Corpse on the Cob

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  I started sniffling. “Greg, I love you so much. What would I ever do without you?”

  “Without me, you’d still be getting into mischief, just more often and with less backup.”

  After giving each other vows of love, Greg reported on the photos.

  “There might not be anything hidden there. There is one shot, though, probably taken very early, which shows Grace with her hands clutched around the pole shaft. But she might have been trying to pull it out, not push it in. From the way she was kneeling, I don’t think she would have had the leverage to effectively do either in that position. I’ll send the enlargement to you so you and Willie can check it out on the laptop.”

  “Okay, we can do that tonight.”

  “And speaking of Willie, he can’t stay by your side forever, especially with that reporter clinging to you like plastic wrap.”

  “Willie will have to do what he has to do. I understand he might not be able to stay with me and help.” I looked out the window. Willie was helping Brenda into her car. The two of them seemed to be laughing. “As far as the reporter goes, she’s a novice—not even a real reporter. I’m sure he’ll be able to sidestep her, and she’ll find out nothing.”

  “Problem with people like that, Odelia, is that sometimes they stumble onto the truth through sheer dumb luck. I’d hate to see Willie’s safety compromised after everything he’s done for us.”

  “Me, too. Criminal or not, he’s a good and loyal friend.”

  After hanging up from Greg, I watched Brenda flirt with Willie through the window of her car one last time before driving off. I had been afraid that she would dog us all evening, but somehow he’d convinced her to move along, at least for tonight.

  Willie had brains and cunning and had managed to thrive for years flying under the radar. But even I knew that beginner’s luck was not to be trifled with.

  “You and the girl reporter seemed rather chummy.” After sending Brenda on her way, Willie had returned to my car. With his hand resting on the edge of the window, he bent down so that his face was closer to mine.

  “The minx actually hit on me.” He gave me the news flash with a silly grin plastered on his face.

  “You’re joking!”

  “What? You don’t think I’m proposition-worthy?”

  “Come on, that’s not it, and you know it. It’s just that you’re twice her age. She have a daddy complex?”

  Willie laughed. “More like she’ll do anything to get the story she’s after. She invited herself back to my room for a nightcap.”

  “You biting?”

  He laughed again. “As tempting as it was, I’ve made other plans. Remember that waitress from the Blue Lobster?”

  I thought a minute. “The young one in the hot pants? Or the middle-aged one with the cleavage?”

  “The age-appropriate one.”

  “Uh-huh, that would be Ms. Cleavage. What about her?” I studied him and his silly grin. “Don’t tell me you have a date with her tonight?”

  Willie chuckled. “When I went back to do my surveillance, she informed me that she bar tends at a local joint at night—someplace called the Kettle. Suggested I stop by if I had the chance.” He winked at me.

  “What? She saw us together earlier. Didn’t it even occur to her that you might be my husband?”

  “It did, so she came right out and asked.” He flashed me a shit-eating grin.

  “Rather cheeky of her, wasn’t it?” Before he could answer, I added, “So, you’re taking her up on her not-so-subtle invitation?”

  “These small-town bars are hotbeds of information, and bartenders generally know everything about everyone. Might be a good place to find out a few things.”

  “Not to mention you might get lucky.”

  “One can only hope, little mama.”

  Before he left me to head for his semi-date at the local bar, I told Willie about the photos Greg was sending. Willie went to his SUV and retrieved his laptop, handing it to me through my open window. “Greg must have noticed something interesting. Let me know what you find out, and I’ll give it a look-see in the morning.”

  I also told Willie about Greg’s concern about Brenda.

  “Greg’s right about the dumb-luck thing.” Willie scratched his chin. “No telling what that hungry gal’s going to dig up. She’s definitely a loose cannon. Smart enough to know something’s cooking. Too dense and single-minded to understand the ramifications of her behavior. In the long run, I think it might be smart to keep her close, but not too close.”

  “You mean help her? I don’t think so.”

  A couple parked their car near us. We waited until they got out and went into the restaurant. The beep of their car alarm being set gave us the green light to continue.

  “Not help her, but don’t antagonize her either. She might uncover something very useful to us, you never know. She’s sticking her nose into places we might want to go, but no one would ever suspect a reporter of being too nosy. It’s their job. Right now, you and I might be the only ones who know she’s bogus.”

  He had a point. Brenda just might stumble onto something, especially with the scattered way she was going about things. She was beginning to remind me of a bulldog with attention deficit disorder.

  “Be nice to her, little mama. Just not too nice. That would raise her suspicions. After all, she sees me as the good guy of this team.”

  “And I’m the bitch.”

  “The best parts to play are always the villains. Remember that.” He leaned through the window and pecked my cheek.

  Back at the inn, I slipped into my nightgown and settled at the desk in my room with a cup of tea and the laptop. I was the only one in the entire B & B, and the large and usually homey building had taken on an empty-shell feel.

  Greg had sent the promised photos. I opened each one and studied them, not sure what I was looking for. I wished Greg had at least given me a hint, but he probably wanted to see if it was as noticeable to me as it was to him. There were two photos, both looking like the same pose. In each, my mother was kneeling next to the body, in the same position I’d seen her when I first laid eyes on her in the corn maze. I scrutinized the photos, especially her hand position. She had both of her hands clenched around the flagpole, one on top of the other, like she was churning butter.

  At first, I thought it looked like she was trying to pull the pole out of McKenna’s body, then it struck me that her angle was off. Maybe that’s what Greg had noticed. As soon as I was sure, I would call him and discuss it.

  Going downstairs, my lone footsteps echoing softly on the polished wood, I located a broom in the kitchen. In an attempt to replicate the scene, I got down on my knees on the tile floor and held the broom in the same angle as the pole in the photo. I tugged up, but my balance was too off to do it properly. Kneeling was not the way to go for pulling a pole out of someone’s chest. To do that, it would be best to be stand, get a good grip, and yank straight up. Bracing a foot against the body would even help with leverage. The same was true for stabbing. If my mother was stabbing McKenna, she would not have been able to do it effectively from this angle. That would have required McKenna laying on the ground and my mother standing over him and driving the pole straight downward.

  No, whatever Grace Littlejohn was up to, I was pretty sure it wasn’t stabbing or pulling. So what in the hell was she doing?

  Again, I assumed the position on my knees and simulated the grip on the pole. My mother’s hand-over-hand grip and the blood smear on the pole suggested she was running her hands up and down the pole, spreading the blood with each movement. All that blood must have been slippery to the touch.

  The blood. That was it. I slapped my head as a possibility became clear. By moving her hands up and down the flagpole, my mother could have been smearing the blood. And smearing the blood would probably smudge any fingerprints on the pole. But whose fingerprints? Her own—or someone else’s?

  My mother had said she wasn’t the killer, and
I believed her. Still kneeling on the tile, I changed my handling of the broomstick. Instead of pulling or pushing the pole with my hands, I ran them loosely up and down the shaft. Even with a dry pole, the friction would have distorted any fingerprints already present. With a fluid such as sticky blood, it might have done it faster and more efficiently. My conviction that my mother knew the killer was stronger than ever, and whoever it was, my mother was protecting them by erasing the fingerprints on the murder weapon.

  My mind didn’t have to go far to settle on the names of people Mom would protect. It had to be either Grady or Clark. I couldn’t see any reason for her to protect anyone else. Of course, I didn’t know everyone in town and her relationship with each of them, but considering that most of the people Willie spoke to didn’t think that highly of my mother’s lack of self-control when it came to her temper, I wasn’t sure there was anyone else she might shield.

  I was still on the floor with the broomstick in my hand when I heard a vehicle pull into the driveway. That was followed by a single door being opened and closed. Soon the back door to the inn opened. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only nine thirty. Willie’s date must have been a bust.

  “Willie,” I called. “I’m here in the kitchen. I think I’ve found something.” I went back to concentrating on my theory about the pole and the cover-up.

  “Who’s Willie?”

  My head snapped up to find Clark Littlejohn at the doorway looking down at me. He was out of uniform, wearing jeans and a loose gray sweatshirt. The sleeves of the sweatshirt were pushed up almost to his elbows. On his feet were athletic shoes. Exhaustion hung heavy on his face like the jowls of a basset hound.

  “Clark! What are you doing here?” I got up from the floor, leaning on the broom for assistance.

  “What are you doing down there ?”

  I brushed off the front of my nightgown and pulled my robe closed, fastening it with the belt. “Exercising. Stretching for my back.” The words spilled out with such ease, it surprised even me.

  “Uh-huh.” I could tell he wasn’t buying it. He looked me up and down, his eyes settling on the broom. “Looks like you were trying to figure out something about the murder.” His thin lips moved into a smirk. “Solve it yet?”

  I kept a firm grip on the broom. If Clark was the murderer and my mother was protecting him, who was going to protect me if he got it in his head I was onto something?

  When I didn’t answer, he returned to his original question. “Who’s Willie?”

  “Personally, I’m more interested in why you’re here and how you got in.”

  “Around here, people don’t lock their doors.”

  “I locked that door when I came in tonight, Clark. Mrs. Friar gives all her guests keys and insists it be locked at night.”

  “I’m the chief of police, Odelia. I know where everyone keeps their spare key.” He opened his right hand to show me a key. It looked just like the one I had for the inn.

  I held out my hand. “I’ll take that key, Clark. And please tell me where it belongs. I’ll make sure it gets back there—in the morning.”

  His mouth twisted in amusement as he handed me the key. “It goes under the cement frog—the one next to the shrub, to the left of the door.”

  I put the key in my robe pocket. “Were you just going to waltz in here and bang on every room door until you found me? You should have called first. I could have been sleeping. Who knows, I might even have called the cops.”

  He almost laughed. “You could have been, but it’s unlikely. It’s not even ten yet. Besides, I’ll bet your internal clock is still on West Coast time, three hours earlier.” He was right about that. “And I did call—just about ten minutes ago. I saw the lights on and your car in the driveway, so when you didn’t answer, I decided to check on you.”

  The phone. I must have left it upstairs.

  Clark took a step back from the door, rather than towards me. He seemed to be making an effort to put me at ease. “Let’s go into the parlor and sit. I have something to discuss with you. Does Mrs. Friar still keep hot coffee around the clock?”

  I nodded, unsure what to do. If I showed fear, Clark might jump me, providing he was the murderer and was worried I was getting too close. But on the other hand, I didn’t relish sitting down to coffee with a murder suspect, at least not one of my suspects. In the end, I settled on proceeding with caution.

  I motioned for him to go down the hall to the living room. “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll bring you your coffee. Black, right?”

  With a nod, he took off down the short hallway to the parlor. I poured him a mug of coffee and fixed a fresh cup of herbal tea for myself. When I entered the room and placed them on the coffee table, Clark repeated his first question. “Who’s Willie?”

  He was seated on the sofa. I took the chair across from him. “He’s my husband’s cousin.” I was telling the lie so often, I was starting to believe it myself. Come November, I would half expect Willie to be sitting at Renee Stevens’ Thanksgiving dinner table. “He was in the area on business, so Greg asked him to stop by.”

  “To keep you company or keep you out of trouble?”

  It was my turn to offer a small smile. “A little of both, but tonight he had plans after dinner.”

  “Should I be worried about you, too?”

  The question stumped me, seeing that it could have several meanings. “Worried about me? In what capacity?”

  It was a multiple-choice question. Should Clark be worried about me as his half sister, his mother’s daughter, a visitor to his town, or as someone who might turn up evidence against him and/or his brother? If prompted, I could also add a box for all of the above.

  “According to Detective Frye back in California, you have a habit of getting yourself into danger.”

  “Not by choice, I can assure you.”

  “Danger is danger, Odelia, no matter what the intent. I’d hate to see you come to harm, especially since we’re just getting to know each other.”

  I searched his face for any sign of threat or menace but found none, only deepening fatigue.

  “Would you excuse me a minute, Clark?” I got up and started out the door. “I should fetch my phone. I’m expecting a call from Greg.” He waved me off and stuck his nose into his coffee mug.

  Upstairs, I grabbed my phone and checked for recent calls. There was one missed call, and it was from Clark. He’d left a message saying he was in the area and needed to speak to me. If not tonight, then to call him in the morning anytime after seven.

  If he was the murderer and was looking to do me in, I doubt he would have left a message that could be traced back to him, letting everyone know we might have hooked up. It gave me some comfort, but still I kept an ear tuned for footsteps on the stairs. Then I called both Willie and Greg and left messages letting them know Clark was with me. If I did get in trouble or worse tonight, I was going to point all fingers in his direction. Before I went downstairs, I shut down the laptop.

  When I returned to the living room, Clark was slouched on the sofa with his head thrown back. He was snoring softly—hardly a sign of the wound-up anxiety you’d expect from a killer. He snapped out of his snooze as soon as he heard me sit down.

  “Sorry, Odelia. It’s been a bitch of a day.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  “Actually, two days.”

  He snorted out a chuckle and straightened himself back into an upright position. He reached for his coffee. “Right, two days. Feels more like a whole damn month.”

  “How’s Mom?”

  He took a drink. “That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

  Uh-oh. He must have found out I was at the hospital today. I waited for the interrogation, but none came.

  “Mom’s home now. They released her a couple of hours ago.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, seems she’s fine, at least physically. She’s still singing the same old song. Insists she’s not the
killer. That she just happened upon the body.”

  I leaned forward. “Do you believe her?”

  “Yes and no. I still don’t think she’s the killer, but I know better than to believe she was in the maze for a stroll. I think she knows who the killer is. I think CPAC is sure of that, too.”

  “What are they telling you?”

  “Not much. But the big news is they’ve taken Cathy Morgan in for questioning. She’s there right now.”

  “Cathy?” My voice broadcast my surprise.

  Carl nodded. “Seems the vic wasn’t Frankie McKenna after all. Fingerprints came back that the stiff was actually Les Morgan, Cathy’s ex-husband. They found McKenna’s ID on the body. The two looked enough alike, I guess. Seems the real Frankie McKenna has been missing for about a month.”

  “No one recognized the body as being this Morgan guy?”

  “Morgan wasn’t from around here. Seldom came with Cathy when she visited her family. In fact, I’m not even sure anyone ever met him except for her family. I met him once, right after they were married. They weren’t married more than five or six years to begin with.”

  “You don’t think Cathy killed him, do you? I mean, I don’t recall seeing her anywhere near the maze that morning.”

  “Cathy was at Buster’s stand at the time of the murder. Several customers recall her waiting on them. CPAC wants to know why her ex was in town in the first place, though I don’t think she even knew he was here.”

  “Did CPAC tell you this, or did you do some digging on your own?”

  “I’m a cop, Odelia. It’s what I do. You think I’m going to sit on my hands while the state boys handle everything and feed me scraps?”

  Clark was a cop, all right, as well as a former detective. So why was a full-blown drug enterprise going on right under his nose? I looked him over. He wasn’t a stupid man. He either had to know about the drugs and ignored it, or he was involved. Just when I was starting to feel comfortable with him again, my danger detectors buzzed. I knew I should tread lightly with the thoughts running around in my mind, but I was eager for some information. I beat down my nosiness in favor of safety. Then I had another thought, one I found truly disturbing.