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

by Jerilyn Dufresne

  George said, "No."

  Jeremiah said, "Okay." The two men looked at each other.

  Jeremiah put his hand out, pointing to George. "Hear me out. I agree with Sam that no one will notice her. Everyone is pretty anonymous." He turned his attention to me, "And as long as you don't do anything stupid, it will be safe."

  "See, that's the thing," said George. "Don't get mad, Sam, but most of your dangerous situations wouldn't have happened if you hadn't jumped in without thinking."

  "Yeah, but, this time I am thinking," I said. "And Jeremiah agrees with me. C'mon, George. It's safe, and I can really be of help."

  "Why can't I do it?" he countered.

  The sheriff intervened. "I need you. We have a lot of interviews to do, and you will be a huge help for me."

  It took George a few moments but he finally nodded. I went to hug him but he turned before I could do so. He said, "If you get hurt again or even worse, I don't think I could stand it. I can't go through that again. Just know that. You've been threatened with guns, poisoned, choked, and had other attempts on your life. How fun do you think that is for someone who loves you?"

  I touched his shoulder and faced him. "I didn't think."

  "That's the problem. You don't think. You do the 'ready, fire, aim' thing and don't think about the consequences on others."

  "You're right. If you don't want me to do this I won't." I meant it, but I fervently prayed that he wouldn't ask me not to.

  George looked away for a moment, then back at me. "Hell, I fell in love with you, Sam, not a safer version of you." He sighed. "Just be careful, okay?"

  "I promise. I won't do anything but walk around and cluck. And listen. I'm gonna listen."

  "You don't need my permission, you know."

  "I know. But I really wouldn't do it if you didn't want me to." I said it sincerely, but reluctantly.

  "Okay. Just be careful." He finally gave me the hug that let me know it really was all right. I kissed him, even though others were there.

  "Now. How do I get a chicken suit?" I asked, ready to start.

  The sheriff said, "I don't know. I don't want to ask Jim Bob. Even though I know him and don't think he could have killed anyone, and it's hard to imagine he'd have stabbed his brother. But I have to keep my mind open to the fact that he could be involved."

  "Here's the thing," said Chip finally speaking. "I have a chicken suit at home."

  "What?" we all said simultaneously.

  "I tried it one year before I got married. It wasn't for me. So I have the chicken suit in a closet," he continued. "I'm heavier than you, but it probably won't matter. Most of the chickens look the same, except for their heights."

  "I love you," I said as I gave him a big smooch. George didn't seem to mind. Chip blushed, making his dark cheeks turn mahogany.

  He regained his composure and said, "I'll go get it and bring it to Marianne's, so you can change there." He thought a brief moment. "On the other hand, it's probably not a good idea for you to put on the suit at Marianne's and then be seen leaving there with it on."

  "Maybe," Jeremiah said, "just bring it here, and she can change in the public bathroom for this hallway. Since we're guarding the area, no one will see her go in and out. We can make sure no one knows it's her."

  "Good thinking." I kissed George again, just for the heck of it, and sat down on the carpet to await Chip's return. I looked forward to the adventure, and just knew nothing would go wrong.

  Yeah.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  While we waited for Chip to return, Wilma came back with Luigi in tow.

  "I've got the DNA results," she said. "It's Missy Hen all right." I was glad to hear my conclusion verified for others.

  "But there's more," Luigi added.

  I immediately wondered why he was still around. Didn't his part of the job end with him getting Missy's bones out of the grave?

  Wilma looked at him to see if he was going to tell us. When he didn't, she said, "Her DNA was also on one of the feathers we sent in. But someone else's DNA was on the other feather. Just one other person's. The bad news is that that person isn't in any database that we know of. Yet."

  Jeremiah asked, "Do you know how she died?"

  "Not yet," answered Wilma. "That will take a while because there were only bones there. And there's a chance we'll never know. It looks suspicious to me, but I can't be sure."

  "How's Bob Bob?" I asked, wondering why no one else was interested.

  "Actually, he's fine. The wound was a scratch that just bled a lot and he's out and about somewhere." She looked at the sheriff. "I told him you might want to interview him further about the incident."

  Jeremiah excused them without telling them of my plan to go undercover. I wondered why, but didn't have time to ask him because Clancy whined sitting next to me. "Oh my, I forgot all about you girl. Have to go out?" She whined yes. I got up to take her out, when Jeremiah stopped me.

  "I'll take her if you don't mind. And then I'll take her to Marianne's. She'd be a dead giveaway if she were around you in a chicken suit. Plus I want to talk to Marianne anyway."

  I raised my eyebrows, thinking that I was sure he wanted to do more than talk, but I had no real proof that there was a romance going on, just a gut feeling.

  Clancy hesitated, but I told her, "I'll be okay, I promise. Don't worry about me." She'd heard this before and also knew that when I said this it didn't always turn out to be true. A few times I wasn't okay for a while, but everything did turn out fine ultimately. This time I'd hoped nothing bad would happen to me. I seemed to be a magnet for bad stuff and bad people, but I had a different feeling this time. I honestly thought that when I said, "I'll be okay..." I was telling the truth.

  Jeremiah looked back at me when he and Clancy got to the door. "Be careful. And, George," he said, "I'll count on you to give her some direction and to figure out a way to monitor her. We don't have any fancy equipment. Sorry about that." He and Clancy then left the motel. I forced myself to put Clancy out of my mind and to try to concentrate on the task at hand.

  "Dammit, Sam," a very common phrase George used, "I hate that you're doing this. I'd do it myself if I didn't have to do so many interviews for the sheriff." He abruptly turned to walk toward the door. "Dammit, Sam," he repeated, "you're not going to do this. I am." He went to open the door to yell at Jeremiah.

  I stopped him. "George."

  He turned to look at me, one hand on the door handle.

  "George. I'll be fine. I promise. This time I won't do anything stupid. I've learned my lesson." I walked to him and took both his hands in mine. "I'm so happy with my life. I'm not going to jeopardize what we have."

  "I still don't know...." He hesitated and I jumped in again.

  "You're the cop, I know. But all I'm going to do is cluck and listen. Cluck and listen."

  I don't think he could help but smile at that. George knew me too well. But I hoped he also knew I was telling the truth. Sure, something could happen, but it wouldn't be done by me. I was going to follow the rules, and not my vibes. Even if I was absolutely positive that one of the chickens was the killer, I wasn't going to let my nosy nose follow the person. I was just going to cluck and listen, and then report to George and Jeremiah.

  I never heard what he would have said because at that point Chip walked in, followed by a breathless Barclay. It still bugged me that the BIA agent was hanging around, even though he was sure the grave wasn't Native American in origin and that in fact the grave held the remains of Missy Hen, who was Caucasian. I wanted to ask him about his intentions, but was distracted by the big, feathery costume Chip thrust at me.

  After thanking him, I pulled George aside and had him walk with me toward the bathroom. "I won't be able to talk to you once I have this thing on. So tell me exactly what you want me to do," I said to him.

  "Just what we talked about. I want you to mingle and observe. Of course you'll have to cluck once in a while so they don't get suspicious. But please,
please, please, don't do anything stupid, like talking. If you talk, people will know who you are. Just fit in. Got it?"

  I nodded and we hugged each other. George ended with a light kiss, which still thrilled me. As I started to close the bathroom door, he said, "I'll be in and out of the room. That won't be suspicious because they know I'm working with the sheriff on the case. I probably won't know which chicken is you, but you'll see me and I hope that makes you feel safe."

  I closed the door and walked inside, knowing that I might be putting myself in danger.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I pulled the chicken suit over my ample hips, where it was a really tight fit. The outfit hung off my shoulders where Chip was broader than I was. However, in the derriere department, I won hands down. It was no problem walking with a waddle because the suit was so tight around my hips and thighs that I feared the circulation would be cut off in the lower part of my body.

  Opening the bathroom door, I peeked outside. Chip was guarding the hallway, and glanced at me, then looked away. Good job, I thought. George was nowhere in sight.

  I waddled in the opposite direction from Chip and after turning left at the end of the hallway I came to the conference room. After calming myself by doing some controlled breathing, I felt better equipped to enter the den of possible murderers.

  One final deep breath and I opened the door. Some chicken heads turned to look at me, but I didn't get a lot of attention. And of course I looked like everyone else in the room, except for my height. Plus people came and went all the time. Most chickens had motel rooms, and of course the bathrooms for the conference were located outside the room in the hallways. I didn't want to act differently than anyone else, so I just walked right up to a group and listened. And indeed, it was just as advertised, no one was using words, just clucks. I thought that maybe I would be able to start interpreting their clucks if I listened for a time. So that's what I did.

  "Cluck. Cluck. Cluckity-cluck!"

  "Cluck-cluck?"

  After being amused for about a minute, I started getting bored. What did these people see in dressing like chickens and clucking?

  Then I remembered. There was sexual fetishism involved. A chicken waddled by slowly and several of my group turned to watch. I swore they were salivating. Then I wondered if chickens salivated. Of course, getting off topic was one of my strengths.

  Back to the topic. Sexual fetishism. I didn't know much about that, and hadn't treated anyone with that diagnosis in my practice. However, I found it fascinating. I knew that "different strokes for different folks" was a common thought when it came to turn-ons. However, this seemed like a wildly different form of sexual attraction to me. George was my speed--with or without feathers.

  I decided to leave my group, without clucking once. I waddled to a smaller group of three chickens, but immediately felt that I was an unwanted intrusion. Vibes, maybe, but the fact that no one clucked a welcome made me feel they were probably planning a chicken three-way and I was out of luck. Thank God.

  So I strolled to another small group, remembering at the last minute to exaggerate my waddle so that I'd be noticed. All three of this group looked at me and clucked. The clucks had a welcoming tone and I tried to mimic their inflection. Apparently I was successful, because they included me in their "conversation." Again, I was soon bored, and didn't know how to figure out anything.

  A chorus of chicken noises indicated something was happening. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed George enter the room, and I heard him ask for the "Big Cluck." A chicken directed him to someone in my group. I'd been clucking with Jim Bob and didn't even know it. Ugh.

  George said, "I need to talk to you. Please come with me," and he put his hand on the Big Cluck's back and guided him to the door. I knew that conversation would be a lot more interesting than the clucking going on inside, but felt obliged to continue my ruse.

  After about a half hour Jim Bob hadn't come back and I hadn't learned anything except that this chicken life was boring as all get out. I'm a talker, and not being able to talk, except for saying one word, was more than I could bear.

  I clucked an excuse and left the chick I'd been clucking to. I walked out the door and turned right to go back down the closed hallway. Suddenly I felt a hand or wing grab mine and cluck seductively in my ear. I wiggled away, appalled at the thought of sharing intimacies with anyone other than my George,and the fact that it was a chicken who wanted to have sex with me. It was too gross, and I did the unforgivable. I opened my mouth inside the chicken head and screamed, "Leave me alone, you pervert!"

  Silence.

  Oh, crap! I'd talked.

  I didn't know what to do, so I just went with my impulse and started running, but at least I'd stopped screaming. Perhaps it wasn't running, so much as a faster waddle. I waddled into an open meeting room, but before I could shut the door the much-larger-than-I chicken arrived.

  Trying to pull off my chicken head was not working, but I was able to twist it a little. So yelling, "Leave me alone" was coming out of an ear rather than a beak.

  I heard a muffled voice say, "You told me you wanted it. What was the meaning of the sexy clucking? You little tease."

  He grabbed me again and I kicked him in the privates. Because my suit was so tight the kick ended up landing me on my bottom, but still it felt good. I clambered up the best I could while the guy was bent over. I grabbed his scrawny little chicken head and pulled.

  My "oomph" was loud, but his "oh, shit" was louder.

  I knew the guy wasn't Jim Bob, because I thought he was still with George, but was relieved anyway to find out it was a little dude who had nerd written all over him. I finally was able to get my chicken head off and once our faces were exposed he shrank back into his normal persona, and immediately apologized for what he'd done.

  For some reason, I went into my social worker mode and didn't scream at him. Instead, no longer scared, I calmly stated I was going to report this attempted rape to the authorities, forgot about my chicken head, and walked out. I stopped and turned back however when he said, "You know it's against the rules for a non-member to wear a chicken suit. You're gonna be in trouble!"

  "Not as much as you, Bub."

  It felt good to have the last word with the offensive rooster, but I wanted to find George as soon as I could. I slowly walked down the dark hallway to ask Chip if he knew where George was, but he wasn't there. Someone was supposed to be guarding the carpet so the evidence wasn't ruined. Where was Chip?

  I heard him before I saw him. A low moan emanated from a doorway and I saw a pair of feet sticking out onto the hall carpet. The feet began to move a little. I waddled over to help, figuring it must be Chip. As I got closer to the body to determine if he was conscious or just moaning while still out of it, I realized that it wasn't Chip. It was Jim Bob.

  Jim Bob? What in the world was he doing being hit? I had him pegged as a possible bad guy. Maybe he was a bad guy and a good guy clocked him. Yeah, that was it. Or maybe he really was a good guy, just strange.

  While this monologue was going on in my head, Jim Bob continued to moan, but now was holding his head and his eyes were open.

  "What...what happened?" He asked in a groggy, kind of other-worldly voice.

  "I don't know. I just got here. Did someone hit you?" I tried to sit him up as we spoke.

  "I don't know either. One minute I was talking to Chip and then I was talking to you and my head hurts. Ow...," he moaned as he held his head.

  "Where's Chip? Where's George?" I knew Jim Bob didn't know where Chip was, but was thinking out loud. "Where's George?" I repeated.

  "He tried to force us to be interviewed without our suits on, and I refused." Jim Bob tried to stand. "There's probably a constitutional right being violated there. Not sure, but I think so. Anyway he said something about a warrant and took off."

  I helped him all the way to his feet. He seemed unsteady for a moment, but soon stood on his own. He kept rubbing his head though.
r />   "I wonder what happened to Chip," I said aloud.

  "He's probably the one who hit me."

  "C'mon," I said. "Why in the world would Chip want to hit you?"

  "Maybe he's the murderer." Jim Bob said it in such a way that sounded like even he didn't believe himself.

  I wanted to find George to report what the nerd chicken had done to me. But I thought I'd ask Jim Bob about the sexual practices first. It took me a moment to muster my courage, and before I could talk, he did.

  "Why are you wearing a chicken suit?" His energy seemed to be back and I felt the full force of his accusation.

  "Because. That's why." I could tell by his face that it wasn't enough, so I added, "I was working undercover. It's a common practice for the police."

  "Yeah, but you're not a cop."

  I couldn't argue with that and thought I'd ask Jeremiah to deputize me too. I knew I should have thought of that before. For the first time I'd be an official cop.

  Jim Bob brought me back to the present. "What were you trying to do anyway? Trap someone into confessing? Do you honestly think one of the chickens is a criminal?"

  "Well, given how many of you there are, there's a good chance someone is a criminal, although I'm not sure about a murderer." I realized that Jim Bob was the last person in the world I wanted to talk to about the case.

  "Are you okay enough to walk?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  "We've got to get some help. I don't have my phone on me. Do you?"

  "I did," he answered, and felt around his pockets for his cell phone. "It's not here."

  After turning on the lights, I got down on my hands and knees and looked under furniture and in every corner, but didn't find it. "Someone must have taken it. Crap."

  "Why don't you go get help and I'll stay here and guard the scene?" Jim Bob offered.

  I thought that now it was the scene of two possible crimes, and another one had occurred against me in the other hallway. Jim Bob was about the last person I wanted to leave alone to guard the scene. He was still on my short list of suspects. And so was Chip. I wouldn't have thought in a million years that Chip would be a bad guy. This town was crazy.