh, my, are they just rumors?”
Patty was wearing a dangling earring on the side where her hair was shaved. There was a horseshoe shaped silver stud in the other ear. She readjusted her backpack straps on her shoulders. She seemed to be stalling as she decided on a response. “I guess it happened, but it had to be a mistake. Mr. Stevens never would have done anything creepy like that.â
Principal Morely’s deep voice rolled through the school intercom, and he didn’t sound too happy. “Belinda Larson, to the office now.”
I glanced across the quad. It seemed Belinda had ignored the first call, but the biting tone of the principal’s voice sent her scurrying toward the office.
“Principal Morely’s the one who should have resigned,” Patty said angrily.
“Why is that?”
She seemed to be weighing whether or not to tell me, then quickly shrugged off her hesitation. “From what I heard, he’s having an affair with Ms. Deacon, the fine arts teacher. I heard that it was Mr. Stevens who walked in on them glued together in a kiss when he was checking doors at the end of the school day. But then that could just be a rumor too.” She apparently decided she didn’t want salacious gossip traced back to her. “How is the article on the crummy work program going?”
I laughed. “I think the article might end up being as crummy as the program.”
“That makes sense.” She waved to a few girls across the way. “I’ve got to go.”
“Yes, I don’t want to keep you from your friends. Have a nice day and between you and me, I didn’t go to those silly school dances either.”
She smiled broadly, revealing the thin wire of a retainer across her top teeth. “See ya.” Patty headed across the quad to her friends. I stayed next to the block wall, out of view of most everyone, while I planned my next stop. I decided Alder’s office would be a good place to start. I was hoping to find a pertinent clue in the flower and card memorial outside his door.
One thing was for sure, I was gathering a whole lot of conflicting information about Alder Stevens. It seemed before I could find my way to his murderer, I needed to find out if the man was kind, like Patty insisted, or if he had a more sordid side that led to his early resignation.
Chapter 22
The flower and card pile had grown enough to block half the hallway. Most of the flowers were giving off their last puffs of fragrance as they wilted into sickly looking petals and leaves in the warm hall. The size of the makeshift memorial added more weight to Patty’s description of the man.
It was the height of bad manners for me to read some of the cards the kids had written but then I did recycle my visitor’s pass and sneak through the back gate. Apparently, I was breaking all the norms of polite society today. I picked up one card with a hand drawn tree on the front. The tree had flowers and doves and was sketched with colored pencils. The artwork was quite impressive. I opened the card to read the handwritten sentiment.
“Hey, Mr. Stevens, I hate what happened to you. You didn’t deserve it. By the way, I drew this tree with the colored pencils you bought me last Christmas. I never minded detention when I had to spend it working with you. I didn’t even mind dumping trash cans. Take care up there in heaven, Joey.”
Another check in the good guy box for Mr. Stevens. How on earth did a man who bought gifts and even coats for students end up doing something as horrible as walking in on the girls in the locker room? It just didn’t add up.
The door behind me at the end of the hallway opened. I quickly placed the card back and blotted my eyes, pretending to be teary eyed as I looked at the pile of flowers.
“Not only can she climb trees, she can act too,” the deep voice floated over my shoulder. I didn’t need to turn around to see who it was because I already recognized Detective Jackson’s voice. (I tried not to read anything into that.)
“Why are you here, Bluebird?”
I drew in a deep breath and turned around to face him. I hadn’t expected it, but I was temporarily stunned by just how handsome he was up close. Professional journalist that I was, I recovered quickly and went straight to my defense. Of course a true professional would not have been knocked off balance by a handsome face, but I allowed myself this one slip on account that he really was extraordinary. And arrogant. And more than a little irritating with his smug grin.
; “First of all, my name is Sunni Taylor and not Bluebird. I’m working on a story, so I have every right to be here.” I pointed quickly to my crumpled visitor’s pass that was starting to peel off from my shirt. As I touched it, my eyes swept past his visitor’s pass. It was bright orange instead of yellow. I lowered my hand, deciding it was no longer wise to bring attention to my pass.
“The school uses a different color every day to keep people from sneaking back in with an old pass,” he noted. “I guess that’s probably a smart thing to do.”
“Probably. But I hardly pose a threat. I’m just here to put the final details on my riveting article about the summer work program.”
“Of course. And that’s why you’re standing in front of the head custodian’s office.”
I straightened to make myself taller. It was a rather pathetic attempt to meet him eye to eye. The man must have been six foot two or three. I never considered myself short, but I was staring at his throat. I stepped back hoping that would give me a better angle and chance to look him squarely in the eye. “It just so happens that there are several summer openings for students to help out the maintenance crew. I thought I’d askâ” I stopped when I realized I had talked myself into a corner.
Jackson finished for me. “So you thought you’d interview the head custodian, the man you saw face down in the park, dead in his own pool of blood? Enough of the carnival act, Miss Taylor or is it Mrs. Taylor?”
“Miss,” I answered with a chin lift. “And this is not a carnival act. It’s my job. I’m a reporter and I’m on a story. And frankly, it’s none of your business what I’m doing as long as I’m not breaking the law.”
A dark brow arched up on his forehead. “Do you mean like sneaking onto a closed school campus with a fake visitor’s pass?”
“Ha, I didn’t sneak. Well, I might have made a quick, stealthy dash through a wide open back gate, but this pass is not fake. It was very real. Yesterday.”
Death in the Park (Firefly Junction Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 11