Murder at the Car Show

by Sandi Scott

  The pair stopped beside a beautiful teal and white 1956 Chevy. At first Georgie thought perhaps an animal had gotten stuck in the car, or maybe it had been scratched or dented as it was parked. This group would surely scream bloody murder if anyone so much as breathed too hard on their cars, but when the man in the bowling shirt approached the car, he placed his hand over his mouth. To her horror, Georgie saw him pulling from the car the same blond woman who served her and Aleta lemonade just a short time earlier.

  A stocky woman wearing a western shirt and high waist blue jeans ran up with a blanket and spread it out on the ground. The man laid the blonde down on the blanket. “That woman isn’t going to have any idea there is a blanket beneath her. She’s dead,” Georgie muttered to herself. She knew a dead body when she saw one.

  As she moved closer, Georgie heard the man in the bowling shirt gasp. “Oh my, it’s Hera—Hera Packard.” He put his hand on her chin. “Hera! Hera, can you hear me?” He firmly slapped her face. “Hera, wake up! Wake up, honey!”

  The woman in the western shirt had her phone to her ear and was gibbering into the phone, obviously talking with emergency services. Georgie saw her mouth the word “hurry” over and over. The woman who had found Hera was standing off to the side and still crying. Georgie walked over to her and took her hand. “It’ll be all right.” Georgie tried to console her.

  “My gosh, Hera, why?” The woman wailed as she squeezed Georgie’s hand, but there was nothing either the man in the bowling shirt or the western dressed woman could do for Miss Hera Packard.

  Some of the car show attendees quickly left the picnic area. Others pulled out their cell phones to call someone and tell them what was happening or else record the gruesome scene. Georgie watched as the man continued trying to revive Hera. Just a few minutes earlier she had pink cheeks from being in the sun and a healthy complexion. Now, all the color in her face was gone; replaced with a sad gray color.

  An ambulance was at the picnic area within minutes. The Emergency Medical Technicians tried CPR; a glance at their faces made it clear to Georgie that they knew they were too late.

  “Did you know her?” Georgie asked the woman who had discovered the body, as they watched Hera being loaded into the back of the ambulance.

  “Yes. Hera Packard was a staple around here. She practically ran Agee’s Diner just off the main drag before she started working the events at the fairground.” The woman sniffled. “Why would she do this?”

  “Sometimes people suffer from depression silently,” Georgie said.

  “No, Hera wouldn’t kill herself, unless...”

  Georgie listened, nodding sympathetically. “Unless?” she asked encouragingly when the woman’s voice trailed away.

  “Unless what she said was true.”

  “What did she say?” Georgie held her breath.

  “I’ve got to go with her. Hera shouldn’t ride in the back of that thing with strangers. She should have a friend with her.” The woman patted Georgie’s hand and thanked her for her help, but before Georgie could question her any further, she was in the ambulance. It drove slowly from the picnic area. There was obviously no need for the ambulance to rush.

  Georgie moved back to Aleta who was still standing next to Marley and staring in shock. “What did you find out? Anything?” Aleta asked.

  “Her name was Hera Packard. The woman who initially found her said she worked at Agee’s Diner.”

  When Georgie looked at Marley, he was chewing his bottom lip. “Did you know her?” Georgie asked.

  “Yes,” Marley said simply.

  Aleta didn’t even look at Marley; she was too busy giving Georgie an angry look that said clearly—I told you so!

  “Well, we’ve all known people who have died. There isn’t anything suspicious about that.” Georgie smiled at Marley before blinking innocently at her sister.

  “Sure. Just like lots of people get back together with their ex-husband’s after they come to their senses,” Aleta snapped.

  “Why are you bringing up Stan now?” Georgie asked.

  Chapter 4

  “Because he just climbed out of that squad car.” Aleta jerked her chin towards the car she mentioned. Georgie turned around and let out a deep sigh. For once, she would like to solve a mystery without Stan loitering around.

  “What is he doing here?”

  “At a guess, I’d say, his job, Georgie.” Aleta defended Stan for two reasons: one, she always did like him and thought if anyone could tame Georgie, even a little, it was Stan; and two, she loved how defending him aggravated her sister. Nothing made her twin madder than when Aleta took Stan’s side. The whole relationship was hilarious.

  “Nope.” Georgie shook her head in disgust. “I know what Stan’s doing. He’s here to check up on me. He didn’t like the way I was dressed, and now, he has shown up under the guise of investigating to see if I am talking with anyone he disapproves of!”

  “I feel like I’m back in junior high. Do you want me to write Stan a note calling him a big poopy-head?” Aleta’s voice was full of laughter. “I’ll slip it into his locker during study hall.”

  “Laugh it up. A lot of help you are!” Georgie suddenly looked around. “Hey, where did Marley go?” Aleta looked around too.

  “He was here a second ago.” Aleta looked casually over her shoulder but didn’t put a lot of effort into it. She didn’t want Georgie to know she cared.

  “What did I tell you?” Stan said as he walked up to Georgie and Aleta.

  “I never listen to you, Stan. How would I know what you said?” Georgie snapped back.

  “I told you that outfit of yours was going to cause some problems.”

  “I didn’t cause that woman to kill herself,” Georgie whispered angrily.

  “How do you know she killed herself?” Stan instantly switched from annoying ex-husband to investigator.

  “I suppose you know who owns the car where she was found, too?” he continued with a serious look on his face.

  “I assumed Hera owned the car,” Aleta interrupted. “You mean she killed herself in someone else’s car? I think that is the epitome of rudeness.”

  “I agree.” Georgie was supportive of her sister.

  “My gosh, the poor person who came to this car show for some fun and socializing.” Aleta said, “They are going to have to get rid of their prize set of wheels because some stranger committed suicide in it. Hear that sound? That’s the sound of the value of that car crashing to the floor.”

  “You are right,” Georgie agreed. “Will you notify the poor hapless owner about his bad luck or just wait for him to return to the car stable to find your guys dusting for prints?”

  “I will let the owner know if we can find him,” Stan said, “otherwise, we’ll deliver the bad news when he shows up.”

  “What’s the guy’s name?” Aleta asked.

  “Marley Gillibrand.”

  “What?” Aleta gasped. Georgie started to chuckle.

  “What! You know him?” Stan looked back and forth between the two. “I might have guessed.”

  “That guy has been following Aleta all over the show. Marley was standing right here when they found Hera.” Georgie looked thoughtful. “A little odd that they pulled a body from his car, and he didn’t make a fuss.”

  “That is odd.” Stan looked at Aleta.

  “Don’t look at me.” Aleta shrugged her shoulders. “Your ex-wife was trying to get me to go out with the guy.” Shooting a sly look at her sister, Aleta added, “Boy, do you have terrible taste in men.”

  “Don’t I know it?” Georgie looked at Stan then grabbed her lemonade cup and started to head back to the main canopy in search of Errol. She’d had enough of the heat and the excitement for the day.

  “HELLO.” GEORGIE WAVED as she walked into the police station. Almost everyone knew her since she regularly came to visit Stan and often brought doughnuts or cookies. Today was an extra special day. She came bearing lemon poppy seed squares with raspberry
filling. “These are for everyone. They’ll be in the break room.”

  As she entered the bullpen where most of the uniformed officers and detectives completed their paperwork, Stan came bolting out of his office. Georgie gasped and clutched the tin of goodies. “Where’s the fire? You startled me!” she declared, glaring at the man in front of her.

  “I wanted to see what you were wearing.” Stan clicked his tongue before slouching in dejection. “Baggy blue jeans and a T-shirt? Mormons dress sexier than you do.”

  “Stan, no one wants to hear you talk.”

  “Hey—Milo, Tim, Sonny—you should have seen what my ex-wife wore to the car show yesterday!” The three officers perked up, nudging each other knowingly and asking for details.

  “She could have stopped traffic on I-95.” Stan then waved his hands like he was outlining an hourglass while whistling.

  “Don’t listen to him.” Georgie put the treats out then brought Stan a tiny paper plate stacked with the tasty morsels. “He’s prone to exaggerate.” She handed him the plate and stepped into his office; sitting down primly on the hard chair in front of his desk.

  “Leave the door open,” Georgie ordered. “I’m not in the mood for any games.”

  “What games?” Stan closed the door leaving it open just a crack. “Can I help it my ex-wife still has the body of Sophia Loren? My gosh, Georgie, I could barely concentrate on the case yesterday knowing you were walking around looking that way.” Perching on the edge of his desk, Stan put the plate down and looked at Georgie with a slight smile on his face.

  “You should probably get out more.” Georgie picked up a lemon square for herself from the plate that Stan had balanced precariously on the piles of paper that littered his desk. “What did you learn yesterday? Did you ever find Marley Gillibrand?”

  “We found out more about Marley, but I haven’t spoken to him yet. His car has been impounded while we dust for prints and evidence.”

  “Marley won’t like that. Those vintage car owners are downright hostile if you are rough with their wheels.” Georgie stood up and pulled a couple of napkins from behind Stan. She leaned dangerously close to him as she did so.

  “Mmm, you smell good, Georgie. And you’re wearing that perfume I love—Jungle Gardenia.” Stan inhaled deeply.

  “Do you think he had anything to do with the death of Hera Packard?” Georgie settled herself back in the uncomfortable wooden chair.

  “You’re just going to ignore me?”

  “Yes, Stan, I am. So, do you think he had anything to do with her death?”

  Stan took a file and flipped it open. There were pictures of the car, Hera’s body at the morgue, and the detailed forms the coroner fills out as he assesses the body and cause of death. “According to the coroner she had sleep aides in her system. Given the temperature inside that car stable, anyone trying to catch a nap inside one of the cars would be taking a serious risk. Heat stroke can happen to anyone at any time.”

  “That’s weird,” Georgie said. “I had just bought two lemonades from her about fifteen minutes before she was pulled from the car. Why would she take sleep aides in the middle of the day—unless she was suicidal?”

  “That’s a possibility.” Stan rubbed his chin and popped one of the lemon treats in his mouth.

  “I don’t think she was suicidal though.” Georgie shook her head and dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin.

  “Why?” Stan replied with a full mouth.

  “Hera had a nasty attitude,” Georgie said after she swallowed. “Suicidal people don’t usually act so grumpy. She was not pleasant when I asked for two lemonades—not out-of-the-park rude, but just someone having a fit.”

  “That’s true.” Stan took a sip of the cold coffee on his desk. “This case is starting to look like something a little more sinister was going on.”

  “Maybe.” Georgie shrugged, “Well, I’ve got to get going. See you later, Stan.”

  “Wait a minute now, Georgie Kaye.” Stan put his hand up.

  “You’ve got that look on your face, Stan. Don’t say something that’s going to make me mad.”

  “Now, Georgie, I think we had Andrew because you had gotten mad.” Stan’s smirk was so devilish that Georgie felt her knees weaken.

  “I’m leaving now.”

  “Wait. I just want to tell you that I thought you really did look beautiful yesterday.” Stan didn’t continue. He smiled and sat there looking innocently at Georgie.

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I just wanted you to know. I probably don’t tell you when you look nice. Yesterday, you looked really, really nice.”

  Georgie took a deep breath. She knew Stan’s games. He knew how to be a sweet-talker. She squinted at him waiting for the punch line or the catch, but Stan didn’t follow up with anything.

  “Thank you, Stan. I appreciate that.”

  “Now, how about when my birthday comes you wear that outfit and come pay me a visit?”

  “Is that all you want for your birthday?”

  “I think it would be a good start.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “We could pretend I’m getting you home after curfew; if we aren’t quiet, we’ll wake the neighbors and then they’ll tell our parents.”

  “Eww. Only you would incorporate your parents into a fantasy. Gross, Stan. You’re spending too much time with those guys in vice.”

  Stan laughed out loud as Georgie stood and walked out of his office. She was greeted with catcalls and whistles as she walked into the bullpen. “Knock it off.” She waved them all off knowing all the while that her cheeks were bright red. How many times had she left Stan’s office with her face on fire from embarrassment? So many she couldn’t remember them all.

  Georgie tried to shake off Stan’s spell as she stepped out of the police station. She inhaled the cool city air and let the sound of the traffic on the roads and in the sky drown out her thoughts.

  “They brought me back! The space aliens brought me back!” Georgie announced happily as she stood on the front steps of the police station. As usual, people stared and gave her a generous amount of personal space. She chuckled.

  Chapter 5

  Georgie’s journey to the Busy Bee Diner was a dangerously absent-minded one as she focused on Hera Packard. There really weren’t a lot of facts. As she drove she was on autopilot, and, once Pablo was parked, Georgie couldn’t be sure she had obeyed all the traffic lights. The words Aleta had spoken yesterday rang through her head—You’re still in love with Stan. “That’s crazy talk. The man drives me crazy. Just crazy,” Georgie muttered while climbing out of the car. She waved her arms as if she were conducting a silent orchestra.

  Looking down, watching her steps, and seeing the sidewalk instead of where she was headed, Georgie remembered what her oldest son, Jonathan used to say “You never find anything looking up”; keeping a tight hold on Georgie’s hand as he looked at the ground below their feet. The memory brought a smile to her face. She knew the little boy had gotten those words of wisdom from his Grandpa. Grandpa always found pennies, Matchbox cars, charms, and other treasures during their morning walks together. Just then Georgie walked right into the Walk/Don’t Walk sign.

  “Ouch!” Georgie furrowed her brow. She was embarrassed as much as she was surprised.

  At that moment she heard a familiar voice behind her, “Georgie, wait up! I was calling your name, but you didn’t hear me.”

  Georgie turned around and saw Malcom Obberfield, trotting up to her. “Hi, Obby,” she smiled and rubbed her forehead. “Did it leave a mark?”

  “Your forehead looks like you got ashes at church,” Obby said, snapping a white handkerchief from his inside pocket and dabbing Georgie’s forehead with it.

  “I was thinking this just proves I can’t do two things at once.” Georgie chuckled. “Walking and thinking is one task too many.”

  “Your thoughts must be about something serious.” Obby was solicitous.

 
“Not terribly. Where are you headed?” Malcolm Obberfield was an eccentric art dealer who had recently moved to Chicago to set up his own gallery. He loved the arts and appreciated works of beauty. Georgie enjoyed his company immensely, Obby always took her seriously and treated her like a piece of fine china.

  “I was invited to a small coffee shop on the South Side to view the owner’s custom art. I had seen it featured in one of the local papers.”

  “Would that be Perks?” Georgie inquired.

  “Why, yes, it is!” Obby said, delighted and impressed with Georgie’s knowledge of the local areas and artists. “Have you seen the artwork?”

  “I have indeed!” Georgie’s eyes sparkled.

  “And what is your professional opinion of it?” Obby asked with interest.

  “I think the artist’s name is Marty if I remember correctly. I think he has amazing potential.”

  “I’m hoping to purchase a piece for my private collection,” Obby confided—adding almost as an afterthought— “You know, you did promise you would come see my collection.”

  “Did I?” Georgie felt flustered; she knew what was coming. Georgie liked Obby—she really did! They had so much in common. Chatting about galleries she’d visited and artists she admired was wonderful! She believed there was no greater artist than Michelangelo, whose statue of David was enough to move her to tears, and to discuss this passion, this emotional response to an old master, could only be truly enjoyed with someone who experienced those same feelings even if they are prompted by Van Gogh or Rembrandt or Matisse or Monet.

  “Yes, you did.” Obby’s blue eyes twinkled. He was nothing like Stan, who could barely spell Michelangelo let alone be so moved by his work—not that it made him a lesser man. Georgie would never think that, but the time they spent apart made her realize she had valid and valuable opinions on the matter. She wanted to share them with someone who understood. You’re scared to death to take the first step. Her subconscious was suddenly very loud.

  She was scared. What if she found that she and Obby were truly compatible? What if she developed real feelings for him? Worse, what if he developed real feelings for her? What would she tell Stan? These questions rocketed through her mind.