Read Herring Hunt

by V. M. Burns

  “She was asking for what she got.”

  Jenna groaned and put her hands to her face.

  “Are you saying Melody Hardwick deserved to be murdered?” one of the reporters questioned.

  “[bleep] right. She wadn’t no saint. I can tell you that. But it wadn’t my boy that done killed her.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “’Cause I know who did kill her.” A-squared stared into the cameras.

  This sent the reporters into a frenzy. They flung out questions at the speed of light. But A-squared merely grinned at the cameras, tapped his forehead knowingly, and winked.

  Detective Stinky Pitt must have been standing nearby because the next thing we saw was him pulling A-squared away from the cameras.

  We stared at the screen for what felt like an hour afterward, but he never reappeared. When it was clear nothing more would be shown, I flipped to the other news stations. The same A-squared circus played on all of the news stations, but none of them had more than what we’d already seen.

  Jenna hopped up and began to pace around the room. I’d seen my sister mad before, but nothing compared to this. Her face was red, and she kept mumbling, “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  Dawson’s jaw was set in such a way I was certain he was grinding his teeth. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He looked mad enough to spit nails, as Nana Jo would say.

  Nana Jo was the only one who looked to be enjoying herself. There was a twinkle in her eyes and her shoulders shook in silent laughter. After a few seconds, she finally burst out laughing.

  Jenna spun around and stared. “What’s so funny? God knows I need a good laugh right now. That moron just insulted women, implied Melody Hardwick deserved to be murdered, and announced to the world he knows who murdered her. Oh, and he just got out of jail. People will think like father, like son. We need people to like Dawson and to believe him innocent. Most people will be so repulsed by that idiot, they may convict Dawson in the public’s eyes without a trial.”

  Nana Jo wiped a tear from her eyes. “You were worried Sam or I would say something to the media to ruin your case. Looks like we’re the least of your worries. We could hardly make a bigger mess than that fool just did. Beam me up, Scotty, indeed.”

  We stared at her and then each other.

  Nana Jo smiled. “Nothing you can do about it now anyway. What’s done is done.”

  Dawson had been tight-lipped throughout the news report. “What are you going to do now?” he asked Jenna.

  “I’m going home and have a nice long bath, a good dinner, and a glass of wine . . . maybe a bottle. Then I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what to do about your dad. I need to figure out a way to distance you from him.” She grabbed her keys. “I’ll talk to you in the morning,” she said to Dawson.

  He nodded.

  “Please, don’t make this any worse than it already is.” She looked at me and Nana Jo.

  We crossed our hearts and held up three fingers in the Girl Scouts’ honor and watched her leave.

  My stomach growled and Nana Jo and Dawson acknowledged they were hungry too, so we scanned the cabinets for something to eat. Dawson discovered my stand mixer not only mixed dough but could also make pasta. Leon had bought several of the attachments that made everything from ice cream to sausage. The company that manufactured the stand mixer was headquartered in North Harbor, so accessories weren’t hard to come by. I promised myself one day, when things settled down, I’d take a class and learn how to use the attachments I already had. That day never came. Now, Leon was gone. I wiped away a tear and hoped Nana Jo would chalk it up to the onions I was chopping. Thankfully, there were videos for virtually everything on the Internet. Dawson watched a five-minute crash course on making pasta, then took flour, salt, and water and made spaghetti. Nana Jo made a spicy marinara sauce and I chopped and grated. The end result was delicious.

  Spaghetti, a salad, and garlic toast gave me the final push I needed to head out to the campus in search of answers. Surely there was someone else besides Dawson who wanted to see Melody Hardwick dead. I prayed I could find that person before Dawson paid for a crime he didn’t commit.

  Chapter 8

  I really should have gone to campus earlier or waited until tomorrow, but time wasn’t on my side. I didn’t have a plan as I parked in the visitor lot and walked to the student union.

  MISU was on a beautiful, sprawling campus with acres of rolling lawn manicured to perfection. The campus sat on the outskirts of North Harbor with views of Lake Michigan from its western side. Ivy-covered brick buildings dotted the landscape and presented a peaceful backdrop. The university was founded in the early twentieth century with an emphasis on agriculture and teaching. Later, as the automotive industry grew in North Harbor and Detroit, the university expanded to include engineering and finally, a liberal arts school was added. The large trees that provided shade and shelter were centuries old.

  I enjoyed walking across MISU’s campus because there was so much beauty to be seen. I wasn’t sure where to look for a memorial for Melody Hardwick, but I started at the student union.

  On the first floor there was a bookstore that sold everything from textbooks to macaroni and cheese. There was a cafeteria and an entire wall set aside for event flyers, jobs, and protests. I spent fifteen minutes scanning the board. The only thing I found close to a memorial was a MISU Students for Peace candlelight vigil to be held next week to mark the anniversary of the Kristallnacht or Night of Broken Glass. Kristallnacht, November 9, 1938, was the date the Nazis torched synagogues, vandalized homes, schools, and businesses of Jewish citizens, and killed close to one hundred people. Students of all races, nationalities, and religions were invited to a peaceful vigil on campus to mark the date and pray for peace. I was touched that students in a small Midwestern university wanted to remember an event from more than seventy years ago. I felt a moment of nostalgia for my teaching days. As a high school English teacher, I met and, I hoped, influenced some of these caring people.

  “Sam.”

  I was so absorbed in my thoughts I hadn’t seen or heard Dorothy Clark’s approach and jumped when she touched my shoulder. “Dorothy. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  She stood next to me, holding a large bouquet of flowers. “I know. I called your name several times. What’s got you so engrossed on that board? Or are you just woolgathering.”

  “I was looking for some type of notice about a memorial for Melody, but I can’t find anything.” I looked at Dorothy closely. “You look nice. You must have a hot date?” I smiled and sniffed her flowers.

  “I had a date, but the professor had to cancel at the last minute.” She frowned. “If he’d given me a little more notice, I would have gotten a replacement. But, oh, well.” She looked around. “Hey, you wanna join me? My granddaughter is performing at the new Hechtman-Ayers Center for Performing Arts tonight. I’ve got an extra ticket so it won’t cost you a thing.”

  I protested, but Dorothy was persistent.

  “Look, you’re not going to find out anything that’ll help Dawson tonight from that board, and it’s too late to go wandering around campus by yourself, anyway.” She grabbed me by the arm. “You look as though you could use a little culture in your life, anyway. Besides, afterward, we’ll take Jillian out for coffee and you can pump her for information.”

  “But I’m not dressed for it.”

  “You look fine. You won’t be the only person there in jeans. You’ll look just like the other students.”

  Dorothy’s intention was to place my mind at ease, but her words reminded me of my mom’s criticism of my attire earlier in the week. I thought I had shoved those thoughts into my internal sea of forgetfulness. Dorothy’s words brought the feelings back to the surface. I looked at my jeans, black T-shirt, and black hoodie. It was a lot of black. I thought about what I’d worn yesterday and the day before and briefly thought of my closet. It was full of blue jeans and dark shirts. I could hear
my mom’s voice in my head, “. . . hiding behind mourning.”

  I shook myself to get my mom’s voice out of my head.

  “Are you cold, dear?” Dorothy asked.

  “No. I’m just . . . never mind. I’m fine. I’d love to see your granddaughter perform.”

  We walked the short distance to the new performing arts building. Dorothy had excellent seats near the front. Once we were seated, I looked around. She was right. I wasn’t the only person wearing jeans. However, I refused to head down that road again. Instead, I focused on the beautiful building. Unlike the majority of the buildings on campus, the Hechtman-Ayers Center wasn’t the traditional ivy-covered limestone box but was a light and bright, modern, concrete and glass shell. The school now offered everything from sculpture and metal-smithing to painting and dance studios, along with three performance spaces.

  The performance tonight was Giselle, a classic ballet. According to the program book, Giselle was a frail but beautiful peasant girl in love with a count pretending to be a peasant. The count was already engaged and when his duplicity was revealed, Giselle dropped dead and became a spirit who trapped men and forced them to dance to death. Dorothy’s granddaughter had the lead role, and she looked and performed beautifully.

  When the performance was over, she received a standing ovation and there were very few dry eyes in the building. I hadn’t attended very many ballets. I’d seen the Nutcracker and Swan Lake in person, but this was amazing.

  I walked around the art gallery in the lobby while Dorothy went backstage and congratulated her granddaughter. Dorothy’s son and daughter-in-law were out of the country and she wanted to make certain Jillian had family present for her performance. The lobby was a multipurpose space. In addition to showing off the lovely architecture of the building, with its tall walls and glass ceiling, it was also a marquee for advertising future performances and an exhibition space for sculptures and artwork. I didn’t understand all of the art exhibited, but I appreciated the creativity and intelligence needed to create it.

  Dorothy and Jillian were back long before I’d finished perusing all of the art, but maybe I’d come back another day. The three of us walked to the student union. They had a small River Bend Chocolate Factory café that served chocolate, treats, and beverages. Most of the ballet patrons must have had the same idea because the small shop was packed, but Jillian and I snagged a table in the corner while Dorothy ordered.

  “You were amazing. How long have you studied ballet?” I asked while we waited for Dorothy.

  Jillian was tall with a slender, dancer’s body. She had large expressive dark eyes, and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun at the back of her neck.

  “Thank you. I started ballet when I was three.” She beamed. “I love dancing.”

  “Do you do other dancing besides ballet?”

  “Jazz, tap, hip-hop, ballroom, Latin, you name it.”

  “Wow. So, are you a dance major?”

  She looked sad. “No. I’m majoring in business with a dance minor.” She shrugged. “My dad thought I needed to major in something that would provide a stable income.”

  “It’s good advice, although I recommend studying what makes you happy and obviously for you, that’s dance. But business skills are always handy.”

  “I agree. I don’t dislike business; in fact, I’ve been thinking I might like to have my own dance studio one day, but business classes aren’t the thing that gets me revved up every day. I have lots of interests. In fact, I think we have one of them in common.”

  I smiled but must have looked puzzled.

  She laughed. “Grandma said you own a mystery bookstore. That must be cool.”

  “I do, and I enjoy it a lot. Do you like mysteries?”

  “I love to read. I read some mysteries, but mostly I like romance. Grandma said you’re investigating who killed Melody Hardwick. That sounds pretty cool.”

  “Well, I’m not sure about cool, but I don’t believe Dawson killed her and the police don’t seem to be looking for anyone else.”

  “Of course. I totally get it. How can I help?”

  “Did you know Melody?”

  “She was supposed to be in my history class, but I don’t think I ever met her. She was a senior and I’m just a sophomore, and we didn’t run in the same circles. But I do know her roommate.”

  “Supposed to be?” I asked.

  Jillian looked away. She was trying to decide whether to share something. I remained quiet and waited to see what she did. Eventually, she continued. “She was on the student list, and she gets grades . . . but I never met her.”

  I must have looked confused.

  “We can see the grades online, so we know how everyone did on their quizzes and tests. It helps to know how you’re doing in comparison to the other students.” She shrugged. “Weird thing is, she’s getting A’s, but I’ve never seen her in class, not one time—not even for quizzes.”

  “But she has an A in the class?”

  Jillian nodded.

  “That is strange. What class is it?”

  “History of Cults. The professor is nice. He’s a little odd, but he’s British, so his accent is nice. I think he’s some kind of expert on the House of David.”

  “Interesting.”

  Dorothy arrived with coffee for herself and tea for Jillian and me. There were also three slices of cheesecake, which looked divine. Jillian allowed herself one taste then declined the rest, stating if she ate the rest, her dance partner wouldn’t be able to lift her. Dorothy and I were forced to eat her slice too.

  We chatted until Jillian recognized some of her friends and said she had to get back to the dorm. Before she left, she agreed to meet me at the student union tomorrow at eleven, in between classes, and would introduce me to Melody’s roommate.

  I offered to drive Dorothy back to the retirement village. She had taken a taxi here, which must have cost a small fortune. We walked to the parking lot and, even though it was dark, I felt safe. Whether my feeling of safety was due to well-lit walkways with emergency police call boxes placed along the path or the fact Dorothy had a black belt in aikido, I wasn’t sure. I suspected it was probably due to Dorothy’s presence. I hoped her six-foot stature would deter anyone with malicious intent. If not, I’d witnessed her martial arts skills up close and she was definitely no one to be trifled with.

  I drove to the retirement village.

  As she got out of the car, she said, “I should have some information for you tomorrow afternoon. Tell Josephine I’ll call her.”

  I promised to relay the message, waited until she was safely inside, and drove home. Since Dawson’s studio apartment was immediately above my garage, he knew when I was home. As soon as my engine was off, he opened his door and Snickers and Oreo ran down to meet me. They took care of business and we went upstairs. Drained didn’t even begin to tap the surface of how I felt. Every muscle in my body felt tense and wound as tight as an alarm clock. I needed to relax, so I took a shower and, while the hot water pelted my skin, I thought about why I felt like a rung-out dishrag. A lot had happened in one day. From Dawson’s DNA test, arrest, and arraignment to the A-squared media debacle, it had been one crazy day. We’d gone through a lifetime worth of life’s worst events in less than eighteen hours. I didn’t want to upset Dawson, so I’d held my emotions in check all day. Without a release, I felt like I would explode. As the heat from the hot water massaged and loosened my muscles, I cried. I started out with just a few tears but ended up sobbing into a washcloth until I had no tears left to cry. When I was spent, I felt hollow and hungry. I dried off and put on my pajamas. When I opened the bathroom door, I noticed a light in the kitchen and smelled coffee and apple pie.

  In the kitchen, Nana Jo sat on a barstool with a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of apple pie.

  “The last slice of pie is in the fridge.”

  “I shouldn’t eat this. I just ate one and a half slices of cheesecake with Dorothy a couple hours ago.”
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br />   “You’ve had a shock. You’re supposed to eat sugar when you’re in shock. Isn’t that what they always do in those British cozies you read?”

  I laughed. “They drink tea with sugar. They don’t eat cheesecake and pie.”

  “To-may-to. To-mah-to.”

  I took my pie to the microwave.

  “Twenty seconds gets it hot enough to melt ice cream without making the crust rubbery.”

  I punched the time on the microwave and got the vanilla ice cream out of the freezer. Apple pie and ice cream were great, but Nana Jo’s coffee seemed like the perfect accompaniment. If I drank coffee this late at night, I’d be awake for hours. However, something in my body desperately needed that caffeine. So, I took an individual coffee packet and placed it in the single-serve coffee maker. The smell of the coffee, heated apples, and spiced, sugary goodness was divine.

  Nana Jo was right. My ice cream melted atop my pie and created a swirl of vanilla bean with the spiced apples, and when I took a bite, I moaned.

  “Told you so.”

  We ate in silence for a few moments.

  “You feel better?”

  Without saying a word, I knew Nana Jo was referring to my breakdown in the shower. Either she had ears like a bat or I was a lot louder than I thought. My money was on bat ears. Teachers learned to hone their senses after decades in the classroom. She had the ability to hear a gum wrapper in the back of a large classroom.

  “You heard me?”

  She nodded as she used her spoon to scrape the last bit of ice cream from her plate and then licked it clean before putting it in her coffee cup.

  “Actually, I do feel better.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes you just need a good cry and apple pie.” She smiled. “It helps to release the pent-up anxiety. Cry too much and you end up with a headache. Too little and you still feel tense.”

  “I guess it just all sunk in. I know Dawson didn’t kill Melody. But unless we figure out who did, he could go to jail.” I stared at my bowl. “Or worse.”