Blow Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  Ben said, “I missed seeing you today.”

  “Me, too.” A sigh escaped. Ben would be officially out of reach until they found whoever did this.

  “That address you asked about. The husband and wife are professors at the college, the Roerdens. He teaches religious studies and she teaches Renaissance history. They have two kids: a son, Brian, a sophomore at the college, and a daughter, Jenna, a high school senior. Want to tell me why you’re interested?”

  “I saw him just after the explosion and he acted more confused than frightened like the others were. He was also at that press conference with a girl. He blew her off but she followed him when he walked away. He told someone on his phone he couldn’t meet them because the girl was following him. In both situations he seemed pretty agitated.”

  “Everyone’s agitated; a bomb went off a couple of days ago. Maybe the girl has a crush on him. We’re really busy here, Britt. I can’t keep stopping to find information because you have a hunch.”

  Heat spread across my cheeks. “Last I checked, my hunches helped uncover a couple of murders in this burg.”

  He laughed, a good sound. “You’re right. Sorry for that. But you promised to get some real law enforcement-type training before getting involved in another situation like this.”

  He wanted me to improve my weapon skills and learn how to safely approach people who might try to harm me. He didn’t buy my comment that my camera was my weapon and he had a point. I’d had a few close calls, and the last thing I wanted was to repeat past issues between Ben and me. I didn’t like handling guns, even the P-238 SIG Sauer he’d given me, but I’d been practicing at the range.

  I puffed up. “I’m good at hitting the targets.”

  “I’m glad you’re practicing, but it’s not the same as someone shooting back at you.”

  Keeping the impatience out of my voice wasn’t working. “Those Citizen’s Academy programs are good. They do role play and scenarios. Would that work for you?”

  “That’s a start.” His voice softened. “You know I’m badgering you because I love you and want you to be safe.”

  No doubt seeing the professional way Robyn Barry handled herself reminded him that I was out of my league when killers were on the loose. I said, “I know. I promise.”

  “I need to go. We’re headed out.”

  Maybe Ben and the BCA weren’t interested in Brian, but gut instinct and years of reading body language to prepare for that perfect shot had fine-tuned my radar. Brian was worth keeping an eye on.

  *

  I sat in my SUV across from Brian’s house just before eight a.m., sipping coffee. His sister left first in her own car, presumably to drive to school. The mother drove off at eight-thirty. Brian and his dad left an hour later, walking the two blocks to campus together. I followed in my SUV and watched them argue—Brian waving his arms, the dad sticking a finger in Brian’s face. His dad looked the professor part. Distinguished salt and pepper hair curling over the collar of his tweed jacket, snug jeans and gym shoes to show he was young at heart. At the campus, father and son went separate ways, both scowling.

  Brian plodded toward the Sciences building. I parked in a visitor zone and caught up as he walked through the front entrance. My height and the ever-present camera bag made trying to be inconspicuous nearly impossible so I slowed down to follow him.

  According to Ben, most of the students had returned to class. But the gaping hole in the ground, an officer patrolling the quad and the eerie quiet were indications that things weren’t normal. The president had requested no rallies for the immediate future so the groups of placard-waving cause-supporters weren’t making the usual ruckus.

  With no particular agenda, I followed Brian to his next class. He didn’t talk to anyone, mostly staring at his phone as did most of the students. Social media addiction made surveillance much easier.

  People-watching kept me entertained between classes. Mid-morning, I perched on a bench in front of the library and opened the bag Little sent with me. I pulled out a baggie with carrot, celery and cucumber sticks and a plastic container of hummus. My brother’s random acts of nutrition were a minor nuisance I tolerated because his concern for my welfare was at the heart of what he did. I’d been anticipating a fluffy raspberry muffin but had endured worse disappointments. I chomped the carrot, finding satisfaction in the loud crunch.

  At noon, Brian bought sandwiches, chips and a drink in the food court and took them outside. He sat by himself at a table, hunched over his food. The table directly behind him wasn’t occupied so I slid into a chair with my back to him.

  Students moved in and out of the food court, stood in clumps talking or sitting together at scattered tables. A lone person lifted her head and scanned the crowd from a nearby knoll. It was the sleek-haired girl. She locked on Brian, threaded her way through the tables and plunked down next to him.

  “Hey, Brian, sorry you couldn’t make it last night. It was fun.”

  The hesitation before he spoke probably meant he was searching for a good excuse. “I forgot. Sorry.”

  Short and to the point with no explanation but enough of an apology to keep it from sounding too rude. I’d have to remember that.

  She tried again. “Your dad’s class on Eastern religions was awesome today.”

  Brian groaned. “Paige, don’t tell me about the talk. I’ve heard everything he knows a hundred times over. The old man never stops.”

  I pretended to pick up a fallen napkin and checked out the girl. Her glasses had slipped down her nose and she spoke through thin lips. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have Professor Roerden for a father. He’s brilliant. I’m going to take every class he offers.”

  Something rustled and I was dying to turn around, but didn’t dare. Brian’s voice was tight. “I know you only latched on to me because you’re so in awe of him. You’re not the first, but trust me, he’s not that great of a father. He doesn’t care about anything but his career and dopey girls like you treating him like a rock star.”

  She said, “That’s mean.”

  His chair scraped. “Just to warn you, he gets a little too close with his students. Do you know how many times we’ve had to move?” He whirled around and his backpack brushed the back of my head. “I need to be somewhere.” He practically trotted down the walkway.

  Paige picked up her things and stomped off in the opposite direction. I gathered my camera bag and trailed after Brian to the parking lot. He hadn’t driven, so why go to the parking lot? He glanced back and I ducked down, pretending to get into a car. He vanished behind a temporary classroom building.

  I hurried toward it, hugging the building. Raised voices told me he was talking to someone, but the breeze scattered their words. A quick peek around the corner revealed Brian and a guy in a wool cap talking. Brian waved his arms, clearly upset, reminding me of the first time I’d seen him and again with his dad this morning. The guy had a hand on Brian’s arm, leaning close as if trying to calm him down. I took pictures, catching Brian’s profile to add to the one of his full face from my tree surveillance. A dark beard hid most of the other guy’s features. The photos might not mean anything to the investigation but that didn’t bother me. It was too soon to try to understand what was important and what wasn’t.

  Their voices lowered and they talked for a couple more minutes. The bearded guy left first, moving in my direction. I scooted around to the other side of the building, waited a beat and then checked to see where he’d gone. A dinged-up Mazda hatchback headed for the exit, the bearded guy at the wheel.

  I’d lost Brian but jogged toward his house and saw him walking up his driveway. Either his classes were finished for the day, or he wasn’t attending afternoon classes. I waited an hour, then trotted back to the bureau.

  *

  Jason’s head lifted from his computer when I came in. He said hi and went back to typing. I poked my head into Cynthia’s office. “Have they learned anything more about Jeremy, the student who
died?”

  Her hand was on her phone about to make a call. “Jason contacted the sheriff, but hasn’t gotten much, no surprise.”

  I sat in my chair and scooted closer to the computer, thinking about Jeremy. It was always harder when you put a name to a person whose life had ended, especially someone young. I refocused and scrolled through my photos to bring up the guy Brian met with. The beard made him seem older. Likely nothing nefarious was going on, but Brian had acted strange at the explosion site, extra nervous at the press conference, fighting with his father, angry at the girl and ranting at the bearded guy. I decided to keep observing him for a while.

  Ben hadn’t been subtle about wanting me to stop asking for favors, but this time I had information for him. I called and told him about Brian meeting with the bearded guy. “I’ll send you the shot.”

  “Interesting. I’ll pass it on to the sheriff and Robyn.”

  Then I brought up the second reason I called. “We need a story on Jeremy Powers. Can you give me any more information?”

  “They’ve just begun investigating but I can give you the basics. They’re checking to find out if he had any enemies. He was the only one to die in the explosion.”

  “A personal vendetta against one kid? Chloe and the others were peripheral damage?”

  “Not so fast. This is what the sheriff’s working on. He’s talking to friends, family, classmates, professors, girlfriend, all that. It takes a while.”

  “Will you let me know what you get?”

  “If you promise to stop following students around.”

  I’d have bristled, but he delivered the barb with a soft touch. We said goodbye and I scrolled through my photos, locating the ones of Brian and the bearded guy to send to Ben. In them, another dimension to Brian’s anger and agitation showed up—lowered head, eyes shifting back and forth, furtive. He and the bearded guy scanned the area around them nervously while talking. They did not want to be seen or heard.

  Chapter 8

  My strategy was to watch the communications building at the same time as last Thursday’s blast, watching for patterns of behavior. Most classes ran either Monday-Wednesday-Friday, or Tuesday-Thursday. This was Tuesday.

  My back resting against a strong limb, I prepared for an hour of tree perch surveillance. No one knew whether Jeremy and those hurt were random victims, so surveying students coming and going might reveal something.

  They’d encircled the blasted area with orange cones, but removed the crime scene tape. Kids went up and down the stairs as classes ended and new ones began. Some dawdled, some raced to make it to class on time.

  A skilled still photographer, these days I had to be adept at video as well. Editors wanted film for the online version of the paper. I zoomed in and started filming at ten-fifty, stopped a few minutes after eleven and settled in to wait. Usually a restless person, I was used to waiting when working.

  I started filming again at eleven-fifty when the students poured out of the building. Brian wasn’t in either group, but he wasn’t my focus today. This was ongoing research. I’d do the same thing on Thursday.

  Most of the kids didn’t even notice the crater in the building, it was yesterday’s news. But a few darted nervous glances at the torn-up section of steps. Had those students been walking down them just before or after the explosion went off? A couple students looked familiar. I’d been hanging around the campus for several days and that probably meant I was being noticed as well.

  I stored my camera in my pack and hopped down. No security officers noticed me in a tree with my camera trained on the bombed building, and I was relieved not to have to explain my unauthorized business there. The tree was in full fall color keeping me fairly well hidden. Maybe security hadn’t seen me.

  The only thing I learned was that most of the kids descended close to the left side and then veered left at the bottom. No mystery there. It was lunchtime and they were headed to the food court.

  *

  Little had his phone between his ear and shoulder and was putting the finishing touches on a plate. “I don’t know where she lives, Violet, but if you find her, please ask her to bring me more of her lovely cooking herbs. She knows which ones.”

  He put the phone away and handed the platter to a waitress. He asked, “Want something to eat?”

  “Thanks, I’d like what that person just had.”

  He frowned. “I’m adding a salad to yours. No fries.”

  I’d learned to accept whatever he offered. I’d steal some fries later. “Any word on how Chloe’s doing today?”

  “She’s in pain and is worried about missing work. She needs the money for school.” Talking as he flipped burgers, he said, “I’m paying her for her usual hours until she gets back.”

  “You’re a good guy, Little.”

  “It’s only right.”

  “What did Violet want?” I leaned against a counter.

  Little flapped his hands to shoo me away. “You know I don’t like people in my kitchen with hair flying around.”

  When I’d removed myself a safe distance from his counters, he said, “A couple women from the Cities bought up all Emmaline’s products and Violet wanted to let Emmaline know, but she doesn’t have a phone. No one knows her address.”

  “Odd to be in business without a phone number. I’ll swing by the salon and see if I can help.”

  “You really are bored.” He handed me a salad. “Here, eat this first. I’ll send the burger out in a minute.”

  I sat at the counter, dutifully crunching the surprisingly good salad. Little was right, I was bored, but that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to help Violet. She’d come to the hospital more than once when my body was hurt and my spirit dragging. She’d fix my hair or massage something soothing into my skin. Those ministrations nurtured my very soul. There was no paying her back for that, but it made me feel good to try.

  After lunch, I went to the garage to pick up Rock and found Lars snoozing in an old chair pulled up to the potbellied stove. Knute napped along with Lars, but Rock danced around, always ready for a walk. I tiptoed out with him at my heels.

  Violet was sitting in the salon with her feet up. She rose when the bell above the door tinkled. I put out a hand to stop her. “No need to get up, I’m just here to say hello.”

  She relaxed back against the seat. “My next appointment’s not for an hour.” Her head tilted toward Bella’s empty rocker in the corner. “It’s when I’m alone that I really miss Mom sitting over there flipping channels and driving me crazy ranting about every political issue that comes up. I always thought it would be nice to have some peace and quiet, but it’s not.”

  I picked up an old Style magazine and flipped through it. “I was with Little when you called about contacting Emmaline.”

  Today Violet’s hair was styled in loose auburn curls that did a spiral dance when she shook her head. “She doesn’t have a phone and only comes to town once a week to bring new products—they need to be fresh, they’re organic—and she prefers that I pay her cash. I know she didn’t expect someone to buy everything at once so she won’t be here for days now.”

  I stretched. “How about if I check with Jeanie at the post office?”

  She perked up. “Good idea. Emmaline told me she needed money, that’s why I went against Mom’s wishes. I know she’d appreciate it if we sent her a note or something. Her last name is Moreau.”

  Rock and I walked the block and a half to the tiny brick building that was our local post office. Jeanie came around from behind a partition where she’d been distributing the mail. “Hey Britt, someone said you were up there in Branson taking pictures of that awful explosion. I don’t know how you can stand to do that. I can’t even watch stuff like that on TV.”

  I got that comment a lot. “It’s hard, but it’s my job.”

  “What can I do for you? If you’re waiting for your mail, it’s not all sorted yet.”

  “Do you know how I could get in touch with Emmaline Morea
u?”

  Jeanie’s head tilted toward the bank of mailboxes. “She picks up her mail here like you.”

  “Isn’t it required to provide the post office a physical address? I did.”

  Jeanie whispered, “That’s not public info.”

  I bit my lip. “I just don’t know what to do. Bella’s in Cooper convalescing from that hip surgery and Violet can’t get away from the salon. People are asking for Emmaline’s products and Violet doesn’t know how to contact her.”

  “In that case.” She went to the back and returned in a minute. “All I have is Jackson Road. I don’t even know what county that’s in. She didn’t leave a phone.”

  “I’ll check my phone maps app. Thanks for your help. If she comes in, be sure to tell her to see Violet.”

  Little had never heard of Jackson Road. It didn’t show up on my phone map or Little’s laptop. He found a crinkled area map and spread it out on the counter. We bent over it for ten minutes. Little sat up. “The map doesn’t even list it.”

  Obstacles made finding it more interesting. “Is there anyone in the restaurant who’s lived in Spirit Lake a long time?”

  He surveyed the café, checking out the customers. “Bella would be your best bet.”

  “Great idea.” I folded the map. “Can I take cookies?”

  “Sure, and let me give you a list of herbs I’d like if you find Emmaline.”

  On the way to the convalescent home in Cooper I considered how to approach Bella without getting Violet into trouble.

  Faith accepted a cookie bribe and let me bring Rock in to see Bella again. Bella’s eyes were closed, but snapped open when Rock licked the hand that had slipped off the side of her bed. The cookies and the few facts I knew about what was going on at the college gave her something to chew on. When there was a lull, I said, “I’m looking for a house on Jackson Road, but we couldn’t find the road on the map.”

  She wiped lemon cookie crumbs from the sheet. “Not much out there anymore. They built County Road Three about twenty years ago and it bypassed that dirt road. There were only a couple of farms. A young couple bought one of them a few years back and spent a fortune to renovate. But they hated the solitude and miserable winters and went back to Iowa.” She squinted, remembering. “The Pearsons farmed out there but the old folks have died.”