Will You Marry Me? (Sam Darling Mystery Book 4)

by Jerilyn Dufresne

  As Barclay eased himself out of his chair, Chip quickly jumped in it.

  "I'll just sit by the grave," Chip said. "No one will get by me."

  "Thanks," said Jeremiah. "We'll hurry and get someone else back soon so you can eat."

  Chip nodded, but said, "No hurry."

  The ten of us walked in silence except for Barclay, who wanted to talk more about things he knew something about. I tuned him out, because I didn't like the way he acted like he was smarter than the rest of us.

  Marianne had the front door open, and the aroma of garlic, onions, and fresh baked bread wafted out to greet us. I followed my nose and saw she'd set her dining room table as if we were honored guests. In the center of table sat two large pans of lasagna with a huge bowl of salad. On either end were wooden trays containing steaming bread with butter on the side. I couldn't bear waiting.

  "This looks unbelievable," I said. "How did you manage?"

  "I keep a lot of supplies here, since we don't have much to choose from in town. It didn't take long."

  "Jeremiah," she continued, "please take a seat." Marianne pointed to the head of the table, a place of honor.

  Aha, I said to myself, and giggled quietly. Just what I thought.

  Marianne then pointed to a seat near the other end for me. I noticed that in front of it was a small pan. "Vegetarian?" I asked. At her nod, I continued, "You are amazing."

  She put George at the end of the table by me, and she herself took a place by Jeremiah. Everyone else filled in until the table was nearly full. Barclay sat across from me on the end, so it was Barclay, George, and me. I promised myself I would be nice, and that I wouldn't allow him to incite my not-so-nice side.

  Small talk ensued until everyone filled their plates. Then it became fairly quiet except for slurps and moans of gastronomical pleasure.

  After a particularly pleasurable bite of fresh bread with butter, I wiped the drops off my lips and turned to Chip, who was now sitting on my left. Wilma had dined and dashed so that Chip could come and get his fill.

  "I don't mean to be rude, but are you the only African-American in Crackertown?" I asked him.

  "My great-grandpa worked at the cracker factory. Everybody else in my family moved away. I just stayed." Chip smiled. "I kind of like being Black in a town with the name Cracker in it."

  I smiled too, then quickly jumped back into the food. George gently touched my arm in between bites. Maybe because he loved me. Maybe to slow me down. Sometimes it seemed like he was my caretaker and I was the village idiot. But he was almost always kind with his reminders. I couldn't say as much about myself.

  I shook off thoughts that were going to bring me down and took a minute's break from stuffing myself. Looking around the table I thought it was an interesting mix of people. All of them friends, except for Barclay, George, and me. And George and I would probably be friends with the townspeople before this was over. At least I hoped so.

  I had the feeling that Barclay would never be a friend to anyone in the room. I kind of felt bad for him. That was the therapist in me coming out. Since I wasn't on duty though, I disliked him on sight, and could even come to hate him if I didn't watch myself. However, I'd never wish him dead.

  But someone else did.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We all sauntered back to the burial site. All except for Sheriff Taylor. He stayed behind to help Marianne clean up after dinner.

  "Jeremiah and Marianne, sittin' in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G..."

  "Sam, stop it," George said softly but forcefully.

  "Oops. Didn't realize I was singing it out loud." I took his arm as we walked. "But don't you think they make a cute couple?"

  "That's not the kind of thing I usually think about, honey," he replied. "I'm a manly man." George laughed and grabbed my hand that was linked through his arm. "But yeah. I think there's probably some romance going on there."

  The crunch of leaves under our feet and the rapidly cooling air reminded us that it was autumn. I loved the smell of it. And since there were probably no ordinances against it, there were people burning leaves. That smell cemented the fact that it was fall. I randomly hoped that some people left big piles of leaves for kids to jump in, and then realized I hadn't seen any kids around.

  "Hey, Chip," I said over my shoulder. "Are there kids in Crackertown?"

  "Sure," he said. "Not too many. Hell, there are less than 100 souls in Crackertown, or what's left of it."

  "So no schools here?"

  "Nope. They're bused to Hollister for school. All grades. We're in between there and Branson, but still far enough away that the kids are gone from breakfast until dinner. So during the school year you won't see much of them." He looked around as if to prove his point. "When the cracker factory was going strong, we had an elementary and a high school here. Small. Maintained by the factory owners. It was good. That's where I went. The schools have been demolished, like much of the town." He paused momentarily. "Yeah. Things change."

  By that time we'd reached the grave, and found Wilma pacing. Barclay quickly reclaimed his chair, which no one objected to. I really didn't think I wanted to share that chair of his anyway. He gave me the creeps. So it took no time at all for my mind to take me from "gave me the creeps" to wondering if he was the murderer. Maybe that's why he was so darn interested in what was going on.

  I heard Wilma talking, and stopped thinking about Barclay, "...and so they won't be here until tomorrow morning. They had to gather up tents and sleeping bags, since they found out the motel was full." She looked around. "Someone is going to have to spend the night here."

  "I'll do it." Barclay responded immediately. "Yes. I insist."

  "Well, I don't know...," Wilma sputtered. "Let's, uh, let Sheriff Taylor decide. Since it's a murder scene, he's in charge."

  "I'm in charge of what?" Jeremiah's booming voice still held the hint of happiness left over from being with Marianne.

  Wilma filled him in and I saw Jeremiah's face change--from happy to serious--in an instant.

  "No need, Barclay. I'll take care of it."

  Wilma, George, Chip and I all objected at the same time.

  "You'll be too tired, Jeremiah," George said. "You'll need to be fresh tomorrow. How about I do it?"

  "I'll need you alert tomorrow too." The sheriff was adamant.

  "How about this," Chip intervened, "Barclay and I will stand guard tonight. The Bobs can run the station tomorrow and I can get some sleep then."

  "Thanks. I appreciate that," Jeremiah said. "I'll sleep soundly knowing you're helping out." He started to walk away, then turned. "Have you ever thought about being a deputy?"

  "Yes," said Barclay.

  "Not really," said Chip.

  "Sorry, Barclay. I was talking to Chip," the sheriff said, the happiness back on his face.

  "Well, maybe you ought to think about it," Jeremiah said, still speaking to Chip.

  "We'll see you in the morning," George said to Jeremiah. George seemed anxious to get going.

  I was so happy he said "we." My George was a smart man, knowing he couldn't keep me away from what he was doing. Maybe this didn't count as a vacation for him, but it sure did for me. I'd get to help investigate, and didn't have to go in to my regular job.

  We walked slowly back to Marianne's house, enjoying the crisp air and the quiet that we weren't used to. The quiet ended abruptly; as soon as we opened the door Clancy gave me a pathetic look, and a low moan, practically screaming, "SAVE ME!"

  The cat was sitting on her upper back, grooming Clancy's ears. Judging by Clancy's demeanor, this had been going on a long time.

  I quickly hooked on her leash and gently lifted Thor off her neck.

  "Let's get her outside for a minute," I said to George.

  As I opened the door again, I yelled, "We'll be right back, Marianne. Taking Clancy outside."

  By the time I turned to comfort a discombobulated Clancy, I was giggling and so was George.

  "I'm sorry, Clance, but i
t was hilarious. Why don't I ever think to get my phone out to take pictures of things like that?"

  Her dignity at last intact, Clancy did not think I was funny.

  "Did you hear her screaming?" I asked George.

  "Hear who screaming?" He replied with his own question.

  "I guess you didn't then. Clancy practically screamed at me for me to save her. I know you are getting in tune with her feelings, and I just wondered if you were getting the same connection I have."

  "Nope," he said. "I could just tell she was miserable and needed rescuing."

  Clancy turned her head as we walked so she could lick George's hand.

  We walked slowly and contentedly. At least I was contented. We passed the site and saw Barclay and Chip engaged in a spirited conversation. It didn't look like a debate, but rather an argument that was soon going to be out of control. I nudged George and pointed at them, and we strolled to them.

  "You are not in charge," Chip yelled at Barclay. "Quit trying to boss me around."

  "You're not the boss either," Barclay retorted. His already ruddy face was crimson and almost purple.

  An obvious rage problem, I thought.

  "Hey, guys," George intervened. "Want to wake the dead?" Then he chuckled at his little joke.

  "Yeah, want to wake the dead?" An unknown voice slurred the words. It came from someone in a chicken suit who was trying to cross the road in an apparently-drunken stumble to get to us.

  An immediate thought jolted me--Why did the chicken cross the road? To kill the chicken on the other side. I also thought that chickens weren't supposed to talk.

  I blurted, "The chicken did it."

  "What?" All three guys said the word at the same time.

  "Not this chicken," I said. "Well, maybe this chicken, I don't know. But I'm convinced a chicken did it."

  "How do you know?" asked Barclay. "I mean you're not a cop or anything. So how did you figure this out?"

  "I'm good at puzzles." This lying thing just got easier and easier.

  George cleared his throat, probably to stifle a laugh.

  Then he said, "Guys, neither one of you need to be in charge. All you have to do is sit there, stay awake, and call the sheriff or me if something happens or if you can't keep anyone away from the bones. It's that simple." He looked from face to face. "Got it?"

  "Yes, sir," said Chip, with no sarcasm in his voice.

  "You aren't my boss either," Barclay said.

  George stepped toward Barclay's round body and got in his flustered, skinny face. "You better damn well understand that I am your boss. I'm a police officer on an official investigation and if you want to make trouble I'm sure there's a jail around here somewhere."

  Barclay was speechless.

  Chip quickly said, "There's a two-person lock-up at the sheriff's office. Feel free to use it."

  "Thanks. I will if it's necessary." George turned to Barclay. "Is it going to be necessary?"

  Barclay didn't say anything for a change, but I noticed a very slight shaking of his head. And that was enough for George.

  The human-sized chicken had apparently decided not to cross the road, because he was wandering away down the street, maybe looking for a fellow feathered friend. I saw George glance at the chicken, but he didn't say anything, so I figured he decided there was no need for police intervention.

  George gave Chip and Barclay his cell phone number, and mine as an afterthought. "Good night, gentlemen," he said, as he took my arm and we strolled back toward Marianne's house and a restful night, after the first day of our vacation. However, I've found that a restful night often precedes a lack of the same.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "That smell!" I sat up in bed, sniffed and smiled.

  "I didn't do anything," said George, as he rolled over and petted Clancy. "Did you, Clancy?"

  She emitted her low growl, which communicated a lot.

  "No. Not that." I gave him a playful nudge. "Smell the air."

  He and Clancy did and they both bounced out of bed. I think George's shower was completed in record time, and Clancy danced at our bedroom door impatiently.

  In the meantime I was still smelling the air.

  "For someone who doesn't eat meat you sure love the smell of bacon."

  "Of course I do. Normally the smell of meat makes me sick, but bacon...." I salivated. "I hate the thought of those poor pigs, but...bacon." I sighed and jumped into my dirty clothes, thinking I'd shower after breakfast.

  We walked downstairs, as quickly as decorum would allow.

  Marianne must have known the smell was an effective alarm clock. She smiled as we walked in, and she piled scrambled eggs on a serving platter.

  "Good morning," she practically sang the words. And right away I noticed why. Jeremiah was there. Hmm. Did he just drop by...or maybe he never left?

  We said good morning to them both enthusiastically, and sat in the homey kitchen. Clancy greeted Fifi with a kiss and avoided going near Thor.

  I ate eggs with toast, and drank two strong cups of coffee, all the while enjoying the bacon scent.

  "I feel like the worst vegetarian in the world," I whined.

  "Well," George said through a mouthful of bacon, "stop worrying. At least you don't eat it. And we have a lot more than your angst to work on today."

  "Another reason I love you." I leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, snagged a slice of bacon and split it between Clancy and Fifi. "You can put me in my place without me getting all bent out of shape about it."

  While I showered, George talked to Jeremiah about the case. George was in our room by the time I finished and handed me my jeans and a pullover cotton sweater--in a blue that matched my eyes.

  "Jeremiah suggested we go to the Chicken Convention and ask some questions. He's going to meet with the archeological team a little later."

  "Sounds good. Let's go." This time I brought Clancy with us. I was anxious to get sleuthing. We walked behind the gas station so didn't see the grave or if anyone was working there. "Hmm, wonder what Jeremiah's doing that's so important that he's not working early this morning. Think there's romance afoot?"

  George did the wise thing and ignored me.

  The first thing I noticed when we entered the Crackertown Motel and Convention Center was that the tiny conference room was a sea of yellow. Clancy stopped abruptly for a moment as she confronted a roomful of gigantic chickens. Her nose started working overtime. "They aren't real chickens, Clancy," I said. She looked at me as if I was stating the obvious.

  Everyone had on the exact same kind of chicken outfit, which looked like sort of a Big Bird knock off, only the people, or chickens, were a lot shorter. I saw various sizes of people but they were impossible to distinguish from each other, and it was also impossible to see if someone was a hen or a rooster. They were genderless, with no distinguishing marks.

  "I feel like I'm being smothered by a down pillow. If these feathers were real it would be impossible for me to stop sneezing," George said. "Let's find the leader."

  He went up to a nearby chicken and said, "I need to talk to the boss."

  The chicken clucked, and that was it.

  "I'm serious," George said. "I need to speak to your leader. Now."

  With that, the chicken pointed to a small group of chickens nearby.

  "Which one of you is the leader of this organization?"

  A tall chicken flapped a wing. I assumed that meant he or she was the person.

  "I need to talk to you. It's important."

  The chicken clucked and raised his shoulders as if to say, "I can't help you. I can't talk."

  George took a step toward him and got in his chicken face as he flashed his badge. "I said, 'I need to talk to you. It's important.' I am serious. Let's go somewhere we can talk. NOW!"

  The chicken motioned for George to follow him. As we left the room the chicken clucked at various other chickens, using different intonations. I wondered if they had a chicken language that only they understo
od.

  The chicken leader led us outside to the corridor and around the corner to the door of a motel room. He pulled a key out of God knows where and opened his door. As soon as he entered he turned and lifted a wing, directing us to stay where we were. He went into the bathroom and a few minutes later emerged as one of the Bobs.

  "What?" I said. "How could you be a chicken? Didn't we see all of you guys together yesterday? Which one are you? You're not Bob Bob are you? Please say you aren't Bob Bob." I didn't know why I didn't want him to be Bob Bob. It wasn't like he was my friend or anything, but he was one of the first people we had met in Crackertown, and I didn't want him to be involved in murder.

  "No," the erstwhile chicken said. "I'm Jim Bob, his brother. His twin."

  A low growl from Clancy echoed what I was feeling.

  "Boy, have we got a lot of questions for you," I said.

  "Sam." That's all George needed to say. I realized it was his job, his show, and I needed to be a backup. I'd keep my ears open and my mouth closed, if that were at all possible. And I mentally warned Clancy to do the same.

  Then George did what he does. He showed me what being a cop was about. A lot of tedious questions with some surprise ones thrown in. He was able to gather a ton of information while Clancy and I sat and enjoyed the show.

  Within five minutes he found out that as for as Jim Bob knew, no one was acquainted outside of the convention, they didn't give real names except when they registered online, and if they talked in front of anyone they would be asked to leave. Or rather "clucked" to leave. For some reason that amused me to no end and I forced myself to stay straight-faced.

  Clancy emitted another low growl.

  "Do the same people come every year?" Finally I couldn't help but talk.

  "Mostly," Jim Bob answered, and looked at Clancy with an unasked question on his face. "We get a few new ones, but we have to limit the number because of space considerations. It was hard finding a place to host us, and luckily our motel said yes."

  "Anyone ever drop out?" I followed up with what seemed like a logical question.