“Are you out of dessert?” was my favorite question, because the answer was no. I’d brought extra bars, just in case.
In a little less than an hour, I had a long list of names and associated information, as well as a burgeoning case of writer’s cramp in my hand. I shook my hand and flexed my fingers. I needed a break. Since I wasn’t on the police payroll, I shouldn’t feel bad about drifting over to Grandma Iris for a few minutes of rest.
She greeted me with bright eyes. “Did you hear the news?”
“No, which news?”
“Someone dumped a truckful of money on the highway out of town. As soon as Maxwell lets us go, we can all be rich!”
I put my hand over my face. This was the first I’d heard about the accident from anyone in the room aside from Maxwell, and I didn’t expect that he’d be glad to know the word had gotten out.
“Where’d you hear that?” I asked.
Grandma Iris smirked. “I heard it through the grapevine,” she sang, doing a little bump and shimmy to go along with the classic melody.
I sighed. Grandma Iris had the most amazing gossip network. And she liked to protect her sources.
“There’s no such thing as free money. It’s got to belong to someone.”
She frowned. “What about the law of finders keepers?”
“Not actually a law.”
“Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“We can ask Maxwell.”
“Ask Maxwell what?” Maxwell said, startling me with his sudden appearance.
“Nothing,” I said, feeling my cheeks turn pink at being found slacking on the job.
“The law of finders keepers,” Grandma Iris said. “It’s a real law, right?”
“No.”
“So the money truck on the highway... not ours for the keeping?”
Maxwell shot me a look of reproach. “Who told you about that?”
“I have my sources.”
“It wasn’t me!”
Maxwell raised an eyebrow. “Try to keep it quiet. The last thing we need is more cars on the scene.”
Grandma Iris nodded.
I didn’t think Grandma Iris was likely to follow that order, as keeping things quiet wasn’t her habit, but I let it go. I wanted to talk to Maxwell about the case, and especially about the identity of the new Fremont Cunningham.
I motioned with my eyes toward an out of the way corner. Maxwell put a hand on my elbow and guided us away. Grandma Iris stayed put at her post by the crime scene.
“So? Who’s the real Cunningham?” I whispered once we were alone.
“We can’t say officially, but the new arrival’s ID looks genuine.”
“What about the other Cunningham, the, uh, dead one?”
“I’ve been waiting for one of my cross-trained officers to get here. In a small department like this, we don’t have a dedicated CSI team, but a couple years back we got a grant to send some officers for training with the feds.”
“Meaning?”
“I haven’t touched the body. If our killer left any evidence, we don’t want it destroyed by casual contact.”
“Oh, right. Someone must have seen his ID, though.”
“Perhaps. If he went to a drinking establishment, and if that establishment was following the law about carding everyone.”
I thought about Cunningham’s drink order. He’d sent Shirley out for it from the jubilee, but he could have visited one of Marchville’s bars in the afternoon, even though he’d just arrived. It was possible, but didn’t seem likely.
“Wait, what about the Andersons? Nancy booked him at the Garden Rose, so they would have seen his ID when he checked in,” I said.
“Good thinking. Are they here?”
“Yes. I talked to them just a few minutes ago.”
With a nod, Maxwell set off across the room to find the Andersons. I followed in his wake. We found the couple nursing cups of coffee and chatting with the minister. Mrs. Anderson wore a dress with a large print of pink roses on a pale blue background.
“Hello Maxwell, hello again Kelly,” she said as we approached.
I smiled at the trio.
“If I might interrupt for a moment,” Maxwell said.
“Of course.” The minister gave a tight lipped smile and moved away.
“I understand that Mr. Cunningham was staying at the Garden Rose,” Maxwell said.
“Yes. He was booked for two nights.” Mrs. Anderson fluttered her hands to indicate the span of time. “Tonight and tomorrow,” she added.
“Did you check him in yourself?”
“I did. I always like to welcome our guests with a friendly smile and a little something to nibble on. Getting to Marchville from the city takes long enough to give people an appetite.”
Maxwell nodded. “Do you make it a practice to make a copy of your guests’ ID or only look them over?”
“Normally we make a copy.” Mrs. Anderson gave her husband a worried glance. “But in this case, Nancy said we had to treat him like a VIP, that he’s a real celebrity. So I checked him in without, you know, anything like that.”
“I see.”
We were no closer to discovering the true identity of the dead man.
Chapter 6
I was tired the next morning, after lying awake thinking about the murder. Maxwell had sent everyone home without any more information. I thought he would let me stay while the police did their work, since he’d made me a semi-official member of the force, but he shooed me out of the building along with everyone else.
Grandma Iris must have been tired too, after being out past her usual bedtime. But Buddy was lively enough for all three of us. Dogs don’t understand silly concepts like sleeping in. Buddy was used to a walk first thing in the morning, and a walk he would get.
We stumbled along behind the frisky bulldog, clutching our travel mugs of coffee. Grandma Iris let Buddy stop and smell every bush and tree.
“You’re unusually quiet this morning,” I said, after we’d made it nearly to the park at the end of the block in silence.
“I was just thinking about last night.”
“Yeah, me too.” The dead man’s face, gone from handsome to horrifying, had drifted through my nightmares.
“I don’t think Shirley will ever live this down.” Grandma Iris rubbed her hands. “Next time they put her in charge of anything, we’ll all be in Shady Acres with a diagnosis of dementia, because nobody will forget this.”
“Grandma Iris!”
“What a flop!” She chuckled, then looked at me innocently. “What is it, Kelly?”
“A man died last night.”
“That’s true, and you’re a sensitive soul. A true artist. Of course you’re upset.” She patted my hand. “And so you should be.”
“I can’t believe you’re not.”
“You don’t know how I’ve wanted to see Shirley go down. Of course, I wish it had been something else. That poor man didn’t deserve to die just for Shirley Morris to get her comeuppance. But she still deserved it.”
I shook my head. “You never fail to surprise me.”
“That’s how you stay young, you know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Grandma Iris had to be the youngest 80-something I knew, so maybe her method really worked.
“Have you heard from Maxwell today?” she asked.
“Of course not, it’s too early.” I kicked at some fallen leaves in my path. “Besides, his girlfriend probably wouldn’t like that.”
“Girlfriend? What are you talking about, Kelly Marie?”
“Didn’t I mention it? Maxwell has a girlfriend. They’re pretty serious.”
“Well of all the... What is that man doing, leading you on like that?”
“He didn’t lead me on. We’re friends.”
Grandma Iris made a sour face at that, like the word friends had the taste of a mouthful of lemon.
“If anything, you led me on.”
“M
e? Am I the one who made puppy dog eyes at you?”
“He didn’t make puppy dog eyes at me.”
“I have proof.” She took out her phone.
“You spied on us? Took pictures?”
“I like to have evidence. That’s why I would make a good detective.” She opened the photos on the phone and started swiping through them.
“I still can’t believe it. Don’t you believe in privacy?” I spluttered.
Grandma Iris’s face crinkled into a confused frown. “What in the name of Paul Bunyan is this nonsense?”
She held up the phone so I could see. I took it and swiped through picture after picture of a curly gray poodle.
“Are you cheating on Buddy with a poodle?” I said.
“Of course not, Buddy is my sweet boy.” Grandma Iris rubbed his ears and he lolled out his tongue in a doggy grin.
“Then what is...”
She took the phone out of my hand and wagged it at me. “These are not my photos.”
I didn’t feel so tired any more. From the fire in Grandma Iris’s eyes, I could tell that she didn’t feel tired either.
“Did someone steal your phone?”
“It could be hackers!”
“I don’t think hackers are likely to replace your photos.”
“Maybe not.”
“Did you leave your phone somewhere unattended?”
“It stays right here in my purse.”
Buddy pulled on his leash and barked. I looked to see what he was barking at. A tabby sat on the front steps of the house we were passing, washing its paw while keeping a wary eye on the dog.
“That’s it!” I said, “The other day at the park, when Buddy, Sparky, and Nancy Cook’s poodle went after that cat. You all had your phones out. You must have taken Nancy’s phone by mistake.”
Grandma Iris squinted at the photos of the gray poodle. “That does look like Muffin in the pictures.”
“You should text her and let her know about the mix up.”
“How can I do that? I have her phone.” Grandma Iris looked at me like I’d grown a second head.
“You can text from this phone to your phone.”
She squinted for a second, then gave a firm nod. “I knew that.”
“Of course.”
“This is Iris Conway. You have my phone. Please return it. I will be at the March Street Café at noon,” she muttered as she typed in her message. She pushed send and dropped the phone back in her purse. “That should do it.”
We let Buddy make his leisurely way through the park, smelling all the morning smells. I finished my coffee and started to feel a little energy.
“I wonder what Shirley plans to do for the final games of the bingo jubilee,” Grandma Iris mused. “The club will take a hit if we have to keep Mr. Cunningham extra nights at the Garden Rose. But if he’s not there to call the games, people might feel cheated and request their money back.”
“Sounds thorny.”
“It is.” Grandma Iris frowned and walked along silently for a while. “I feel so guilty.”
“You? What are you guilty of? You didn’t kill that man,” I protested. “Right?”
“No, but I might as well have.”
“How’s that?”
“Remember that ladies’ evening Maryellen invited me to last week? The one I worried would be one of those sales parties for makeup or leggings or some such thing I don’t even need?”
“Sure. I thought you had a nice time.”
“I did. But that’s the problem.”
“How?”
“It was a spirituality workshop. There were all kinds of herbs and crystals and candles. Anyway, one of the exercises was about visualization. They had us write a wish on a little piece of paper, and then we meditated on the wish while they played some pan flute music, and then we lit a candle and burned the papers. It was supposed to release the wish into the ether.”
I nodded slowly. “Ok, but I don’t see why you feel guilty.”
“It’s my wish.”
“Your wish?”
Grandma Iris shuffled along, kicking at the fallen leaves. “I wished that Shirley would fail and everyone would realize they made a mistake when they voted for her instead of me.”
“Oh, but you couldn’t have known that—”
“I was selfish and petty, and now my wish could end up destroying bingo in Marchville.”
She was silent after that. I tried to reassure her, but she just walked along, head down, feeling the weight of the disaster that loomed over her beloved bingo society.
We walked Buddy home. Every few steps he looked up at his mistress, sensing in his canine way that something was wrong. He and I both wished we knew how to make her happy again.
When we reached the front porch, Grandma Iris took Buddy’s leash off. Normally he’d frisk around and run a couple laps. Instead, he whined at her and licked her hand. She gave a deep sigh and stroked his ears.
Grandma Iris looked so frail, so sad. I vowed that no matter what it took, I’d find a way to solve the crime and save Marchville’s bingo society.
Chapter 7
Maxwell called me just before lunch and asked me to bring my sketch book to the police station. I relished the thought of helping catch the killer, so I put thoughts of a tuna melt out of my mind and left right away.
Officer Williams sent me right into Maxwell’s office. Maxwell was on the phone and motioned for me to take a seat. I sat in a visitor’s chair and looked around the office. A whiteboard with a sheet thrown over it stood by the wall on Maxwell’s right. Probably the murder board. Someone had taken care when hanging the sheet over it, leaving not so much as an inch exposed.
A framed picture sat on Maxwell’s desk. I leaned to the side until I could get a view of it. In the frame, Maxwell stood with his arm around a pretty woman, both of them grinning like they’d won the lottery.
Maxwell hung up the phone and I sat up straight again, feeling like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“Did you ask me here to treat me as a witness, or as a deputized helper?” I asked before I could lose my nerve.
He raised an eyebrow. “Would an answer of both satisfy?”
“It would.”
Maxwell smiled. “Have you ever considered joining the police force?”
“Who, me? I’m just an artist.”
He shrugged. “Speaking of art, I was hoping to get another look at that sketch you made of the stranger at the jubilee. Did you bring the sketch book?”
“Yes, of course.” I opened my sketch book and flipped to the page where I’d made a series of sketches of the stranger.
I passed the book across the desk. Maxwell studied it in silence.
“Did you get his name?”
“No. He didn’t want to talk to me. But he was hanging around the backstage area by Cunningham’s door.”
“I’d like to keep this sketch.”
I nodded. “Will it go in the official files?”
“Yes.”
A dart of electricity went through me at the idea of it. Maybe Maxwell wasn’t crazy to ask me about joining the force. Helping to solve a crime felt good. I thought of Grandma Iris’s sad face this morning. Murder didn’t harm only one victim. It had ripple effects in the community.
“Good,” I said.
Maxwell smiled and pulled the page out of the sketch book. He handed me the book and went to the whiteboard. He took the sheet off it and taped my sketch to the board. He took out a red marker and wrote a question mark under the sketch.
I studied the whiteboard. My sketch had joined pictures of the two Fremont Cunninghams. Other names were written on the board, including Shirley Morris, Nancy Cook, Maryellen Flowers, and me.
“I’m on your murder board?”
“That’s a list of organizers. You did the food, so you’re on the list. Lucky for you the victim wasn’t poisoned.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Otherwise I’d be a major suspect? Lucky in
deed.”
Maxwell smiled at me. “I don’t really see you killing anyone.”
“I thought cops were supposed to be suspicious of everyone.”
He shrugged. “There’s some leeway.”
“Speaking of leeway, when will the bingo society be able to finish the jubilee? I hear the police put the prize money into evidence.”
Maxwell frowned. “I’m afraid we can’t allow them to give out that prize money.”
I crossed my arms. “Why not? Is it police money now? Some kind of forfeiture thing?”
“No.”
I sucked in a breath, a wave of fury welling up in me. “That’s not fair and you know it! Holding onto that money will only hurt the bingo society, hurt the whole community. Or are you about to tell me it’ll help the community by becoming one of those police forfeiture things? I am fed up with the way you cops think you can just do anything you want without even thinking about how it affects people!”
Maxwell waited patiently through my rant.
“Have you finished?”
I glared at him.
“It’s not a forfeiture, but it is part of our investigation. Possibly a crucial part.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure it is.”
“In fact, I was about to go to the bank to ask some questions about it. If you’re not too fed up, would you like to come to the bank with me?”
“Really?”
“One condition. You keep your mouth shut.”
I nodded, but stuck my tongue out behind his back when he turned to go.
Before we left, Maxwell asked Officer Williams to contact NCIC and ask for help identifying the stranger I’d sketched. Williams said he’d get right on it.
Even though the bank was just blocks away, Maxwell drove us. He parked in the lot in back, even though he could have parked out front. Discreet, I thought.
“Now remember,” Maxwell said before we got out of the car, “Let me do the talking.”
“You got it, Chief.”
The lobby of the bank was a throwback to another era. A cavernous ceiling rose above us, and the fittings were the original brass from a past century. The marble floor featured a large circle in the center, surrounding a stylized sheaf of grain. The echoing space seemed to make people want to whisper.
March Street Mayhem Page 3