Clueless Chase

by Wendy Meadows

  “Stop lying to me,” the woman warned Mary, not believing a word Mary was speaking. “I know Monroe gave you the photo of us. You’re a newspaperwoman. You’re the perfect person to pass the photo off on. Oh yes, I know Monroe. He gave you the photo and told you to publish it if anything were to happen to him.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Mary insisted.

  “Then where is the photo?” the woman demanded. “I searched Monroe’s luggage and his room. I came up empty-handed.”

  “How do you know he even took the photo with him?” Mitchell asked her.

  “Why wouldn’t he?” she said. “The photo was prolonging his miserable life. Why would Monroe leave Los Angeles without it?” The woman glared at Mitchell. “I would have killed him before he left Los Angeles, regardless of the photo, if you hadn’t become his shadow.”

  “It was my duty,” Mitchell explained.

  The woman ignored Mitchell and went back to Mary. “I’ve been watching Monroe with careful eyes ever since he arrived,” she said. “I arrived in town yesterday and followed you around, Mrs. Holland. I wanted to become acquainted…from a distance.” The thought of the strange woman following her around unseen gave Mary the creeps. “I was at the train station today. I followed you and Monroe to the hotel. Monroe never left the hotel and you were the only person, besides the detective, who made contact with him. So it reasons that Monroe gave you the photo.”

  Mary shook her head. “Monroe Baker didn’t give me any photo,” she fired at the woman. “Lady, I don’t know you who are but you’re way off base. Monroe Baker treated me like I was a cold piece of ice.”

  “Liar!” the woman yelled. “You went to school with Monroe. You knew him. You were friends. Why else would he agree to headline your stupid little talent show? Monroe is…was a star. He was concerned with his career, not being annoyed with little sideshows.” She squeezed the handle of her gun. “Monroe trusted you.”

  “Monroe didn’t even know that I was the girl who slapped him across the face during the spring dance,” Mary told her. “He didn’t recognize me, and I barely recognized him. We weren’t exactly friends in school, either. And to be honest, I didn’t remember slapping him across the face either until I drove him to the hotel. Sometimes you simply forget people…memories…places.”

  “Stop lying to me!”

  “I’m not lying!” Mary screamed. “Lady, are you dense or something? I’m telling you the honest truth.”

  The woman began to yell back at Mary, but she heard a front door open in a house across the street. Worried voices, along with two flashlights, appeared on the front porch.

  “You have until tomorrow night to produce the photo or your nervous little friend dies,” the woman warned Mary. “After I kill your friend I’ll begin picking random targets.”

  “Why, you—”

  “Tomorrow night,” she warned Mary and quickly pointed her gun at Mitchell. “Your gun, please, or she dies right here and now.” Mitchell reached under his raincoat and pulled out his gun. The woman stepped forward, snatched the gun from his hand, looked across the street, and then, like a cat, sprinted off on silent legs and vanished into the darkness.

  “Well, wasn’t that interesting,” Mary said in an angry voice. She balled her hands into two fists. “I could have walloped her a good one.”

  Mitchell folded his arms and began to think. “I recognized her voice,” he said in a strained voice. “I can’t rightly place it…but somewhere I’ve heard her voice before.” He shook his head with chagrin. “I can’t believe I let her get my gun.”

  Mary watched Mr. and Mrs. Hardbrook slowly ease off their front porch and begin walking around their battered two-story house.

  “Coffee, Detective?” Mary asked.

  “Coffee sounds good.”

  Mary walked Mitchell to her house. She entered through the back door and motioned around her kitchen. “Home sweet home. Please have a seat.”

  Mitchell examined the kitchen with warm eyes. The kitchen was cozy and inviting. “There seems to be no damage to your home. I did notice a few fallen tree limbs, but nothing more. The power is even on in this part of town.”

  “It does seem like downtown took the brunt of the storm,” Mary agreed, feeling grateful that the power was on. She hated the dark. “I’ll make us some coffee, and if you’re hungry I can cook us something to eat. I’m starving.”

  “I’m a tad hungry myself,” Mitchell told Mary. “However, if you don’t mind, I’ll do the cooking. You see, cooking is a hobby of mine.” Mitchell took off his raincoat and hung it up on a wooden coat rack standing next to the back door and then wiped some rainwater off his black suit. “In my spare time, I attend a very elite cooking school.”

  “An elite cooking school?” Mary asked, taking off her own raincoat.

  “Yes,” Mitchell said and then smiled. “The classroom is located at Ralph’s Diner,” he said and winked at Mary. “Ralph is an old friend who has been teaching me how to cook.”

  Mary smiled. “That must be some school,” she said and pointed at the refrigerator. “My kitchen is your kitchen.”

  Mitchell hung up Mary’s raincoat for her. “You have a lovely home,” he said.

  “This house is very old,” Mary explained, walking over to the kitchen counter. “My husband simply fell in love with it. I wanted something smaller and closer to town. However, marriage is compromise.” Mary picked up a green can holding coffee. “I think John wanted to buy this house because someday he believes…we might have children and…the voices of our children will fill each and every room in this house.”

  “I pray that’s true.”

  “Me, too,” Mary replied. She stood still and stared at Mitchell. “Detective, there is plenty of room in this house. I have a very nice guest room. You’re welcome to stay here if you would like.”

  Mitchell looked around the kitchen. “It wouldn’t be proper to stay overnight in a woman’s home without her husband present. I’ll go back to the hotel and take a room.” Mitchell eased over to the refrigerator. “I will, however, cook us a delicious dinner.”

  “John wouldn’t mind you staying here,” Mary told him. “And to be honest, I wish you would. I feel very scared right now and I know my husband would want a man like yourself present.”

  Mitchell looked at Mary. Yes, he thought, if he had been allowed to have a daughter his daughter would have turned out like Mary Holland. “Mrs. Holland, if you want me to stay then I will stay. I must warn you, I do snore, and you just might hear it even through the walls.”

  “John snores too.” Mary smiled. She felt relief wash through her heart. Having Mitchell present made her feel safe. The man was now feeling more like a father figure rather than an uncle or brother. “Sometimes my dear husband snores so loud I have to go sleep in the guest room.” Mary looked down at the coffee can in her hands. “I wish he were home snoring right now.”

  Mitchell watched sadness overcome Mary’s beautiful face. He wanted to offer comforting words but knew his words would fall short of accomplishing any meaningful mission. So he did what any father would do. He opened the refrigerator and began exploring the contents. “Ah, yes, I think I’ll make us a nice meatloaf.”

  “Meatloaf sounds wonderful,” Mary told Mitchell and began working on making the coffee. As she did, her mind returned back to every word the killer spoke to her. Mary found it amazing and creepy just how twisted Los Angeles appeared in her mind. The movie business sure was different from what she thought it was. In fact, Mary thought, getting the coffee going as Mitchell worked on making the meatloaf, the movie business was deadly. However, in a small town like Pineville, the movie business seemed very appealing and full of shiny sparkles that lured in innocent hearts and transformed them into ugly monsters. Monroe Baker had been a prime example.

  Chapter 5

  Mary walked downstairs to find Mitchell cooking breakfast. The kitchen smelled delightful and inviting. The aroma of fresh coffee dancing with pancakes and
eggs warmed her hungry belly. Even though she had gone to bed stuffed on meatloaf, her belly woke up grumbling.

  “Smells delicious in here,” Mary told Mitchell and hurried to the coffee. Coffee was her second best friend. “I called Betty from the hallway phone upstairs. She said the tornado missed her house but there’s a few trees down in the front yard.”

  “Downed trees are better than destroyed homes,” Mitchell told Mary. He flipped three pancakes with amazing skill and then smiled. “The first time I tried to cook pancakes I ended up making mush stew.”

  Mary poured herself a cup of coffee. “I still burn pancakes whenever I cook them,” she confessed. “I always get my timing wrong. John never complains but I can tell he’s waiting for the day when I cook the perfect pancake.”

  Mitchell smiled again and watched Mary check the gray and white dress she had chosen to wear for the day. The dress spoke of a woman who was ready for work. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and her eyes were prepared to focus on the day ahead.

  “Mary, we talked late into the night. I apologize for keeping you up so late, especially on a work night.”

  Mary fought back a yawn. “I’m afraid we didn’t get very far. We still don’t have a plan to catch the woman who killed Monroe Baker.”

  Mitchell nodded his head. “You’re right,” he said in a disappointed voice. He focused on the stove. “We talked a great deal about the case, but I never did get around to asking you about your husband. I don’t mean to be nosy, but I’m very interested in the man who has your heart.”

  Mary smiled. “John has more than my heart,” she told Mitchell. “I’ll go to my grave with my husband. And if something were to happen to him, I would never remarry…just like you, Mitchell.” Mary and Mitchell were now on a first-name basis, which felt comfortable and normal. Mary sat down at the kitchen table. “My husband is the very heart beating inside of me.”

  “I can see that.” Mitchell smiled. “Tell me, Mary, how did you meet John?”

  Mary sipped at her coffee. “At a dance,” she told Mitchell. “At the Kiss Under the Stars community dance, to be exact.”

  “Kiss Under the Stars?” Mitchell asked. “Sounds—”

  “Small town, I know,” Mary admitted. “But our community dances are always so special. We decorate the high school gymnasium just like we were back in school. Oh, the feeling is…it’s like walking back through time and being a high school kid all over again. And one special night, you are a high school kid again, searching for love and romance.” Mary looked down at her coffee. “John saw me standing with Betty close to the punch bowl and walked right up to me and asked me to dance. He said he knew from the moment he saw me that I was going to be his wife…I knew I was going to be his wife, too, after only one dance.”

  “My wife and I met at a dance too…a policemen’s ball, really,” Mitchell told Mary. “My wife arrived with a cop who spent the evening brown-nosing the mayor rather than being a decent date. I was a rookie at the time—extremely green behind the ears.” John kept his eyes on the stove. “It took me all night, but I finally worked up the courage to ask her to dance with me. Like you, I knew we were going to become husband and wife after that one dance.”

  Mary heard the sadness in Mitchell’s voice. “I’m very sorry your wife died.”

  “I’m very happy your husband is alive,” Mitchell told Mary. He raised his eyes and looked across the kitchen. “After the tornado and running into our mysterious friend with a gun, I began to think about how close we both came to dying last night, Mary. Life is so fragile.”

  Mitchell picked up his coffee and took a sip. Even though he was dressed in his black suit he appeared like a middle-aged father figure chewing at the seconds with a loving daughter. “I rarely take the chance to make new friends anymore. I hold onto my old friends and approach the future with a very strong distaste. After last night I realized that my attitude had been harming me.” Mitchell looked at Mary. “Sharing your life with friends can be a precious gift. Learning about each other, laughing, sharing memories, enjoying coffee together. The little things matter, Mary, with old and new friends. I seemed to have forgotten that. I guess I’ve been using my work as an excuse to stay hidden.”

  Mary felt she understood what Mitchell was trying to relay to her, yet she didn’t fully grasp his words. “Coming close to dying can certainly make a person think,” she admitted.

  Mitchell agreed. “I lay awake last night thinking about how tired I feel,” he told Mary. “You see, I didn’t want to come to Tennessee. As a matter of fact, I requested to be taken off the Bridget Carson case. However, my boss wouldn’t hear of it. I have a reputation, you understand, and my boss feels that if anyone can solve the Bridget Carson case, that person is me. Mary, I don’t want to solve this case. I don’t…want to care about murder anymore. Murder is ugly…and it’s a bottomless pit.” Mitchell reached for a Lucky Strike but changed his mind. “Today an actress is murdered, last month it was a banker, a few months from now it’ll be a John Doe lying face down in an alley. It’s a never-ending cycle that has worn down my heart.”

  “I can imagine so,” Mary told Mitchell. “Murder is a very ugly thing.”

  “Ugly indeed,” he replied. “My boss,” he sighed, “my boss is a good man, but he’s divorced, you see. The job is his life. He sleeps, eats, and breathes police work.” Mitchell took up a set of pancakes and placed them on a green plate. “What if we had died last night, Mary? What would my life say about me? Here lies a man who was the twin of his boss?”

  Mary heard the turmoil in Mitchell’s voice. “Mitchell—”

  “My wife is dead, Mary. I’m alive, yet…sometimes I feel dead myself.” Mitchell focused his eyes on a bowl of eggs. “I…made a decision.”

  “A decision?”

  “After this case, I’m going to retire,” Mitchell told Mary. “I’m going to open my own diner. I have quite a bit of money saved up. I would like to spend the rest of my years away from murder.”

  “Are you sure?” Mary asked in a shocked voice.

  “I’m sure,” Mitchell confirmed his statement. “I remain a cop because it’s all I know. If I had died last night, I would have never had the chance to take a fresh breath and get away from murder and risk opening a new door. I stand here fully alive this morning knowing that it’s time to shut one door and open another one.”

  Mary didn’t know what to say. “Mitchell, I…wish you the best.”

  Mitchell picked up the bowl of eggs. “Mary, I grew up in Arizona under the hand of a hard man—a man who never fully lived. I don’t want to experience that end. Now, tell me, how do you like your eggs?”

  “Scrambled,” Mary told Mitchell. “John and I both like our eggs scrambled.”

  “Scrambled it is then,” Mitchell said. He dumped the eggs into a frying pan just as there was a knock on the back door.

  “It’s Sheriff Mables!”

  “Oh, come in, Sheriff,” Mary called out.

  Sheriff Mables opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen. His eyes went straight to the stove. “I’m just in time for breakfast,” he said. “I haven’t eaten a bite in hours.”

  “Three for breakfast,” Mitchell said as he worked on the eggs.

  “You’re cooking?” Sheriff Mables asked in a surprised voice.

  “Mitchell is a chef,” Mary explained. “His cooking is far better than mine, Sheriff. You should taste the meatloaf he cooked last night.”

  “Maybe I will,” Sheriff Mables said, plopping down at the kitchen table. “I’ve been out for most of the night and some of this morning. My back is killing me.”

  “How bad is the town hurt?” Mary dared to ask, watching Sheriff Mables rub his lower back.

  “My house was spared,” Sheriff Mables said. “I found my wife in the basement safe and sound. I wish I could say that about the town.” Sheriff Mables shook his head. “Roofs are ripped off buildings, trees are down everywhere, power lines are down…only the north s
ide of town has power. The south side is ripped up pretty bad.”

  “The newspaper?” Mary asked, waiting for the worst.

  “Tree limb through the front window,” Sheriff Mables told Mary. “The paper will live to see another day.”

  “What about the wounded?” Mitchell asked

  “None so far,” Sheriff Mables explained. “Oh, there’s a few bumps and scratches, but no one is reporting any serious injuries. We’ve been very blessed.”

  “Yes, we have,” Mary agreed. “That tornado was awful.”

  Sheriff Mables nodded. “And that tornado ended your talent show, Mary. I guess some things aren’t meant to be.”

  “Better people believe a tornado ended the talent show than a dead body,” Mary pointed out. “I can always plan a second talent show.”

  “No time soon, I hope,” Sheriff Mables mumbled under his breath.

  “I heard that,” Mary said. She shook her head and stood up. “I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”

  “Thanks,” Sheriff Mables said, fighting back a yawn. “I came over here to tell you that a man named Walsh called my office this morning.”

  Mitchell turned and faced Sheriff Mables. “Mr. Walsh is the president of F&P Studios.”

  “That’s the message I got,” Sheriff Mables explained. “I decided to come over and talk with you, Detective, before returning the man’s call.” Sheriff Mables fished out a cigar from his coat pocket. “If apples ain’t red,” he griped, spotting his cigar broken in half.

  Mary poured Sheriff Mables a cup of coffee and walked it over to him. “Very hot,” she warned.

  Sheriff Mables took the coffee and set it down on the table. “Detective, why would the president of one of the biggest studios in Los Angeles be trying to contact a small-town sheriff?”

  Mitchell quickly scooped Mary’s scrambled eggs onto her plate and turned off the stove. “Sheriff, you have Monroe Baker’s body at the hospital, correct?”