Found Dead in the Red Head

by Violet Patton

  Walker walked, closely examining it. “Body’s not damaged in the least. Makes me wonder why it was in the junkyard. Cars like this don’t go unless the frames are bent or something worse.”

  But the sun had faded the car’s red paint, and I asked, “What year is it?”

  “‘67. GT350. Pretty rare. I can see how Dad would’ve wanted it, even to auction. He loved it when dealers salivated over his cars. More than the money. Original rims. I can’t believe it sat in a junkyard so long.”

  “A fastback, too. Mint, ain’t it?” Teddy asked.

  Walker nodded. “It’s a pretty thing.” He leaned over eyeing down a seam, looking for signing of a bent frame.

  I leaned over to look into its dirty windows. “Good grief! Get outta there. You’re disturbing evidence.”

  Inside the vintage vehicle, Fanny glimmered, grinning and pretending she was driving the car. Fanny popped out, scooting around to the back of the car. “This is grand, you wait an’ see.”

  Teddy harrumphed, grinning like it hurt which meant he thought I was a lunatic.

  “Sorry! I saw my own shadow.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, right? We better get the trunk open. Dick’s gang will be here any minute.” From his jacket pocket he pulled a wad of latex gloves he probably stole from the Row.

  I asked, “How are we going to get it open?”

  Walker reached into his jacket pocket producing a set of jingling keys. “Dad left the keys to it with his lawyer.”

  “Do people keep junkyard car keys?” Having a set of keys seemed odd, but I guessed Belly knew he was in trouble and covered his bases.

  Teddy handed Walker gloves, and they each pulled on a pair. “Only if the car wasn’t junk, just hidden from the cops.”

  Walker nodded, concurring. The key went into the trunk lock easily enough. Walker turned it and the trunk creaked up an inch. With one gloved finger, he helped it rise and we, Fanny included, peered over into the trunk.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Teddy backed up, chuckling.

  Walker huffed and smiled. “It’s a… a… what is it?”

  A ceramic winking Santa Claus head sat on the spare tire. At one time, it was wrapped in a brown paper bag, but the humidity and heat deteriorated the paper and it crumbled around the jar,

  “That’s a cookie jar. From the ‘50s or ‘60s.” Somewhere, someone I knew had a Christmas cookie jar like this one.

  “That’s just plain creepy.” Walker reached into the trunk, feeling along its edges searching for something more. “Should I open it?”

  “No!” Teddy grabbed his hand. “Don’t touch it. There’s got to be more to the story.”

  Fanny whispered. “Open it. The secrets inside.”

  I pursed, biting my bottom lip. “Maybe the big secret is inside. We should look before Dick arrives.”

  Walker mused, frowning. “Okay. It gives me the jeepers. Here you open it.” He peeled off his gloves and gave them to me.

  Huffing, I stretched them over my fingers. “I bet Gretchen baked a nasty batch of cookies, nobody would eat them, so she hid them in the trunk of the car.”

  Fanny passed into the middle of the trunk. “I’ll open it. I gotta see.”

  “Don’t you dare touch a thing! Get outta the trunk.”

  Whoops. I said too much. Glancing back, I caught the look Teddy shared with Walker. Teddy grimaced and asked, “Did you know Patti has a concussion?”

  Walker nodded his head. “Ah. That explains it.”

  I glared at Teddy. “Hush you. Nobody cares about my concussion. Besides its healed.”

  Flipping back, I reached for Santa cookie jar lid. Arkansas weather affected it as well as the brown paper, the glossy red paint on its lid was crazed with crosshatches. The jar wasn’t very big, maybe ten inches tall and eight inches wide and wouldn’t hold very many cookies.

  Standing inside the trunk, Fanny glowed in happy firefly green. “Just do it.”

  I lifted the lid and looked into it. “Oh, dear Lord!” My eyes widened, and I gasped. “It’s full of white powder with… with…”

  “Lemme see!” Fanny looked into the jar. “Ehh Gahd! What is that?”

  Carefully, I laid the lid on the trunk floor and stepped out of the way.

  “Is it cocaine?” Walker asked.

  Fanny moved out of the trunk. “Bloke! Them gangsters. They sold that in my day, too.”

  Carefully without catching on the car or brushing against it with his pants, Teddy leaned in, putting a gloved finger into the jar. “Dang, it’s solid, whatever it was.”

  Putting his finger to his nose, he sniffed the tip of the glove but I didn’t see any residue on the glove. He shook his head and looked back. “There’s something else… buried… oh my God, it’s a…” He paused, leaning as close as he could without touching anything. “A note.”

  Carefully, he pulled a folded, moldy slip of lined notebook paper from the jar. “Look at this.”

  He handed the paper to Walker, and he carefully unfolded it. “What ‘d ya know? It’s the freakin car title. That’s unbelievable.”

  Fanny said, “Look deeper. Go for it. There’s something else.”

  I repeated her words, urging Teddy forward. “Crap. Get back.” He stood up out of the trunk. “We gotta wait for Dick. He’ll kill me if I disturb this crime scene.”

  “What’s in it?” Walker asked.

  Teddy snickered. “I think it’s Jimmy Hoffa’s hand.”

  Chapter 32

  Gretchen

  By late afternoon, Dick’s crew of investigators loaded the Shelby onto a wrecker to take it to the state department of forensics in Little Rock.

  “Patti.” Dick offered his hand. “I gotta tell ya, I was at a dead end. You helped this case. I owe you one.”

  Shocked, I shook his hand. That was the first friendly gesture he’d given me since taking office.

  “I didn’t do a thing. Belly helped…” Dick’s hand felt warm, but I wanted to disconnect and released his hand. “He took steps to guarantee the perpetrator was caught. Who do you think killed him?”

  “I can’t say. It wasn’t Bangor, for sure.” He adjusted his black Stetson. “They’ll pick Gretchen up this afternoon.”

  I nodded, not wanting to reveal anything else I knew about her. Dick didn’t need to know Teddy and I visited the junkyard. If we hadn’t, we couldn’t have pieced together the missing car and the Shelby. But without Fanny’s help, I wouldn’t have known to question Belly and Bangor’s association.

  “Good thing those idiots left the title. We’ll find the original owner.”

  “That sounds like good news. The original owner’s hand might just be in the cookie jar.”

  Dick licked his lips, rolling his teeth over his top lip, stifling a chuckle. “Looks like somebody got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

  “Or hers?” I asked

  He let a small chuckle escape, grinning. “Know any one-handed girls who buy bath bombs?”

  “Not a one. If one shows up, I’ll call you first.”

  Dick stepped away, heading toward a group of cops milling about. “You stay safe, you hear?”

  I smiled and said yeah. Coming from Dick that was almost like saying I like you which was better than a growl and a threat.

  Ally waited in Walker’s truck. She rolled down the window when I walked over.

  “When is this going to be over? I’m bored out of my mind.”

  “Soon.” In our family, patience wasn’t a virtue.

  “I wanna get. I still gotta moved back into Walker’s place.”

  If I remember correctly, she left almost everything she owned at Walker’s house, leaving with only a backpack and what she could carry. “You’ll be settled soon. How’s Allison?”

  Ally glanced the car seat between the truck seats. “Sleeping like a baby.”

  “Where’d the car seat come from?” I was happy they were following the law. A baby riding in its mother’s arm was a disaster waiting
to happen.

  “Walker stopped by Walmart this morning and bought it. I didn’t even ask him, he just did it.”

  Walker was a good catch. It tickled me to have Ally back, but their reconciliation was the frosting on the Christmas cookies.

  “I’m heading back to the shop. Sandy’s gonna be fit to be tied with me gone so much.”

  “Okay. See you later.”

  Leisurely, I drove back to the Row confident Dick’s detectives would get to the bottom of who killed Belly. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Gretchen. But why would she care so much about an old Santa cookie jar filled with—the crime scene fellows thought the substance was powdered sugar which hardened in the humidity—a gnarly old mummified hand?

  I walked into the workroom, humming a Christmas tune I couldn’t name but it was cheery. “I’m back.”

  Sandy popped her head through the door, but didn’t come into the workroom. “Where have you been? I was worried.”

  “Not to worry. Teddy and I solved a problem.”

  The Death Star bath bombs were ready to remove from the molds, and web orders set in a basket on the end of the workbench.

  Sandy watched me read the top invoice. “I found a basket. The blowing heat knocks them off the table.” The doorbell tinkled and Sandy whirled, hurrying away to greet another customer.

  “Are you back?” Fanny hadn’t ridden back to the shop with me. When I got in the car, I noticed her sewing needle wasn’t on the dashboard.

  “Yes. I’m back.” She popped into sight, reclining on her usual spot on the loveseat’s arm. “It was a long way to fly back. I’m bushed.”

  “I haven’t gone anywhere.” Sandy came back into the workroom, paused tapping her foot. “Etta called in. Said she caught a virus. We can’t live without her around here for long.”

  “I know. I know. Things will calm down now that Ally’s back and safe. It’s smooth sailing from here on out?”

  “Oh, please don’t say that. We haven’t had smooth sailing yet. So, what happened out at Belly’s? What was in the Mustang?”

  I didn’t need to ask her how she found out about the car, Teddy must tell her every squeak I make.

  “There was an old Christmas Santa cookie jar in the trunk. Looked like a five-n-dime store jar. Cheap. Maybe late ‘50s early ‘60s.”

  “What? How disappointing. I’d thought there was at least a dead body by the way Teddy talked.”

  She gave themselves away, but I didn’t say anything. They weren’t close, but if talking about me gave them a better relationship, then so be it.

  “Oh, you’re too quick to jump to a conclusion. There was a note… the car title—”

  “Ah, was there a candlestick in the library? Did Miss Scarlet off someone in her boudoir?”

  Grinning, I said, “No. Miss Scarlet wasn’t there, but a mummified hand was buried in powder sugar in the jar.”

  I wish I could’ve taken a photo of Sandy’s disbelief. “Don’t be funny. What was in the jar? Gold coins? Magic fairy dust?”

  Crooking my fingers, I tried to give her a visual of a wicked gnarled hand. “I’m not joking. Teddy saw the hand. Ask him if you don’t believe me.”

  “Ah. C’mon. You’re… gross. Whose hand was it?”

  “No telling. But Dick said Bangor thought his grandmother Gretchen killed Belly—or had him killed because the cookie jar hand was her secret."

  Bubba was right, Belly knew Gretchen’s secrets. How did he know? The trunk hadn’t looked disturbed. Probably neither Bangor nor Belly understood what the car meant to Gretchen. He coveted the Shelby, and Bangor wanted to please his benefactor.

  “I can’t connect the dots. Why would Gretchen kill Belly over a shriveled hand?”

  “That’s a good question. Hopefully, Dick will come up with an answer. Teddy hopes it’s Jimmy Hoffa’s hand.”

  Sandy gasped. “No kidding. Is there a reward for finding him? Or his hand?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know. It’s been so long since Jimmy Hoffa disappeared, who knows. Who cares anyway?”

  The hand no more belonged to Jimmy Hoffa than Gretchen belonged to the Hot Springs Junior League.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. We’re sponsoring a road rally.”

  “What for? And why?”

  She handed me a printed flyer. “Dogs Riding Hogs? Uh-huh? What does sponsorship mean?”

  We entered a bathtub float in the Christmas parade, and Belly ended up in the morgue. Sponsoring another group wasn’t on my agenda so soon after that catastrophe.

  “It’s no big deal. Muriel’s group is raising funds for the dog shelter. They switched over to a no-kill policy. It isn’t cheap to feed dogs who aren’t adopted.”

  “Okay. We can give them bath bombs to sell.”

  “Uh-uh. It’s not that kind of fundraiser. Each pledge sponsors a rider, and they pay a few cents per mile for their rider.”

  “Okay. That’s acceptable. When do they ride?”

  A customer walked into the shop’s entrance casting another shadow across the Row. We looked up, and secretly I prayed it wasn’t another bad guy breaking down our door, I’d had enough excitement already.

  “It’s printed on the flyer.” Sandy stepped around the counter to greet the customer. “Oh, and I volunteered you to ride with Muriel. She said bikes with two riders make double the millage money.”

  “You did what? I… I don’t.” I didn’t finish my objection because once she made up her mind, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. The motorcycle rally was March 15th. The destination was Washington State Park for the annual daffodil festival.

  Putting the flyer aside, I murmured, “At least we’ll ride somewhere pretty.”

  Chapter 33

  Connect the Dots

  Before I was fully awake, Anita sent me a text message.

  — Dick on the news making a statement.

  Fluffing my pillows, I searched for the remote on the bedspread. Last night, I couldn’t sleep so I watched an old movie until I fell asleep. The television was still on TMC and I flipped the channels to KARK.

  Dick stood behind a podium shifting back and forth, answering off-screen reporter’s questions.

  “Yes, we arrested Gretchen Floyd for conspiracy to commit murder.” He pointed at the next person. I couldn’t hear the question, but Dick answered.

  “No. Bangor Floyd wasn’t charged with theft. He turned in his grandmother. He thought Belly arranged a donation from Gretchen. She wasn’t at home when he brought Belly’s tow truck out to the junkyard and loaded the car.”

  He pointed again and listened. “We are questioning Gretchen. She has a lawyer and won’t answer any more questions.”

  Listening, he looked into the crowding reporters. “Yes, she knew about Belly’s death.”

  A reporter closer to the microphone asked, “Rumor is, it’s Jimmy Hoffa’s hand in the cookie jar.”

  Dick shook his head, trying not to smirk. “If that’s Jimmy Hoffa’s hand we’re gonna have a free for all. Better strap on your guns.”

  “You’re not taking the rumor seriously?”

  Dick backed away from the microphone, then leaned in. “Would you?” The group of reporters laughed.

  “For now, that’s all I have.” Someone else asked another question. Dick paused, slitting his eyes. “We will investigate the missing persons in the county. With DNA, we can now find relatives of the missing persons and connect those dots. If you don’t mind, I have a murder to investigate.”

  Dick stepped away from the cameras, and I turned off the television. After showering, I sent Sandy a running late as usual text message. I must stay at work more or she’ll find another partner.

  Opening my front door, decked in a winter coat protecting myself from the chilly wind blowing across the lake, I found Anita standing on my stoop with a steaming pan of cinnamon rolls.

  She smiled. “You gotta eat. Keep up your strength for our baby.”

  Hesitating, I sat my purse on the sewing machine. �
�Come in. We’ll chat.”

  We adjourned to the dining table, because our favorite spot for breakfast the patio table glistened with a fresh frost.

  She put the pan on the table and opened her arms. “Gimme a hug. I’ve got the Christmas blues.”

  I hugged her tight. “Don’t do that. You have so much to be thankful for.” I let her go. “I’ll put on the tea kettle.”

  She plopped into a chair sighing as I filled the electric kettle with fresh water.

  “I booked my flight to Dallas for Christmas. Dang, I hate going to DFW. What a cluster!”

  I put a tea bag in each mug, suddenly relieved Anita interrupted my departure for the Row.

  “And that son-in-law of mine, geez Louise.”

  Leaning over the kitchen bar, I said, “Don’t say geez Louise. It gets on my nerves.”

  “Good, I’ll remember to say that to Arnie. I love getting on his nerves.”

  The water in the kettle was warm, so it didn’t take long to boil. I sat a filled tea mug in front of her, asking, “When do you leave for Scotland?”

  “March 19th. I’m planning on dancing naked with Druids under the Spring equinox moon.”

  I blew over the top of the steaming tea. “Sounds like fun, but I’m not dancing naked, with or without Druids.”

  “The brochure said clothing was optional. I like options.”

  Anita was stalling or killing time, and I let her. We drank tea until she squirmed. “I gotta tell you, I’m having a hard time with this Floyd business.”

  I knew she’d get around to it. “How so?”

  She readjusted getting comfortable for a long gab session which I don’t have time for.

  “Back when I was looking for Fanny’s stuff, I ran across something odd.”

  “Yeah, what’s it to do with the Floyds?” A tickle formed in my belly dreading what she might say next.

  “That Willie boy, the kid you say was Fanny’s.”

  I held my teacup with both hands. “Yeah. No telling where he went after her death.”

  “There was this dude named Simon Floyd, a cousin to the current Floyds, I found on the census records for 1931. The records burned in the ‘20s so I moved forward.”