Mossy Creek: A Maggie Mercer Mystery

by Jill Behe

  “I apologize, Miz Wellington.” And I was truly sorry. I did know better than that. And, before you ask, yes, she was my tenth-grade English teacher, back when they called it English … not Communications Art or Language Arts, or some other such nonsense. “Why was this car more unusual than most?”

  Mollified, she relaxed a bit in the chair. “Well, I didn’t think it was, until I noticed that cheerleader getting out of it.”

  She’d caught my attention. “Cheerleader? You saw Randy … er, Miranda Richards? Did you see who she, uh … who was with her?”

  The hat never moved as she shook her head, although her hair did get slightly mussed. “I heard her laugh at something. She was with a man, because I heard his voice, too. Um, to be precise, I heard a deeper voice and presumed it to be a man. But, I couldn’t see clearly enough through my lilac bushes to recognize anyone.” Her mouth set in disgust; she paused and tsk-ed.

  “The only reason I know she was a cheerleader, is because of the uniform … the one with the cute little red skirt. I did think it odd, at the time. She should not have been wearing her costume. It just didn’t seem appropriate.” Miz Wellington began to wring her hands.

  “They weren’t there very long. I’d guess it was about twenty minutes or so when they came back to the car. She sounded upset. His voice was tense, like a scolding parent. I couldn’t make out any of the words, just the sounds of their voices. They got back into the car and she spun the tires in the gravel on the way out.”

  “Did you see what kind of car it was?”

  “Miranda’s little blue Datsun.”

  “So, she was driving.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, I believe I said that already.”

  “So you did.” I sat back in my chair. “Miz Wellington, didn’t Chief Madison or Officer Anderson come by to talk to you?”

  She tilted her head in thought. “No. I don’t believe so. Unless I was napping. I take out my hearing aids when I lay down. However, I may not have gotten home yet.”

  “Home from where?”

  She made an impatient sound. “One thing at a time, dear.”

  I was getting edgy and mentally forced myself to relax. “What time of day was this?”

  “Oh, in the evening, dear. I’d say probably seven-thirty, eight … something like that. Not completely dark, but not real light.”

  “Twilight?”

  “Mmm, yes. Twilight. A perfect description.”

  “Thank you so much, Miz Wellington. I’ll be sure to tell the chief when he gets back.” I stood, about to help her out of the chair.

  She tilted forward a little and placed a gloved hand on the edge of my desk. “Oh, that’s not all.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “NOT ALL?” I raised my eyebrows and sat back down. “What else?”

  I should have been paying better attention.

  She relaxed again. “Well now, I told you I take out my hearing aids when I lie down.” I nodded. “I went to bed, around eleven-thirty.” She stopped, put her forefinger over her mouth, thought for a moment, then directed it at me. “You know I do believe it was Sunday evening. Yes. Yes, it was, because after I went inside, I turned on the television and watched the Sunday night movie on ABC, then the news at eleven, before I went up to bed.

  “I mentioned that her attire puzzled me, did I not?”

  I smiled, and flipped back a few pages. “Yes, you are correct, Miz Wellington. You did say it was odd, and seemed inappropriate.”

  She inclined her head. “She shouldn’t have been wearing it, because there aren’t any high school sports on Sundays. Just now, in speaking of it, I realize she had just graduated; therefore, technically, she was no longer a cheerleader.

  “I’m still not sure what woke me, but lights flashed across my wall and I got up to look out the window. It was very dark by that time. I could see taillights and headlights.” She shifted in her seat, as though anxious. “Someone got out of the car, because a dome light blinked on-and-off. It came on again, and I saw him lean in and wrestle something—obviously heavy—from the front passenger seat. I didn’t realize what it was until he walked in front of the car and was momentarily highlighted. He was carrying a girl … I could see her bare legs swinging.” Both hands went to her chest this time, and she leaned forward.

  “That’s when I wished, with all my heart, that I had a telephone. I couldn’t very well go anywhere in my car, as I don’t know where the Chief Madison lives. Also, because my doctor won’t allow me to drive after dark anymore. I thought about running out to the swimming hole, but I didn’t know who was out there, or what they were doing, (she cupped a hand to her mouth) it could have been a romantic tryst. I never imagined—”

  She paused, to recompose.

  “I suppose it was about ten or fifteen minutes later—more or less, I can’t be certain—when I saw him come back alone. He then got into the car and drove away.”

  “You believe the person you saw was male?”

  “No. I couldn’t tell either way. It’s just a pronoun specification.”

  “Why didn’t you come to see us the next day?”

  “I’m getting to that,” she snapped. “The next morning, I got up and had every intention of coming in to see Chief Madison. But it just so happened that my sister’s girl Bernice was coming by to take me to the grocer’s. Corsair’s was having a sale on chicken, and it’s always so much fresher and well-cleaned than— Ahem. As I was saying, I was combing my hair and heard the car in the drive.”

  She shook her head. “In my haste to get to the door, I stumbled on the stairs, and fell. I couldn’t move for a few minutes, but my lungs worked just fine. Bernice used her key to get in. I didn’t think I was hurt all that badly, but when I tried to stand, my leg wouldn’t hold.” She paused to massage said leg. “Thankfully she’s stronger than she looks and we made it out to her car and went to the emergency room over to Arlington.” With an irritated huff, she said, “Blasted know-it-alls. They took X-rays of everything and found that though nothing was broken, I had badly sprained my knee, possibly even my hip. Because of my age, the doctor … young whippersnapper, decided to keep me for observation, in case I developed any delayed reactions. Such twaddle. I should have beaned him with my cane, except I didn’t have one at the time.”

  I bit my lip to keep a straight face.

  “Needless to say, I was very put out and not able to come forward about what I’d seen. Upon arriving home, I learned about that poor little girl—and that [her hand slaps the table] very night, too—dying out at the swimming hole. I was beside myself, wondering, if I had been able to call someone, if she might still be alive.

  “I had to wait until today, when Bernice came by to check on me. So, here I am, and have told you as much as can be remembered.”

  My head was spinning, and I had writer’s cramp from all the new information she’d recounted. “Miz Wellington, you saw the same man twice?”

  She shook her head. “No, I can’t say that—and I won’t. Now that I think on it, the shape was different the second time. But, as I said before, it was very late by then, and I’d been asleep.”

  “Was it Miranda’s car, or a different one?”

  She pursed her lips in thought. “It could have been, but it was dark. I can’t be certain.”

  “You’re sure you couldn’t tell who it was?”

  She fisted her hands around the handle of her pocketbook. “I’ve been wracking my brain since it happened. The build was familiar, but with the distance and the lack of light—well, as I said before, I can’t even say for certain it was the same person both times.”

  I closed my Steno. “Thank you so much for coming in. The information you’ve given will be immensely helpful. Can you think of anything you’d like to add?”

  “No. I believe that’s all there is.”

  “Once Chief Madison reads this, I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you.”

  “Oh.” Pink bloomed on her cheeks, but she protested. �
�That won’t be necessary. I wouldn’t want to waste his time.”

  “It wouldn’t be a waste, Miz Wellington.” I shrugged. “It’s possible that once you get home, something new will come to mind. Or, he may ask you questions I didn’t, and it’ll jog a memory.”

  With a sigh, she capitulated. “If he’s that determined, I suppose I can’t stop him.” A hand cupped to her mouth again. “And perhaps I shouldn’t want to.”

  Laughter from us both.

  “I’m sure, once I give him your report, he’ll make it a point to come by for a visit.”

  Her blush deepened. She smiled and stood without my help. “Well then,” she gave a cutesy-girl shrug and a giggle. “I’ll have to make a fresh batch of mint juleps.”

  I swallowed a laugh, but let loose my grin.

  Her smile widened. “He is quite dishy, if you ask me.”

  “Oh, I do agree with you there, Miz Wellington. One hundred percent.”

  I got up and offered her the crook of my elbow.

  “Thank you, dear.” She patted my arm before clasping it. “You know, I very much enjoyed having you in class, Magdalena. You were one of my favorite students. I was very sorry to hear of your loss.”

  Well, gee, what can you say back to that? “Thank you, Miz Wellington. I enjoyed being in your class, too. You learned me a lot.”

  She slapped my arm with her pocketbook.

  Seriously, I had enjoyed her class.

  I held the door and noticed Bernice coming up the stone steps. We nodded greetings, and I handed Miz Wellington over to her care. Back inside, I made a beeline for the dispatch radio and called Wyatt.

  Boy, did I have some info for him.

  * * *

  IT WASN’T but about ten minutes after Vera-Mae left that Forsythia Morgan popped in. Now, Forsythia is a Mossy Creek rumor mill specialist, and by that, I mean she’s a busybody … a vicious gossip.

  The grapevine is faster than the speed of light, and she has a lot to do with that. You could even go so far as to say, she’s the unofficial president. She and Carly Prescott—God rest her spiteful soul—started things off back when there were still party-line telephones.

  If Forsythia sees your shades go down a minute too early on a Saturday night, she’s on the phone spreading the word that you’ve got company. She stirred up Reverend Blanchard’s congregation that way. Told anyone who’d listen: ‘that hypocritical man of God was ‘playing footsy’ with Betsy Peters’—Dodge’s wife.

  Turns out, Mrs. Bladdermouth ended up with yolk all over her face, because Betsy was helping the Reverend plan the annual Summer Fair. Mrs. Blanchard—God rest her saintly soul—had been diagnosed with breast cancer and was undergoing treatments. There was no way the frail woman was in any shape to handle the details of putting together a fair, especially one that size.

  Forsythia apologized in front of the congregation and everything, but it didn’t stop her from gossiping.

  Now, she was here on my turf. I didn’t figure I’d have to wait long to find out what she wanted, and that I wasn’t going to like it.

  “Magdalena,” she gushed at me, smiling … largely. “How are you, dear? And your boys?”

  “Just fine, Miz Morgan. How’re you?” I shuffled papers on my desk to hide the notes from Vera-Mae’s visit.

  “Oh, just dandy, thank you. Yes. Um, I couldn’t help but notice, my good friend Vera-Mae was just in for a visit. Might unusual, hmm?”

  I stuck my tongue between my teeth and clamped down—not too hard, though—just enough to stop the urge to—

  I nodded.

  She smiled, a hard stretch of her mouth. “She was wearing a pretty big bandage on her leg.”

  I nodded, again.

  Her face began to lose its friendly façade. “Um, did she happen to mention how she came to be wearing it?”

  I nodded once more, wondering why she didn’t ask the woman herself, since they were such good friends. I kept my mouth shut, not about to open that can of worms.

  “Magdalena.” Her tone screamed exasperation, but she was too stubborn to make a fuss. “Magdalena,” she said again, after a long pause. Then came that famous nasty undertone. “Did you know she im-bibes?”

  I canted my head to the right and mouthed the word really.

  “Yes, indeed.” She puffed up her chest. “She gets downright soused, let me tell you. Her and those mint juleps she makes. Why, those things are lethal. Doesn’t take but two to make her … well … tipsy.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “So, you’ve had a sample?”

  Her jaw dropped, but she quickly closed it. Now, I could tell she was in a quandary. If she said yes, I’d know she was just as guilty. If she said no, I could accuse her of maligning the good name and character of a popular former schoolteacher. With a pinch to her lips and a glare in her eyes, she asked, “Is the chief in?”

  “No, Ma’am. He is not. Would you like to leave a message?”

  She hesitated. “Yes. Tell him I would like to speak to him about the shameful suicide of Miranda Richards.”

  “Oh, you mean the Chief’s goddaughter?” Anger burned in my belly. Self-righteous old biddy. I had to bite my tongue a little harder, to not say it out loud. I scribbled some lines on a piece of paper. “I’ll leave a note on his desk.”

  Forsythia turned pure tomato. “Well … don’t be too fast with that; after all, young lady, we must allow the Chief his time of mourning. I just wanted to let you know.”

  “Of course, what was I thinking.” I tore the note up.

  She nodded, stiff and ultra-polite. “Thank you, Magdalena. Good day.”

  “Good day.”

  As soon as the door shut behind her, I growled.

  I had just settled down from Forsythia’s visit, when BJ Knowles walked in. Of course, I’ve already mentioned that BJ is Wylie-James’s grandson.

  A nice kid, beanpole skinny and tall, exactly like Wylie-James. His hair’s a scruffy dirty-blonde that needed to see a barber, and he had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. When he smiled, his whole face lit up.

  He was a suspect, of sorts, since folks had seen him in the company of Miranda Richards before her death. He wasn’t here about that, though; he was here about his grandfather’s livestock, or at least, one particular wandering cow.

  Wyatt had asked BJ to have a look-see to find out what was going on with the animals at his grandfather’s property.

  “Hey, Miz Mercer.” His greeting was as formal as it gets around here.

  “BJ. What can I do for you?”

  “Chief Madison asked me to meet him here.”

  “That’s fine. Have a seat. He’s not back yet.”

  “Thanks.” He went to sit on the bench along the wall on the other side of my desk.

  “Did you get your grandfather’s cow back to pasture?”

  He gave a laugh. “Yeah, but I had to fix the fence first.” He frowned. “You know, looked like somebody’d run into it. But, everybody’s where they belong, again, and I fed ’em all while I was out there. Wish I knew where he’d got to. Momma’s all worked up about it.” He looked down at his hands. “Me, too.”

  I sympathized. “He’s got everyone worked up, BJ. Everybody likes your granddad.”

  “Yeah.”

  Wyatt came in. “BJ, good of you to stop by. Come on back to my office.” He winked at me on his way past my desk. Flustered the vinegar right out of me. I think I might have blushed, but then had to frown. He’d done that on purpose, so I’d be distracted and wouldn’t be curious enough to follow him and BJ.

  UGH!

  I shook my head free of those bad thoughts. Maybe he wasn’t being sneaky, just flirty … which was more enjoyable than an upfront approach. I couldn’t fault him for that; I liked to do it, too.

  I hunted through my pile for the notes I’d hidden from Forsythia. With Wyatt busy until BJ left, I might as well type them up. Ricky was due in any minute, and unless Wyatt had another interview, the three of us could have a sit-down,
and I could tell them both about Vera-Mae’s visit. I could also snag Wyatt’s attention, and we could get over to Mac’s … for that search that was supposed to happen yesterday … and maybe find Miranda’s diary.

  As soon as BJ went past and out the front door of the building, I went into Wyatt’s office. He looked up and his lips went wide.

  Oh, what that man can do just showing his teeth.

  The response was automatic; I smiled back. He looked so happy to see me.

  “Maggie,” he said in greeting. “You’re looking…,” he frowned, “… stressed.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I FROWNED, too. “Stressed?”

  He swallowed. “Everything okay? This case getting to you, too?”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. He could diffuse my irritations so easily … too easily, sometimes. What is it about a man who expresses concern for a woman, even as he realizes he’s committed a faux pas?

  “Um. Yeah, I guess. I had a couple of … interesting visitors while you were gone.”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie.”

  I waved off the apology. “Unless you’re the killer, you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

  He stood and came around the desk. “Come on. I’ll take you to lunch, and you can tell me all about your stressful morning.” He took my arm and pulled me along, grabbing his hat on the way through.

  Skidding past my workstation, I managed to snag my notes and my purse before stumbling out the door.

  “Wanna take a walk?” Not waiting for an answer, he lengthened his stride down the sidewalk, still holding me by the arm. “Annetta’s shouldn’t be crowded at this hour.”

  “Sure. Yeah. Okay.” Practically running, I hadn’t started huffing yet, but I knew if he kept up the pace, I’d be breathless before we got there. At his height, he’s got a lot of—good solid-muscled—leg.

  I’ve always been on the tall side, topping out at five-eight in the eighth grade, but he and Ricky tower over me. Having to look down at most of the guys in my class, until my senior year, I vowed that excess height would play a major role in the choosing of my eventual mate. That’s not the only attribute on my man-list, but it’s in the top ten.