by Lyn Key
Therefore, he wasn’t getting rich by any stretch of the imagination. What more can we add to his biography?
“By all appearances, he was a cheerful, even-tempered young man,” Hope replied. “I liked him, and everybody I know got along with him.”
“I feel the same way,” Peggy Sue said. “He was just an average guy, and the last person I’d ever expect to find murdered.”
Haven’t you heard one scrap of gossip about Hugo? Was he linked to scandals or crimes? Did he ever act up or blow his cool in public? Did he run around with any man’s wife or girlfriend?
“I can’t say I ever heard he did any of those things,” Hope replied. “I’m afraid we’re not getting off to a rip-roaring start.”
Peggy Sue refused to let up. “Then we’ll have to redouble our efforts to root out the next piece to our jigsaw puzzle.”
May I toss out a suggestion for your consideration?
“Be our guest and toss away,” Peggy Sue said.
Mosey on inside the post office and chat up Mr. Bushrod. Ask him if he knows whether our good-natured, affable Hugo ever got on any person’s bad side. If anybody has knowledge of such a detail, Mr. Bushrod is your man.
Hope gave a pleased nod. “He sees and speaks to everybody who comes into the post office.”
Peggy Sue nosed the car into an empty space in front of the cream brick post office shaped like a cracker box with a pitched roof.
“Are you staying here or going in with us?” Peggy Sue asked.
You ladies can go do the gumshoe legwork. Meantime, I’ll crawl up in the rear seat and bask in that luscious patch of sunlight.
“Goodness me, how many hours of sleep do you need in a twenty-four hour day?” Peggy Sue asked.
“Twenty-three hours if he can get them,” Hope replied.
Nozy Cat tweaked his whiskers in annoyance. The recommended sleep time for us cats is fifteen hours, but I make it sixteen hours since I’m straining my brain on this case.
“Sweet dreams then,” Peggy Sue said.
***
For as long as Hope could remember, Sweet Spring’s post office had never changed its kitschy look of knotty cedar paneled walls and pea green linoleum floors. It had a kitchen smell like her s’more pastries heating in the electric toaster. Likewise, she’d never known a different postmaster than Mr. Bushrod. She’d once heard somebody make the claim he was a Second World War flying ace, but she never asked him about it. She liked him too much to pry.
Peggy Sue marched straight up and asked him about Hugo Spangler. Her abrupt question didn’t fluster the even-tempered Mr. Bushrod who put aside the chocolate Moon Pie he’d been munching on. He accepted how Peggy Sue always spoke her mind. Head downcast in thought, he combed his fingers through his mussed snow-white thatch of hair.
“Do I know if Hugo Spangler made any enemies?” Mr. Bushrod repeated, his voice sounding a tad more quavery than Hope last remembered hearing it. “You know, it’s odd as all get-out, but you’re the second person to ask me that same question today.”
“Who beat us asking it?” Peggy Sue asked.
“Sergeant Trogg marched in no more than ten minutes ago and made the same inquiry,” Mr. Bushrod replied.
“He’s not wasting any time launching his murder investigation,” Peggy Sue said.
“What did you tell him?” Hope asked.
“He didn’t get a peep out of me,” Mr. Bushrod replied. “I make no bones about I don’t like him, and I never will. I suppose he’s a competent enough cop, but I don’t cotton to his abrasive personality. He and I aren’t simpatico.”
“May we join your club?” Peggy Sue asked. “Hope and I top his murder suspects list. He made it plain while visiting us this morning.”
“Stand up to him and don’t let him push you around,” Mr. Bushrod said. “Pinning on a cop’s badge doesn’t give him the right to run roughshod over us town folks. I’ve called him out on it more than once.”
“Getting back to Hugo, did he ever rub anybody the wrong way?” Hope asked. “Did anybody want to see him dead?”
Mr. Bushrod slowly nodded. “I know of one such individual who might’ve felt that strongly about Hugo.”
“Can you share the individual’s name with us?” Hope asked.
Mr. Bushrod looked her straight in the eye. “Let me ask you ladies something important first,” he said. “Why are you stopping at the different places in town and posing nosy questions about Hugo’s murder?”
“We’re hustling to solve it since Sergeant Trogg has made us his prime suspects,” Hope replied.
Mr. Bushrod nodded. “So, you’re convinced he’s determined to make good on his threat.”
“We are indeed,” Hope said.
“All right then, you should take a short ride out to the old limestone quarry east of town,” Mr. Bushrod said. “Do you know where the place is?”
Hope nodded she did. “We kids used it for our swimming hole and dove off the high rocks,” she said.
“The gravel turnoff to it is now blocked off by fence rails and sawhorses,” Peggy Sue said.
“A tan-colored stucco house behind a white picket fence sits on this side of the quarry,” Mr. Bushrod said. “You’ve probably passed by it many times. Old Man Fletcher built the house to live out his golden years following his retirement from the government. After he passed away, his out-of-town heirs sold it.”
“The last I heard was Dan McCabe lives out there,” Peggy Sue said.
“He’s the one who bought the house,” Mr. Bushrod said. “He’s also the man to check out if you’re serious about conducting your murder investigation.”
“Is there a particular reason why we should?” Peggy Sue asked.
“One morning back in the spring, Dan and Hugo got into a heated argument,” Mr. Bushrod replied. “I heard them hollering and going at it here in the lobby of the post office. I hurried out and got between them.”
“Were they fighting?” Hope asked.
“Dan bunched up his fists, but he hadn’t thrown any punches,” Mr. Bushrod replied. “I’m the postmaster, and I told them to take their beef to a different spot.”
“What caused their altercation?” Hope asked.
Mr. Bushrod shrugged. “I didn’t listen to who shouted what. I only wanted them to quit behaving like a pair of ruffians.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Bushrod,” Hope said. “You must have some idea about what set them off.”
“Since they got so steamed under the collar, maybe it was a money squabble,” Mr. Bushrod replied.
“Did they heed your warning and leave without causing you any further trouble?” Hope asked.
“Yeah, they got the message and went their separate ways,” Mr. Bushrod replied. “I had no problem with either of them afterward.”
Hope exchanged nods with Peggy Sue. They agreed where they had to go next.
“I have one thing to say before you leave,” Mr. Bushrod said. “Exercise sensible judgment while you deal with Dan. He has a fiery temper and isn’t afraid to get physical. However, he also has a streak of guile making him more dangerous. If he is the killer, well, you can see the peril you’ll face while confronting him.”
“Your heads up puts us on guard,” Hope said.
“Do you have any help?” Mr. Bushrod asked.
“Nozy Cat is right there beside us every step of the way,” Peggy Sue replied.
Hope cringed a little.
Mr. Bushrod didn’t think it was crazy to put so much faith in a cat.
“Pets are grand company,” he said. “I’d be coming unraveled at the seams if I didn’t have Julius Caesar my Chihuahua to keep my sanity.”
“Do you talk to Julius Caesar?” Peggy Sue asked.
Hope flashed her don’t-you-dare-mention-about-Nozy-Cat’s-secret frown at Peggy Sue who smiled back.
“We only talk every minute while I’m at home,” Mr. Bushrod replied. “I know him so well I can read his body English and facial expressions along with his d
ifferent barks to understand what he means.”
Peggy Sue laughed. “Julius Caesar must be a delight.”
“We’ve grown inseparable,” Mr. Bushrod replied. “I leave the radio playing on the oldies rock station to keep Julius Caesar entertained while I’m away from home and keep the post office running smoothly.”
“Which rock music genre does Julius Caesar enjoy listening to at home?” Peggy Sue asked.
“Elvis,” Mr. Bushrod replied. “Julius Caesar is a rabid—excuse the pun—fan of Mr. Presley. When he cuts loose singing, Julius Caesar throws back his tiny muzzle and growls in tune right along with Elvis. Hearing them perform their rousing duet of ‘Hound Dog’ makes you want to leap up and cut the rug.”
“Are you also there lending them your singing talents?” Peggy Sue asked.
“Evidently, you’ve never heard me try to sing a song,” Mr. Bushrod replied with a devilish grin. “I just snap my fingers and tap my toe to the beat.”
Chapter 5
Unlike the fate of too many small towns left to wither away after the construction of a new highway bypasses it, Sweet Springs tried its valiant best to remain a fresh and relevant place. Though not as lively as it’d been when the highway ran through the heart of the town, Main Street teemed with a respectable amount of activity.
The shoppers, many of them parents with small children, whisked into and out of the different shops and stores. Old Glory fluttering above the post office added a patriotic touch to Main Street’s smart appearance. Hope and Peggy Sue depended on the vibrant shopping scene to draw in the customers who kept the Brontë Bookshop humming along.
While on Main Street, the shoppers had no idea of whom they might bump into next. Hope caught sight of Dan McCabe as he exited the men’s barbershop next to the laundromat. He cut away from them and strode toward his car parked by the curbside.
Hope pointed him out to Peggy Sue, and they quickened their pace while he reached into his pocket for his key ring. It held enough keys to open all the room doors to an old hotel. His apparel was denim bib overalls with a t-shirt worn under them. Hope opened her mouth to speak, but Peggy Sue was faster at hailing him.
Dan turned around. While he wasn’t quite Peggy Sue’s “gorgeous hunk,” Hope observed he came close enough to handsome. He stood a generous inch taller than six feet. His icy blue eyes offset his curly jet black hair his barber had trimmed to a short length. The flattering sight of two attractive older women flagging him down inspired his bemused smile.
As they came within conversation range, Hope heard ringing. She knew without checking it was Stacey. She’d gotten through her morning classes, but here at lunchtime, she figured she’d try her luck again to leave school and join them. Hope decided she wouldn’t wrangle with Stacey right then. Dan the possible murder suspect nodded as they drew up before him.
“The big news is buzzing everywhere,” he said. “Hugo Spangler bit the dust in your bookshop. It’s an ironic place for him to die since I doubt if he ever cracked open let alone read a book in his life.”
“Let’s not mince words,” Peggy Sue said. “Hugo was murdered and left in our bookshop.”
“Did either of you clunk him over the head with a thick book?” Dan asked.
“Let’s also be clear up front,” Hope said. “Peggy Sue and I had nothing whatsoever to do with Hugo’s murder.”
“Even if, he ended up dead as a doornail in your poetry section,” Dan said. “That will take you some fast talking to explain away to Sergeant Trogg’s satisfaction.”
“How might you know I found Hugo dead in our poetry section?” Hope asked. “Only his killer would know that specific detail.”
“That’s right, Dan,” Peggy Sue said. “It sounds as if you’re the one who has got some explaining to do.”
“Sergeant Trogg told me when he questioned me less than ten minutes ago,” Dan replied.
“We can’t seem to get the edge on him,” Peggy Sue said.
“That’s understandable since he’s been doing this for a lot longer than we have,” Hope said.
“What are you and Peggy Sue so busy doing?” Dan asked with a grin.
“You must’ve heard or you wouldn’t be acting so smug about it,” Hope replied.
“The talk of the town is you’ve closed the Brontë Bookshop to become a pair of lady private eyes,” Dan said.
“We’d look pretty silly to try and deny it,” Peggy Sue said.
Dan smirked.
“Did you tell Sergeant Trogg about your side of the recent fiery argument you had with Hugo in the post office?” Hope asked.
Dan lost his smirk. Anger contorted his face, pinching it along his eyes and mouth. “Who told you about that?” he asked.
“You said we’re a pair of lady private eyes,” Peggy Sue replied. “Information gathering is what we do. Fill us in about your argument with Hugo.”
“It wasn’t a fiery argument but a private discussion,” Dan said.
“Was it over money?” Hope asked. “Did you owe Hugo some cash, or the other way around?”
“Mr. Bushrod must’ve told you,” Dan said. “The post office needs new blood, and the geezer needs to retire and go putter in his zinnias. What else did he tell you?”
“Mr. Bushrod just did his job,” Hope said. “He runs the post office, not a kickboxing gym.”
“You still didn’t answer our questions,” Peggy Sue said.
“Read my lips,” Dan said, his voice sharpening. “It’s none of your frigging business. There’s your answer.”
“Did you already cover these questions with Sergeant Trogg?” Hope asked. “Did you—”
“I told you I’ve had enough of your pushiness,” the red-faced Dan said. His neck muscles corded in his fury as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “You’re lucky you’re women, or I’d—” He choked off making his violent threat.
“Or you’d do what exactly, Dan?” Hope asked. “Finish making your threat. We’d be interested to hear the rest of it.”
Hope amazed at how Dan relaxed and wrested back control of his temper almost as fast as it’d flared up. He studied them with cunning appraisal and pointed his finger at them. “Just back off and stay out of my affairs. That’s my friendly advice and not a threat.”
“You’ve said your all,” Hope said. “Don’t let us be a hold up.”
Peggy Sue and Hope watched as he got under the steering wheel, started the engine, and accelerated off down Main Street. He’d attached a new-looking Baltimore Orioles sticker to the rear bumper.
“Dan is an Orioles baseball fan,” Hope said.
“So he is,” Peggy Sue said. “Is that a significant clue?”
“It’s at least an interesting coincidence. Mr. Bushrod was right about Dan’s volatile personality. He was seconds away from popping off on us. However, he got a quick handle on his anger while on Main Street with any number of eyewitnesses. Even so, I could see lots of rage still blazing in his eyes.”
Peggy Sue nodded. “Here’s the first question of several. Has he been in the Brontë Bookshop over the past couple of weeks?”
Hope thought it over for a moment. “I don’t remember seeing his face mingling with our customers. I’m not looking at every one of them who comes through the door.”
“Neither am I although I try to stay as vigilant as I can.”
“If Dan paid us a visit, he could’ve mapped out a fast strategy to drag in Hugo’s dead body before slipping out and leaving us to hold the bag.”
“Question: how did he get past the locked doors?”
Hope shrugged. “I don’t know but it’s a scary thought if he did.”
“Bigger question: why did he do it?”
“I didn’t say my new theory was perfect. However, I do say congratulations, Dan McCabe. You’re our first murder suspect.”
“We owe ourselves the first pat on the back,” Peggy Sue said.
“I have to take out five and call Stace back,” Hope said. “She’s burning up
with summer vacation fever, and she can’t wait to kick off her shoes and go barefoot.”
***
The usual chain restaurants had sprouted up along the bypass outside of Sweet Springs. However, many of the original mom and pop diners and eateries had managed to hold on and remain open, much to the gratitude of the hungry locals. The Yellow Ribbon Café operated on the corner of Warbler Avenue and Main. Peggy Sue, Hope, and Stacey sat at one of the sunny window booths, a prime spot to relax over lunch.
They’d finished the barbecued pulled pork sandwiches with coleslaw, tasty and inexpensive, and their server had cleared away the dirty plates. Hope and Peggy Sue ordered cups of coffee, sugar only for Hope while cream only for Peggy Sue. Stacey took a refill on her Diet Coke soda with a new lemon slice but no ice cubes.
Peggy Sue liked Stacey with her dimples, freckles, and curly red hair. She was the type of a girl Peggy Sue would say kept a level head on her shoulders. Though mother and daughter seemed to clash daily, Peggy Sue knew Hope and Stacey had an honest, open relationship, the sort Peggy Sue wished she enjoyed with her mother. She saw how Hope and Stacey were positive influences on each other even if they failed to recognize it. Peggy Sue liked to remind Hope of it when the dialogue between Stacey and Hope broke down or grew strained.
“The scuttlebutt I hear is Hugo Spangler broke up with his girlfriend last week,” Stacey said. “His cousin Angela Dixon told us about it at school. He was the breaker-upper, and it took his girlfriend by surprise.”
“Who is Hugo’s ex-girlfriend?” Hope asked. “I’m not sure I ever knew.”
“Cammie Jenkins,” Stacey replied.
“Why did Hugo decide to end it with Cammie?” Hope asked. “Did he meet a new woman he liked better?”
“Angela didn’t give the reason if she even knows,” Stacey replied.
“Maybe Hugo was afraid of making a commitment,” Peggy Sue said. “Maybe he got tired of putting up with a girlfriend. Or maybe, as you say, he simply found a new one and moved on to greener pastures.”
“Where does Cammie live?” Hope asked.
“She rents the dove gray-shingled house across from the cemetery,” Stacey replied.