by Jill Behe
“I sent him out to the swimming hole to check on things. Tomorrow starts summer recess. I’m sure there’ve already been kids out there, but I’ll feel better after Ricky makes sure everything’s in working order.”
Wyatt wandered back over to my desk, and took another swig. I stared up at him. It made my neck ache, but I didn’t care.
“Good thinking, Maggie. By the way, have you seen Wylie-James this week?”
I rolled my eyes—which is really hard to do when you’re already overstretching. You get the picture. “It’s only Monday.”
“You know what I mean. Call came in early this morning from Gladys Townsend. Told me his cow was lumbering down Skunk Hollow Road. Can’t seem to find the man.”
“Lumbering?”
“That’s the word she used.”
I stopped craning my neck and began to rotate it to get the kink out. “Well, he is pretty solitary. Maybe he went off to the hills again. Did you ask Mac if he’s seen him?”
“Mac’s fishing out at the lake; been there a week, and won’t be back for another.”
“Hmm. Guess he’s not feeding Wylie-James’s livestock then.”
“See if you can get a hold of BJ. Tell him we need to talk.” He laid his hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze ... could have sworn it became a caress.
“Um, sure, Sir ... uh, I mean, Wyatt.” I stumbled like a 16-year-old with her first mad crush.
Sometimes he just catches me unawares.
I was still stuck on the Vicki-thing. Couple months ago, I’d made a pact with myself: No more pussy-footing. Go after what you want, Maggie-Lou.
With the bakery owner on the prowl, I’d just assumed the attraction mutual.
Assumptions!
He was fair game.
Usually, my thing is to stay in the background and not call attention to myself. Of course, he’s not the only single man in Mossy Creek, but he is the only one—after me being alone for over ten years—to snag my attention.
Now that he’d confirmed that Ms. Sporelli wasn’t—and hadn’t been—on his radar, the gloves were off.
If anybody was gonna hook ’im—if he wanted to be caught—it would be me.
Eat your heart out, Vicki Sporelli.
I’m in decent shape, and far from homely. Dawson, my youngest, says I’m the only woman my age with hair almost to the waist. In the summer, I wear it pulled back, twisted, and folded into a thick chignon. A big fancy clip, from my extensive eclectic collection, keeps it up and off my neck. There’s just a sprinkling of gray—don’t be laughing—with the dark brown, which tends to make it more noticeable. My green eyes get more appreciation when I’m not wearing my reading glasses, but since I can’t read without them, they’re on my face quite a bit.
Makeup does wonders for some, but I don’t use it much. Maybe if I did, Chief Madison would take more notice … or not. He hasn’t run screaming in the other direction, but there’s always that little niggle in the back of my brain that keeps hammering away at my self-esteem. Up to this point, I haven’t done anything but drool discreetly in my coffee cup whenever he walks into view.
By the time I shook my head, to clear out all those fraternizational thoughts—I know, that’s not a real word, but I do like my Maggie-isms—he was back in his office.
Wyatt Madison does do an excellent job as the police chief of this small municipality, and that’s not just from a prejudiced point of view. He grew up here, only a few years ahead of me in school. Left right after graduation. Did half a year of pre-law before enlisting in the Navy, back when we decided to liberate Kuwait. Went through all kinds of SP (Shore Patrol—Navy’s version of military police) training. Re-upped once. After his second tour, he came home and applied for the chief’s job. The borough council voted him in—unanimously—over his Uncle Mort.
The base radio, on the desk across the room, crackled. “Dispatch, I need some help out here. Chief in yet?”
I hurried over.
CHAPTER 2
“DISPATCH. He’s here. What’s up?”
“Get him, Maggie.”
I squinted at the black speaker-box and yelled for Wyatt. The young officer sounded irritated, and winded, and scared.
“Yeah?”
“Ricky needs to talk to you.”
He came up behind me. “What’s going on?”
I pointed to the radio, and backed out of the way.
He keyed the mic. “Where you at, Rick?”
“The swimming hole.” His voice wobbled—not normal for him. “Chief, you need to get out here. Pronto.”
Wyatt paused, a two-second beat. “What’s up?”
The kid took so long to reply, I looked at Wyatt.
He was looking at me.
“It’s Miranda … Miranda Richards.” Ricky cleared his throat. “She’s hanging out in the middle of the creek.”
“Well help her down.”
“Can’t.” Voice tight and strained. “She’s hanging there. Been there awhile, too, looks like. Damn. Ya need to get out here right away. I’m gonna need your help to get ’er down.”
“What makes you think it’s her?”
“She’s the only brunette on the cheerleading squad this year.”
“And what does that have to do with—”
“She’s wearin’ her little suit.”
My legs went weak and I stumbled to my chair, numb with shock.
Miranda Richards, one of our promising young teens, honor student, prom queen, and head cheerleader. We’d gone to her graduation and commencement ceremonies, only a week ago. She’d just been by last Friday gossiping about Forsythia Morgan and the woman’s infernal spying.
No, Ricky had to be mistaken.
It had to be someone else.
Please, let it be someone else.
And, poor Ricky. He’d never.… This was his first dead body.
“Wyatt, he must be frantic.”
Nodding, the man cleared his throat. “Officer Anderson? How you doin’?”
There was a pause. “Shaky, Sir. Tossed my cookies, like a damn—”
“Rookie?”
“Huh, yes, Sir.”
“Take some deep breaths, son … real slow. I know how it is. First couple times you’re the primary on scene are the hardest. You gonna tough it out?”
“Damn straight.”
Wyatt nodded. “Good. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there in five.”
“Roger that,” came a hoarse reply. “Just hurry. I hate seein’ her like this. Sure is different than on those cop shows.”
I was watching Wyatt.
His hands were trembling so hard he had to set the mic down. Then, chin on his chest, he closed his eyes. “How’m I gonna tell Mac?”
I didn’t think he wanted an answer; and, in any case, I didn’t have one.
He blinked and turned, as though just noticing where I was, and wondering how I’d gotten there. “Call Doc Weston. Don’t use the radio unless it’s an emergency.” He shook his head. “Sorry, you already know that.”
“Yeah, I do.” I nodded. “You need to go.”
Still, he hesitated. “I just can’t believe—”
“Neither can I. We’re in shock … all of us. It’ll take time for it to sink in. But, you’re the one in charge.”
“In charge.” Resignation laced his voice. “Huh, some leader. We should call in the county—”
“Wyatt. That can wait a bit. Right now, Ricky needs you. Miranda needs you.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, you’re right. Get Doc. He’ll need to … do his thing.”
“Get a move on. This is what I do. Go do what you do. The sooner you get there and take care of things, the less likely some kid’s going to show up.”
He did a 180 and stalked back to his office, then came out with his rig, hat, and a camera. “Hold down the fort. We’ll be back as soon as possible.”
“Will do.” I’d been reaching for the phone, but stopped to watch him strap on
his gun belt—not a usual occurrence. My whole body was shaky. I couldn’t imagine what he was feeling. Miranda was his goddaughter.
“Tell Doc to speed for once, will ya? And thanks, Maggie … for everything.” He squashed his hat on his head and went out the door.
The Suburban revved. Tires squealed and loose gravel plinked against the windows as he tore out of the parking lot.
I called Doc Weston and told him where to meet Wyatt.
While waiting for them to get back, I put a call through to BJ Knowles, Wylie-James’s grandson, to let him know the chief wanted a sit-down.
We’d probably have to call in the county sheriff, or the state boys, or both, but I’d leave that for Wyatt.
Where was my best friend when I needed her most? Never had I ever wanted to talk to Dandy more than I did right now. Unfortunately, Dandelion Jones, her hubby Ed, and their 10 year old son Joshua, left two days ago for a three week tour of Europe. No way would I mess up her lovely vacation with news of such tragedy. She’d be mad about that when she got back, but it was better this way.
CHAPTER 3
TUESDAY
NOBODY GOT to swing off the rope at the Mossy Creek swimming hole yesterday, weren’t going to today, either. The State cops had cordoned off the area, which, of course, automatically enlarged the crowd of morbid curiosity gawkers wanting to know: What’s going on? Who’s under the tarp?
Wyatt and Ricky were out there again, scouring the scene for clues. Later, they’d be talking to Miranda’s friends and family, and everyone else in her circle. It had only been about twenty-four hours since she’d been discovered; they hadn’t found much.
Cause of death looked like suicide. Wyatt said he had a hunch it wasn’t that simple, but would wait on word from Harrison McCabe, the Greene County Coroner, to verify his suspicions.
Although relegated to the command post, I was itching to explore the site. Crime novels are a passion. Having read more than my share, I was sure I could find something everyone else had missed. Alas, despite wishful thinking, I wasn’t allowed; didn’t have a badge.
At noon, Wyatt and Ricky trudged through the door, frustration and exhaustion evident on their faces. Ricky tossed his hat on his desk; Wyatt hooked his on the back of a chair and ran his hands through the mass of sweat-dampened locks above his brow, leaving it … mussed.
(Sigh.) Now was not the time to drool, but there’s no stopping hormones when they’re agitated.
Both men sagged into the nearest seats, in front of my desk.
“Would you like some lunch?” They had to be hungry. Whether they were or not, they needed to eat. “I could call over to Annetta’s and have something delivered?”
Wyatt had a weakness for her special hoagies.
“Sounds great, Maggie.” His unenthused answer made me frown.
“Ricky?”
“Sure … yeah, whatever.”
“What do you want them to bring?”
Leaning forward in his chair, Wyatt rubbed his hands over his face before letting them hang between his knees. “I don’t even have an appetite.”
“You have to eat.” I sounded like my mother.
Don’t think he noticed. “Yeah, I know. All right, well, one of her hot ham and cheese hoagies, I guess. And a Pepsi … two-liter.”
I waited a few seconds. “Pie?”
His eyes met mine. A brief grin appeared and was gone. “Sure. Coconut cream.”
“Rick, how about you?” Pen stood poised. “I feel like one of her waitresses.”
The boy slid his frame down far enough to rest his head against the chair’s back, stretched out his legs, then crossed his ankles. “Sounds good. What Wyatt ordered. ’Cept no coconut; make mine banana.”
“All right. Two hot ham and cheeses, with Pepsi’s, one coconut cream and one banana.”
Wyatt rifled through his billfold and handed me a couple of tens. “Get something for yourself, too. On second thought, why don’t you go pick it up? Get out of here for a few. You’ve been manning your post since all this started, practically without a break.”
It made me feel good, him noticing. He and Ricky had been just as diligent, more so even; but I wasn’t above accepting lavish praise upon occasion.
Ricky sat up long enough to get out his wallet. “Ten be enough?” He passed it over, then slouched down, closing his eyes.
“It’ll be plenty, thanks. I’ll be right back. You two go take a nap.”
With Annetta’s only two blocks down the street, there was no need to drive. It would take longer to find a parking space than to walk. Minutes later, there, and buried within a crowd—everyone liked to eat at Annetta’s—I was immediately accosted by the local Clark Kent wanna-be, Daniel Harris.
“Mags, what’s the latest?”
He was also the only one in town with the audacity to call me that idiotic nickname.
“Clark,” I retaliated. “No comment.”
I made my way to the take-out counter.
He followed, like a puppy wanting scraps. “Aw, c’mon. You know everything that’s happening. The people have a right to know!”
I swiveled. “What about the victim’s right to privacy!”
He shrugged. “She’s dead. What does she care?”
I blinked, shocked and disgusted. “I can’t believe you’re that callous. She was one of us. She’s got a father, remember?” I couldn’t believe it, the man wasn’t even offended. “Have a heart, why don’t ya?”
“He’s still out on the lake.” Daniel smiled. “He doesn’t even know.”
I lifted my chin. “I give up.”
He leaned closer, smelling a possible tidbit. “Are you saying he’s been notified?”
“I’m not confirming or denying. But—and be sure to put this one in big quotes [a finger thumps Daniel’s forehead] up in your brain—if I read one single word of this conversation in the paper, your father will be hearing about it.”
He narrowed his eyes, and tried one last time. “Mags, you’re the only one who can tell us anything.”
“First of all, if I said anything, even off the record—which you have no clue about—I’d be fired; then, of course, I’d have to hurt you. Secondly, if I told everything I knew, about everyone in this town, I’d have a bestseller. And the stuff about you, dear boy, would be the juiciest.”
He blushed—he really did—and stammered a little as he backed away, tucking his notepad into a shirt pocket. Funny how I seem to have that effect on younger men.
“You haven’t been a saint yourself, ya know.”
“Never said I was. Now, leave me alone. I need to order. Annetta?”
The woman came up to the register, trying to hide a grin. “Take out?”
“Yes, please.” I gave her the order, adding a hot turkey and cheddar for myself.
“Coming right up. Wait. Only two desserts?” As I nodded, she stuck the pencil over her ear and walked back toward the kitchen. “Gobbler with CHEESE.” She opened the dessert case. “AND TWO PIG MELTS—lickety-split!”
Thirty minutes later, back at headquarters, the dynamic duo and I were enjoying lunch.
“By the way, standing in line at Annetta’s, I got waylaid by that jerk—”
“Oh, yeah?” Wyatt leaned forward.
“Don’t worry, I handled it. Danny Harris, being his usual obnoxious self, intimated that Mac was still up at the lake, and tried grilling me for info. About Mac, you bring him back yesterday, right?”
“I did,” Wyatt said. “Danny thinking he’s privy to everything that goes on in this town is his fantasy. Most of the time, it’s all guesswork. Only way he gets his story is when people verify or deny.”
“Well, he didn’t get anything from me.” I wrinkled my nose. “At least, I don’t think he did. I also let him know what would happen if our conversation ever made the paper.”
Ricky laughed. “What’d you threaten him with?”
“His father, I’ll betcha,” Wyatt interrupted, laughing.
&
nbsp; I smacked his shoulder. “How’d you know?”
Ricky answered for him. “Because, Maggie, we both had dads!”
I should’ve known. Of course, Ricky was right, and with Daniel Harris, his father was one tough hombre. Owen Harris not only owned the local rag, but knew he was part of the town as much as anyone else, and on his worst day wouldn’t allow anybody in Mossy Creek to get disparaged just for the sake of a story, and certainly not by his newshound of a son.
Although it didn’t have a big circulation, The Mossy Creek Gazette was the town’s only printed source of information. The death of Miranda Richards had made the front-page, and everyone was hungry for more details, especially the police department—both of them, maybe-sorta three of ’em.
“What about a press conference?” Ricky shoveled a bite of banana cream pie into his mouth.
Wyatt waved in dismissal. “What can we tell them that they don’t already know? Officer Anderson found Miranda Richards hanging from a rope at the swimming hole? Most likely cause of death? Suicide. Yeah right, maybe.” He shook his head. “The earliest we can confirm that will be the end of the week, with the coroner’s report.”
He picked up his sandwich. “What else? That friends say she was at an end-of-year pep rally at the high school Friday afternoon, but no one saw her after that? Her dad didn’t report her missing, because he’s been out at Grand View Lake on a fishing trip? I mean, hell, that’s it, end-of-report.”
He shifted to get a two-handed grip on the last quarter of his hoagie. “Now, we could ask for everyone’s help, in case they have any other information, but I gotta say, I think we’ve about tapped that source. And, as I said before, and just for our ears, it might look like suicide, but I wouldn’t bet on it.” A glance at Ricky. “Wasn’t she going out with Dodge Peters’s kid? What’s his name?”
Ricky finished a swallow of Pepsi, belched, then answered, “’Scuse me. No, it wasn’t the Peters’s kid. It was the Reverend’s,” a cough, “Reverend Blanchard’s kid, Eddy.”
“Oh?” I pursed my lips. “I could’ve sworn Forsythia Morgan told me she saw Cody Peters and Miranda holding hands at the carnival last week.”