Secrets for Sale

by Jerri Kay Lincoln

  That shocked me from my silence. I stood up and blurted out, “Is that what happened to the historical building? It was on some agenda and never even discussed? No one in town even knew—”

  The mayor pounded his gavel. “Mrs. Madri—Lockharte! You are out of order! Sit down now!” He glared at me, and I shrank under his gaze and took my seat.

  Someone on the council said, “I make a motion to accept the consent agenda.”

  Someone else said, “I second it.”

  The mayor said, “All in favor say, aye.”

  Everyone on the council said, “Aye,” and when they finished, the mayor said, “Any opposed, say nay.” I was about to stand up again in protest and nay my brains out until Petra put her hand over my mouth. It was probably a good thing.

  The mayor said, “Motion carried.” Then he added, “Council may vote to recess public meeting for ten minutes and hold an executive session for discussion and consultation with the town attorney regarding contract negotiations.”

  Again, someone made the motion and someone else seconded it. The mayor did the all-in-favor thing again, everyone said aye and no one said nay. So the mayor said, “Motion carried. Ten-minute recess before we begin the executive session.”

  The entire town council stood as one and scattered to parts unknown. And the jocularity continued as if it had never ended. Apparently, my outbursts hadn’t disrupted the general geniality of the council. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  Not knowing what would happen after the recess—would the regular town council reconvene after the executive session or was that part finished for the night—I stood up when the rest of the audience stood.

  Petra turned to me and said, “Mason and I are leaving, Lorry. We’ve done all we could, and now we just have to accept the inevitable.”

  Mason turned to me, grinned, waved, and took Petra’s hand. They walked toward the door but stopped before they got there, and Mason turned her around and kissed her. It wasn’t just a peck on the lips, this was a complete long-lasting passionate kiss. I didn’t think it was a prudent thing to do in front of the council and the general public. Petra was only sixteen years old. It made me wonder if they were doing it or not. Honestly, I didn’t want to know. Oh, wait. Yes, I did. Curiosity and all that. Wasn’t that human nature? You know, wanting to know that sort of thing? Whatever.

  So intent was I in watching the Petra and Mason show, that when I turned back around, almost everyone in the room had gone. Several people walked out the door right in front of where Mason and Petra were kissing, but they were all a blur, like when a camera is out of focus.

  Billy was talking to Wichita Wiggins, who had been the sheriff when Billy became a deputy and was now the town attorney. Mayor Joe Stoddard walked in the door and up to Billy and Wichita. He must have walked out along with most everyone else as I watched Mason and Petra. How long were they kissing, anyway? As much as I didn’t want to talk to the mayor, I wasn’t going to stand there alone on the fringes while I waited for Billy. We planned on going home together—maybe not in the same vehicle, but together. So I marched my butt up to the three of them, said a warm hello to Wichita, and blatantly ignored the mayor.

  He was about to turn to me and say something—I knew that because his body was in motion toward me and his mouth was open—when we heard it. A shot. Bingo gave one short crisp bark. Billy and I and Wichita looked at one another in disbelief, and the mayor said, “That was loud for a car backfire.”

  A second later, without saying a word, Billy bolted out the door in the direction the shot came from.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WHAT’S WITH HIM?” asked the mayor. “He in the market for a broken-down used car or something?” He laughed at his own joke.

  “Mayor,” said Wichita, “with all due respect, sir, that was a gunshot, not a car backfire!”

  I knew Wichita well enough to know he would have liked to add some expletives in there, so he had great restraint in not doing so. The mayor, meanwhile, had a look of astonishment on his face, but all he could say was, “Oh.” Then he hurried out the door after Billy.

  Wichita nodded toward me and hobbled after the mayor with his cane clunking beside him. He was in his sixties, with a stocky build and a balding head sparsely covered in gray hair. His cane wasn’t a sign of infirmity—he had broken his ankle hang gliding with his grandchildren. When his ankle healed, he could probably participate in the Olympics and be competitive. The man was tough and had heart. The Town of Rutledge had lured him back to town after he moved back East to be closer to his grandchildren. But when the council offered him a job as town attorney, he couldn’t turn it down.

  People had started filtering back into the room looking confused. I would have critically examined each one individually to see who might be the murderer, but I didn’t know yet if there was a murder. Knowing my history since I moved to Rutledge, though—well, let’s put it this way: since I moved back to town, Rutledge had become the murder capital of Arizona. Maybe the United States. Maybe the world. No, maybe not that bad. So considering that history, I looked over each person who came in so I could check them off the list of who might have been shot.

  It wasn’t Martha, thank goodness, as she was sitting at her desk kneading her hands and looking worried. It wasn’t Russell Tabor, because he was at his desk shuffling papers and looking unconcerned. Hmmm. That might be suspicious. But since I didn’t know if or who had been murdered, I couldn’t rule him in or out. You know how it is: no motive, no murder.

  Petra and Mason should have been long gone before we heard the shot, I hoped. Although, since they were together, there would have been two shots, so I didn’t think it was either of them. Several members of the council were back at their places. They had nameplates in front of them, but I was too busy to look. Who was missing? I didn’t see the wicked man. Wait! There was his son straining his neck looking around the room presumably for his father.

  I examined the room carefully. The whole council was there except the mayor, but it couldn’t have been him. None of the audience had returned, so all of them were unaccounted for. The aforementioned wicked man was not in attendance.

  Before I had a chance to ponder that, the mayor returned, stood to the side, and elevated his voice so the whole room could hear. “Everyone, I have to report a murder.” He looked over to the son. “Todd, someone has shot your father. I’m so sorry.”

  Todd stood up, looked around, and sat back down. “Murdered? Who would murder my father?” He stood up again and looked around the room, his eyes settling on me.

  The mayor, who couldn’t tell a gunshot from a car backfire, was a little more adept at reading people, thankfully. “No, Todd, it wasn’t her. She was with me when it happened.”

  The rest of the council murmured their condolences, but Todd didn’t seem to hear. He stood back up, scowled at me, and fled out the door without saying another word.

  My first thought was: yes, his performance looked convincing. But doesn’t he inherit the entire company? Money is always a motive for murder.

  Meanwhile, the entire council had stood up. The two women, Christa Hawthorne and Elizabeth Conroy, were weeping and hugging the men and each other. Martha looked distressed but didn’t stand up to join in the group hugs. And Russell Tabor sat there watching. He was a strange man, and he was already on my list of suspects.

  The council sat down again, and with his head down and his shoulders stooped, the mayor walked slowly to his seat. He took the gavel in his hand, but instead of pounding it, he laid it down in front of him. And then he spoke. “Considering what’s just happened, there is no need for an executive session for contract negotiations right now.” He looked up and out at the audience, which consisted of just li’l ole me. “And our attorney isn’t even here now—not that it matters. We may or may not have business with Fenton and Son Incorporated—through Todd Fenton—but we will have to wait for another day to ascertain that. We’re done for today.” The mayor picked
up the gavel, gave a light tap on the desk in front of him, and set it back down.

  I think in all the excitement he forgot all about that first motion, second motion, motion carried business, because the rest of the council looked at him expectantly. He sat there with his head down and didn’t say a word. Then he picked his head up and said. “I apologize for any inconvenience it might cause the council, the town manager, and the town clerk”—he nodded toward Martha and Russell Tabor—“but Billy and Wichita have locked the doors to the building, and all of you will be detained for an interview and whatnot.”

  Since I had heard the shot and now had it confirmed, I knew that whatnot would undoubtedly include GSR testing. GSR testing, for those of you innocents out there, was gunshot residue. Sad to say I had personal experience with GSR testing, and it wasn’t a good memory. So I’ll skip that for now. But the council was in for a surprise if they think whatnot is just fingerprinting.

  Elizabeth Conroy, or was it Christa Hawthorne, my eye was on my watch and my mind was elsewhere, but a woman’s voice that wasn’t Martha’s said, “What about Todd? He just walked out of here.”

  “Like I said, all the doors are locked. Nobody is going in or out. He’ll be stopped at the door. The only door that can reach the outside is the emergency door, and Wichita has that one covered. Todd’ll be back and will have to go through the same interview process as the rest of us.

  “The only ones who are not suspects are me, Wichita, and Lorry Lockharte, because the three of us were talking to the sheriff when the shot occurred. We still have to attend the interview to see if we remember who was in the audience right before the recess.”

  The council spoke softly among themselves, but none of them spoke a word of dissension because they were all good little boys and girls who always went along with authority. Can you tell I’m a little cynical about that? Well, all of them went along with authority except for the one who killed Mr. Fenton. That would be stretching it a little.

  “You’re all welcome to wander around the room. Unfortunately, though, you cannot use the restroom right now.”

  Yup, of course not. Because a person can wash off GSR.

  “So those of you who, um, have to go, make yourselves known to Sheriff Billy when he returns, and he will interview you first.”

  The council was a little incensed at not being able to use the restrooms, but again, they kept their animosity to themselves. Like good little boys and girls and all that.

  Then the mayor stood unceremoniously and walked toward me. “Lorry, unless there are people who need to use the restroom, Billy said he would interview you first so you could go home. But he didn’t say if you needed a ride. So I will take you home after he interviews me,” he said authoritatively—like I wasn’t supposed to argue.

  That’s not my way. “Thank you, mayor, but—”

  He interrupted me. “I insist. It’s the right thing to do. I absolutely will not take no for an answer.”

  He was a man not used to people standing up to him. “Mayor, you have to. I have my own car. Billy and I were planning to drive home together—in separate cars.” He shook his head like he had water in his ears, but I guess it meant he didn’t understand. So I tried to explain. “Billy likes to escort me home when I drive my own car.”

  This time the mayor screwed up his face and shook his head. “So he turns on his lights and siren and follows you home?”

  If there wasn’t such a somber mood in the place, I would have laughed in his face. As it was, I had to clench my teeth to keep from giggling. “Um, no. He just follows me. No lights or siren.”

  The mayor nodded and didn’t say a word. His comment got me to thinking. It would be cool if Billy turned on his lights when he followed me home. No sirens, though. I wouldn’t want to make a spectacle of myself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE MAYOR WALKED back to the panel where the rest of the council members sat quietly conversing among themselves, and I sat down close to the door and tried to make myself unobtrusive, which was no easy feat for me. I ain’t no ninety-eight-pound weakling. And if you want to know what poundage I do carry, too bad. It’s not polite to ask that of a grown woman. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners? And don’t correct my English, either. I said ain’t and the no for effect.

  Todd Fenton tromped through the door, glared at me, and walked up behind the panel where the mayor was sitting. He was about to say something, but Christa got up to hug him, then Elizabeth, then a couple of the men stood up and patted him on the back as they nodded their heads. Todd leaned over and said something to the mayor. I couldn’t hear what the mayor answered, but Todd used his hands a lot and ended by shaking a finger at the mayor. Then—I still couldn’t hear the conversation and can’t read lips, but this was obvious—the mayor put his hands out in front of him, palms up, and leaned slightly forward, while saying, “There’s nothing I can do.”

  Todd stomped his feet back to his seat in the front row, crossing his arms and looking angry. I looked at Martha, but she wouldn’t make eye contact. She wasn’t only my boss; she was also a good friend. And I had probably embarrassed her with my outburst. Ah, well, she knows me well and knows how important the historical society is to me. What did she expect? For me to just lay down and let the town tramp all over me? I don’t think so!

  And Russell Tabor sat there in his white shirt, his gray slacks—I couldn’t see them under the desk but had noticed when he walked in—and his spit-polished shoes. He still looked guilty.

  The rest of the council kept their seats, didn’t talk much to the others, and looked tired. It wasn’t late, but sitting there like that was boring. BOR-ING! I yawned in their direction to show them it was perfectly okay to do in public as long as you had good reason. And we all had good reason. Where was Billy, anyway? How long does it take for forensics to finish? Billy’s deputy, Nick, would do that, anyway. And how long does it take for the medical examiner to arrive? They were only coming from Coyote Moon—formerly known as West Rutledge—the next town over.

  I felt bored out of my three-inch heels, but I slipped them back on in case I had to make a run for it. One never knows. Looking around the room because I had nothing else to do, I started with the floor under my heels. It was that same fake hardwood floor as they had in the entryway and down the hallway I had noticed the first time I came here to see Martha. It didn’t look real, but maybe I was being too hard on it. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to look real. The walls were an off-white with no decorations except one of those three-piece pictures in separate frames. It was a picture of three different kinds of cactus with the same background, and it looked cool.

  My observations ended when Petra and Mason came through the door, holding hands, and jabbering. When they saw me sitting at the back, they sat down on either side of me. “What are you guys doing here?” I asked. “Couldn’t Billy have interviewed you over the phone to see if you remember who was here?”

  Mason, sitting to my right, farthest from the door, leaned over and said, “We’re suspects!” He looked proud.

  I was waiting for the punch line, but when it didn’t come, I broke out in laughter, anyway. “You two? Suspects? Gimme a break!”

  Petra put her hands on her hips and said, “What! You don’t think I’m capable of being a suspect? I can be a killer as much as anyone else!” Mason and I both tried to hush her down, because everyone in the room had turned their heads toward us. She didn’t speak loudly, so I don’t think they could hear, but I’m sure they could feel the rancor in her voice. I knew I could.

  “No, Petra, it’s just—” but I didn’t get to finish because Billy appeared at the door, took two steps toward us and whispered, “Lor, I know I said I’d interview you first, but Mason has to get back to Flag. Do you mind? It may take a while. He’s a suspect.” Flag was what the locals called Flagstaff.

  “Yeah, I just heard, and no, I don’t mind. Go ahead.”

  He threw me a kiss, motioned Mason to follow, and stepped out
the door. Mason stood up, squeezed in front of me with his backside toward me, made a grunting noise, turned around to me and said, “There. That feels better already.”

  As he walked away, I figured out what he was talking about. What do they call those?

  Petra knew, because she started fanning her hand in front of her face, an action I followed with enthusiasm. “Phew!” she said. “He is good at those silent but deadly ones!”

  When the stench abated, somewhat, and Petra buried her head in the schoolbook she had brought with her, I began to think about Petra and Mason being suspects. Surely Petra had a motive. She loved working at the historical society as much as I did, probably more. If not for it, she’d be stuck at home with her no-account drunk father sleeping off another hangover. She only worked part time but spent all day at the society studying her courses on the computer. While it was true that if they sold the building it would disrupt Petra’s life, I didn’t think she would murder someone over it. I didn’t think she had ever held a gun in her life.

  And Mason! While he was Petra’s champion and would defend her to the last, he was a gentle soul who was in school to become a doctor. First, do no harm and all that. Mason wouldn’t harm a fly.

  So with that in mind, I didn’t think it would take long to eliminate him as a suspect. But he was in with Billy for almost an hour. Mason did have a habit of going on and on when he was with Billy, though, so that probably had something to do with it.

  When he finally returned to the council room, he still looked bright and happy. He leaned over, gave Petra a quick kiss, said, “I’ll see ya this weekend, babe, and talk to you tomorrow.” Then he swiveled his head toward me. “See ya later, Lor.” And with that he strode off, wearing his signature jean jacket with Greek letters and looking every bit the bad tattooed biker I had originally thought he was.