“The scar-faced guy?”
“No. The clerk.”
“Um, yes.” She dug in her purse for the trusty tablet. “Travis. He works the daytime shift, I believe.”
“Great. Let’s see if we can locate one on the computer. I think finding it on the internet is easier than scanning the microfiche at the newspaper again. You and Babs take it over there tomorrow.”
“If he’s there. It’s Saturday. He may only work during the week.”
Janie sat for the first time. “It’s a chance we’ll have to take.”
Leaves scrunched outside the side window near the air conditioning compressor. Janie dashed to her back door and called out, “Who’s there?”
Her friends peered over her shoulders to get a look as well. A heavy-set but tall dark figure sprinted toward the side street and hopped over the hedgerow onto the golf course. The new moon offered enough illumination to catch him hurrying out of sight.
Betsy Ann’s fingers quivered over her cell phone’s dial pad. “I’m calling 911.”
Janie closed the door, flipped the dead bolt, and leaned against the jamb. “Good idea. Guess we’ve rustled the bushes.”
“I think you mean ruffled feathers? One beats the bushes.”
“Whatever, Ethel. Whatever.”
Chapter ELEVEN
A patrol car’s red and blue lights pulsated through the sheer curtains. Janie huddled with the officer taking her statement. Out of the corner of her eye, she detected a small crowd gathering on the sidewalk. Betsy Ann had been correct. Her neighbors flocked to emergency lights like children to an ice cream vendor. The policeman’s voice brought her attention back to him.
“Um, no. Nothing stolen. He didn’t actually break in. More like a Peeping Tom.”
Another uniformed man stomped in, leaving muddy tracks in his wake. Janie sighed. She paid professionals good money to clean the area rugs right before Easter. “Found footprints outside the window, sir. Getting pictures and molds of them now.”
“Male?”
“Most likely. I’d say the size is at least an eleven.”
“Okay. Dust the windowsill for prints. We might get lucky.”
Janie hated to be ignored. “Ahem.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry, ma’am.” He touched his Stetson rim. “You were saying?”
“My son-in-law is Chief Detective Blake Johnson. He’s investigating the dumpster murder last Tuesday. This may be related.”
The Alamoville officer raised an eyebrow. “And how do you figure that?”
Betsy Ann spoke up from her perch on the sofa. “Because we sort of helped him gather evidence.” She lifted her shoulders to her ears and batted her lashes.
“Excuse me?” The policeman shifted his weight to the other foot.
“Well, unofficially, of course.” Janie poofed her curls with her hand. “We decided this is our community and we understand how overworked ya’ll are. So in order to expedite the process, we’ve been doing some background checking.” She cast her glance to the floor. “I told Blake all about it tonight at dinner, but I don’t think he was pleased.”
The office tapped his pen. “I imagine not. You ladies can get him in trouble for sticking your noses where they don’t belong.”
Ethel shot to her feet. “Now just a minute young man. We are not a bunch of senile old biddies even if we do call our Bunco gathering that name in jest. Janie’s late husband was a renowned police detective, Betsy Ann was a reporter for the newspaper for decades, and I am one of the leading authorities on murder mysteries in modern-day literature.”
He exhaled and plastered on a sweet smile. “My mother watched Mrs. Marple capers and Murder She Wrote on TV, too. But this isn’t Hollywood, ma’am. Or an Agatha Christie novel.” The officer gazed into each of their faces to drive home his point.
Ethel’s cheeks flamed.
Betsy Ann wrinkled her nose.
Janie crossed her arms.
None of them spoke.
The officer’s expression morphed into the same one little Josh Beaumont produced when he broke Janie’s front window with his baseball while visiting his grandparents last fall. He coughed into his fist and broke eye contact. “So, if I am understanding correctly, you believe your Peeping Tom may have something to do with your, um, unauthorized snooping?”
Janie gave him a terse “yes” in response.
“Couldn’t have been a nosey neighbor?”
“The men in this community are not the type to traipse through bushes in the night. In fact, due to the latest incident, they are forming a neighborhood watch.”
The policeman exchanged glances with his underling who slipped back into the room. “No prints, sir. Sill is clean. But there are scratches in the paint, and they appear to be new.”
He rubbed his temple with the clicker end of his pen. “All right. We have your statements, ladies. I suggest you bolt your doors, stop your, um, sleuthing, and leave this and the murder investigation to us. We are here to protect and serve you. Let us do our job.”
He ripped off a goldenrod-colored carbonless copy of his report and handed it to Janie. “I’ll notify Detective Johnson of this occurrence. Goodnight, ma’am.”
“’Night.”
He pivoted on his police-issued boots and sauntered out the front door to his patrol car, his deputy in tow.
Janie bolted the door. “Hmph. He bordered on downright rude. Blake will hear about this in the morning.” She read his signature. “Connor Gonzales. Badge number 134A68.”
Betsy Ann squeaked. “Maybe he’s right. I mean a man has been brutally murdered. I’m sleeping with my beloved husband’s—The Lord rest his soul”—she crossed herself—“Louisville slugger next to my pillow.”
Ethel crossed her leg and sat back. “He didn’t ruffle my feathers in the least. But our beating the bushes possibly spooked a pigeon or two. Why else would someone be peeking in your window?”
Janie let the segue into the confused metaphors reference go to the wayside. “And right when we are gathered to compare notes. Almost as if he eavesdropped.” She crossed the rug and sat in a side chair angled toward the couch. “Well, ladies. Whoever our intruder, my bet is he’s long gone. Too much commotion. So let’s adjourn and regroup tomorrow over brunch.”
“Sounds good to me.” Ethel rose. “Saturday morning spreads are always the best. Nine, then?”
Betsy Ann and Janie agreed.
* * *
Janie’s cell phone sang out the theme from Dragnet at 7:10 a.m. Her son-in-law called. She yawned and reached for the instrument on her bedside table. “Yes? Good morning, Blake.”
“I understand you had a bit of excitement last night.” His tone sounded gruff.
“Nothing much, my dear. However, I have a bone to pick about Officer Gonzales. Spoke in an uppity attitude in my opinion.”
Blake exhaled through his nose, sounding like the ocean waves inside a sea shell. “Janie, I thought I’d made it clear at dinner. This is not a game. You are impeding my investigation.”
Janie sugar-coated her response. “But, my darling, sweet son-in-law, it is our civic duty to help in any way we can. We know this community and its residents. We take pride in the reputation of this being a safe and quiet place to spend our last years.”
His silence iced her receiver. She bit her lip, picturing his eyebrows morphing into one furry line and the vein on his forehead beginning to turn purple. His next sentence spurted in metered words. “Janie. Back off. Understood?”
“I must go. Saturday brunch begins soon and the Belgian waffles disappear fast.” She clicked off and turned the volume to mute.
Janie ran a hand down Mrs. Fluffy’s spine who’d hopped onto the bed to encircle her in purrs. “He’ll change his tune when we solve this case. I’m making it my personal agenda to put this murder to bed before next weekend so he can spend time with Ellie and Jamie.” She picked up the cat and snuggled her. “Mommy will soon be on the internet searches. I’m going to post a qu
ery through the social media to see if anyone recognizes him or has any information. If only I’d remembered to take pictures that day at the dumpster. It would have caused a ruckus. Perhaps they would have gone—what is the term? Oh, yes—viral.”
Chapter Twelve
Ethel and Betsy Ann sat with plates piled around them. Janie plunked her tray down. “Only one waffle left.”
“They opened the omelet station today. I got a spinach, sautéed onion, and shitake mushroom with brie.” Betsy Ann scooted herself closer, fork poised and ready.
Ethel peered over her readers. “You seem miffed, Janie.”
She stabbed a square of the puffed bread doused in stewed strawberries and powdered sugar. “Blake called. That’s why I’m late.”
“And?”
She chewed in slow, steady movements before swallowing the piece with a swig of coffee. Her two friends waited in still-frame mode. With a dab of her napkin to the corner of her mouth, Janie answered with a controlled tone. “We are to cease and desist.”
Ethel thrust her spine into the chair spindles. “Oh, gracious.”
“Are we?”
“Of course not, Betsy Ann. We must be more stealth, that’s all.” Janie forked a piece of turkey sausage. “Stay under Blake’s radar until we obtain compelling evidence.”
Ethel pointed with her spoon. “Or involve more people. Rally the troops. They can’t arrest all of us.”
“Yes, they can. Remember the peace riots in the seventies?” Betsy Ann waggled her finger.
The image of her silver-headed neighbors throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails at swat teams while chanting, “We shall overcome,” almost made Janie choke on her waffle. She wiped the condensation from her orange juice glass to regain composure. “I found the photo of the robber with the scar after surfing the internet. I put the print out in my purse so I’d remember to show y’all.” She reached for her shoulder bag and rummaged through the organized pockets. “Ah, here we go. Betsy Ann, you and Babs go to the store and ask if that clerk, Travis, is working today. Find out if this resembles the guy who made Mr. Newman edgy.”
“And me?”
“After breakfast, you and I are making fliers to place on everyone’s door. I want all concerned Sunset Acres residents to meet here at 4 p.m. for a town hall meeting. We will ask them for any observations over the last week, no matter how trivial, in one fell swoop. It’ll save time, and as Sherlock Holmes said, ‘Time is of the essence.’ It will also be our first neighborhood watch sign-up.”
Ethel swirled her napkin. “Tally ho! However, my friend, I believe his famous line was, ‘The game’s afoot.’”
“Whatever you say, Ethel.”
* * *
Blake snapped the morning newspaper, a sure sign something bothered him. Melody pushed it down to stare into his face. “Grumpy, sweetheart?”
He drew a long breath and folded the sports section. “You need to have a heart to heart with your mother.”
“About?”
“Trying to solve the murder of the man in the dumpster. She and her Bunco cronies are running all over town interviewing people and gathering false clues.”
“But, Blake, this awful thing happened in their retirement village. They are part of the ‘pull up your straps and do it’ generation. And they are bored. No one takes them seriously anymore.”
“Even so...”
She scooted into the dinette chair next to him and squeezed his forearm. “Look, let them have their fun. What’s the harm? Frankly, I haven’t seen Mom so alive in years. Last evening at dinner, her eyes danced.”
He rubbed his temples. “I understand their intentions are good, but they are getting in the way and the Mayor called me on the carpet about it.”
“When?”
“Just now. On the phone. Honey, you must rein her in. She only bucks and bolts when I try to talk sense into her.”
Melody shoved the heels of her hands to her hips in jest. “My mother is not a horse.”
Blake snickered. “More like a stubborn ol’ mule.” He got up from the table. “She encountered an intruder last night, Mel, which may be related or not.”
His wife gasped and clutched the small silver cross necklace she always wore. “Is she all right?”
“Yes. Turns out he didn’t actually intrude. The ladies caught him peeking in the window. But the jamb showed marks as though someone tried to pry the sill open. And the officers at the scene collected some decent footprints in her flower beds thanks to the recent rains. Forensics is analyzing them.”
“I’ll go over right now.” Melody snatched her shoulder bag and keys.
Blake whispered a prayer, eyes to the ceiling. “Dear Lord, knock some sense into these women so we can do our job. Encourage them to go back to their Bunco or knitting or whatever they do. Oh, and keep them safe from breaking a hip or having a heart attack. Amen.”
* * *
Melody arrived to find her mother and Ethel, along with Norma and Betty Lou, printing and sorting fliers. Paper stacks with sticky notes attached littered the mahogany table for eight. “Mom, what are you doing?”
“Organizing a small rally, dear. In the dining hall at four this afternoon. The men wish to organize a neighborhood watch and we women are not going to feel secure in our own homes until whoever chopped up poor Edwin is caught.”
Melody clutched Janie’s elbow, realizing anew how thin and brittle she’d become. All Melody’s life, her mother displayed the symbol of strength, her embrace a shelter to ward off all evils. Now, frailty oozed through her sagging muscles. She sensed a role reversal in the near future. “Mom, come into the living room. We need to talk.”
Janie snatched her arm away. “If this is about Blake, the subject’s closed. We are under the gun to get these distributed as soon as possible.”
She sighed. “Okay. If I agree to help, then can we sit down for a chat?”
A shrewd smile etched the corners of Janie’s lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”
A bang ricocheted through the room.
Ethel jumped and Betty Lou squealed.
Babs and Betsy Ann dashed in, holding their chests, out of breath. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to slam the front door into the wall.”
Babs waved the photocopy of a mug shot. “Travis is almost sure this is him. The guy who made Mr. Newman jump like a bull frog.”
Betty Lou fanned herself. “As I almost did just then?”
Melody turned to Janie. “Oh, now we must talk, Mom. Immediately.”
* * *
Blake sighed when the call tune signaled his wife on the line. He walked a few paces away from his crime team. “Hi. What’s up? You speak to your mom?”
“Yes. And some new developments popped up. Can you and perhaps two other officers be here at three-thirty today? It’s important.”
He pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. 1:28. “I guess. Why?”
The sound of Melody scraping a chair across linoleum made him pull the phone from his ear. Whenever she sat down to relay the news, he learned to expect the worse. What now?
He waited until her voice came through the receiver. “Well, the ladies uncovered more evidence and called a town meeting of sorts in the dining hall at four. If you are present, you may be able to diffuse some of the anxiety.”
Blake scratched his eyebrow. A tension headache began to tighten against his temples. “What new evidence?”
“The manager at the convenience store near the entrance to Sunset Acres thinks he recalled one of the armed robbers from those bank heists a decade ago buying two sodas and chips. He states the man who they found in the dumpster, who happened to be in the store at the same time, recognized him as well. He became unusually nervous.”
“The clerk?”
“No, hon. Mr. Newman. He purchased some snacks and tall cans of beer last Monday afternoon when this occurred.”
Blake motioned to his crew seated at their desks in the large open room. “We’ll be there.”
&nbs
p; Chapter Thirteen
Chief Detective Blake Johnson and two detectives, Phil Edwards and Connor Hemphill, entered the dining hall at Sunset Acres at three twenty-five. A backdrop of light blue-draped windows shed a soft, filtered glow over the hall, shielding it from the harsh afternoon sun. They made the room look almost celestial, as if a foreshadowing of the residents’ next home beyond the pearly gates. He shook off a slight shudder as he perused the sea of silvered heads already seated around a cluster of round tables. His wife, mother-in-law, and several other ladies milled together at the front of the room behind three long tables jutted together. He caught Melody’s glance and she waved him over.
He turned to his underlings. “This way, gentlemen.” A lanky young man scurried to match his stride. “I didn’t expect such a crowd on short notice, sir.”
Blake kept walking but cupped his mouth toward Phil’s ear with his hand. “They’re all retired. Nothing better to do, I guess. I imagine they’ve awakened from their afternoon naps with a half-hour to kill before dinner is served.”
Phil chuckled. “Yes, sir.”
The trio weaved their way through the tables and chairs as whispers and murmurs increased around them. One elderly man with a large forehead and a shaky hand motioned to them with his cane and exclaimed in a loud voice to a birdlike woman next to him wearing a silvery-white bun, “Them be the cops, eh, Margaret?”
Blake tipped his cowboy hat and moved towards Janie who grinned like a house cat after downing a plate of chicken livers.
“Well, well. What a thrill for you to join us. Here to update us on the investigation?”
“I came to calm you folks down, let you in on a few facts we can divulge at this point, and to emphasize this is a serious crime and not something for amateurs to meddle in.”
“I’ll have you know we unearthed some important information.” Janie tippy-tapped her foot.
“So I understand. Why don’t you tell me then, hmm?” He pulled out a chair and motioned for her to be seated. He sat on one side and his mother-in-law on the other. Behind him stood his two associates. Around her huddled Ethel, Betsy Ann, Mildred, and another mousy lady who wouldn’t quite look him in the eye. Blake almost planted an elbow to the table and challenged Janie to a round of arm wrestling, winner buys drinks. The thought made him chuckle.
Dumpster Dicing (Bunco Biddies Book 1) Page 6