Corpse on the Cob

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Corpse on the Cob Page 16

by Sue Ann Jaffarian


  “Lots of people in these small towns have money tucked away, little mama. They prefer to live quietly. Many think of extravagance as a sin. I know a multi-millionaire who lives in a two-bedroom bungalow in Colorado and drives a twelve-year-old pickup. Dresses in nothing but jeans and shirts from Walmart.” He pointed a finger in my direction. “And remember, Clark had quite a reputation for womanizing when in Boston. He might have a taste for young ladies, especially those throwing themselves at him.”

  I thought about Brenda Bixby and wondered if she’d thrown herself at the chief yet. “Did the local grapevine say why they broke up?”

  “The local grapevine couldn’t wait to tell me about it. Seems Cathy broke it off with the guy she was seeing only to be dumped by Clark. No one knows why Clark got cold feet, except to say that they’re pretty sure Grace had something to do with it.”

  “No wonder Cathy hates Clark and my mother.”

  I got up and fetched the mug I’d left on the desk. The tea was cold but tasted fine. I took a swallow while I processed this new information.

  “But, Willie, don’t you think it’s odd that Cathy is now with Grady? He must have known that Cathy and Clark had something going at one time.”

  “Maybe he’s so in love, he doesn’t care.”

  “Clark said something to me to that effect yesterday at lunch.” I shook my head. “Cathy could be with Grady out of revenge against Clark and Grace. And if the money angle is true, she could be trying to get next to the cash if and when my mother dies.” I paused to root around in my recent memory. “Just yesterday, Cathy said she was sorry there was no death penalty in the state because she wanted Grace to fry.”

  “Lovely thought.”

  “Could my mother have been set up to take the fall for the murder?” I took another drink of tea and paced across the rose-patterned carpet, pushing my tired mind to work harder. “Cathy could be involved with her ex-husband’s death and setting up Grace. Killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  Willie got up and came to me. He took the mug from my hand and placed it back on the desk. “Go to bed, little mama. This isn’t going to be solved tonight, and it might never be solved. But we’ll try our best to get to the bottom of things tomorrow. And what better place to do that than inside the cuckoo’s nest.” He started for the door. “As soon as I leave, you lock this door.” I had told Willie about the hidden key after Clark left. “I, on the other hand, will be sleeping with my door open, just in case he does come back unannounced.”

  Willie was just about to step into the hallway when Greg’s personal ring chimed on my cell phone. He laughed. “Perfect timing for Greg to tuck you in.” He winked and started down the stairs.

  Greg was not pleased at all by the change in events from the time he called after dinner until now, just a few hours later. He was angry enough before, but now his frustration had been kicked up several notches, like Thai food going from mild to five-alarm with one jerk of the pepper bottle.

  Before we hung up, Greg made one more plea to what sanity I had left, and failed. I had set my course.

  Breakfast was lonely. Willie was a no-show, and I was the only guest. I felt uncomfortable having Mrs. Friar wait on me hand and foot with a gorgeous breakfast when I would have been just as happy with a bowl of cereal and milk. I’d tapped on Willie’s door when I came down but received no response. A glance out into the parking lot told me his SUV was missing, too. As soon as I sat down at the dining table, I saw a note leaning against the salt and pepper shakers. It was a small piece of white paper with the inn’s logo printed at the top—the same paper I’d found in my desk upstairs. It was folded in half, with my name printed in neat letters across the front.

  Just as I picked it up, Mrs. Friar came in with orange juice. “That was on the dining room table when I came in this morning.”

  Opening the note, I saw that it was from Willie, telling me he had to run an early morning errand but would be back to the inn between eight thirty and nine. He ordered me to go nowhere until he returned.

  “No bad news, I hope,” said Mrs. Friar, who was hovering in the doorway to the kitchen.

  Since the note wasn’t sealed, dollars to donuts she’d already read it.

  “No, just that Willie had an errand to run this morning.”

  She poured me some coffee. “Must have been very early. I came in around six, and the note was already there.”

  As I took a drink of juice, I wondered what in the world Willie would need to do before six in the morning. It was about eight fifteen. Once I’d fallen asleep, I’d slept like a rock.

  I was just finishing some spectacular French toast when I heard a vehicle drive up. Looking out the dining room window, I saw that it was Willie. I watched as he got out but was surprised when he didn’t head directly for the back door of the inn. Instead, he went around the passenger’s side, which was hidden from my view. I went outside to see what he was doing.

  Coming around the side of the SUV, I got the shock of my life. With the help of Willie, Greg Stevens—my Greg Stevens—was getting settled from the SUV into his wheelchair.

  “Greg!” I screamed in delight. I ran over and threw my arms around my hubby’s neck and kissed him soundly.

  “Guess you missed me, huh?” He kissed me back hard.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” I pointed at Willie, a scowl on my face. “Did he ask you to come?”

  “On the contrary, little mama. I tried to talk him out of it.”

  “I called Willie last night and told him I was catching a redeye to Boston. Told him not to tell you. I was going to take a shuttle here, but he insisted on picking me up.”

  Willie smiled. “It gave me a chance to fill him in on all the details while on the road.”

  “Greg, did you make this decision after we talked late last night? I told you I was fine.”

  Willie fetched Greg’s bag from the back of his vehicle. I saw that Greg had also brought his laptop.

  Greg took my hand and held it. “I was already on my way to the airport when we last talked. I had made up my mind after I spoke to you earlier, when you told me about the drugs and the reporter. But I have to say, that call about your brother clinched it that I was doing the right thing.”

  “But you have so much work at home, and there are the animals …”

  He patted my hand. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I can do a lot of work from here. Chris is back from vacation and can handle things at the shop. He even said he’d stay at the house while we were gone.” Chris Fowler was Greg’s right-hand man at Ocean Breeze Graphics.

  “There are quite a few steps in the back,” Willie told Greg, “but a ramp in the front. It’s the private entrance to the downstairs room I was telling you about.”

  “Great. Show me the way, cousin.”

  While the two men went off towards the ramp, I went to the back and replaced the key under the stone frog. Then I went inside and headed for Willie’s room. Along the way, I informed Mrs. Friar that my husband had just arrived unexpectedly.

  She beamed at me. “Does he like French toast?”

  “He adores French toast.”

  In spite of my worry about things at home, I was excited to see Greg. While I wasn’t thrilled that he felt compelled to hop a plane at outrageous last-minute expense, I could feel the excitement of having him with me flush my cheeks with warm and fuzzy joy.

  Once Greg was settled, the three of us convened in the dining room, where Mrs. Friar fed Willie and Greg like kings.

  “Mrs. Friar,” Willie said between bites of cantaloupe, “would you please let me and Odelia exchange rooms? Greg will need the lower room.”

  “Of course. In fact, Mr. Carter, why don’t you take the room right at the top of the stairs. It’s already made up. I’ll make up the lower room for Mr. and Mrs. Stevens right after breakfast.”

  It didn’t go unnoticed by me that with my husband now present, Mrs. Friar had changed my name to Stevens.

&nbs
p; After breakfast, the three of us gathered outside under the trees to talk out of earshot of our host. We compared notes and theories and decided that we were all pretty much on the same page with regard to the blood smears and drugs being run out of the vegetable stand. We all even had the same suspects—Grady and Clark, and now possibly Cathy—although all three of us put Clark at the bottom of the list.

  Willie reported that his people found out that Lester Morgan was not a nice guy. No surprise there. He’d been in and out of jail for everything from theft and fraud to assault during the past few years and was currently hooked up with the same drug dealers as McKenna. Where the real Frankie McKenna was, no one knew. Further digging in the drug world had unearthed that Willie’s earlier idea that McKenna was probably the contact between Buster’s and the drug source proved true.

  I scrunched my brows together. “You think Morgan found out and decided to take over the route, seeing it was family?”

  Willie hemmed and hawed as he thought about it. “More like Morgan decided to squeeze his family.”

  Greg wheeled in closer to Willie. “You mean blackmail?”

  “It’s a distinct possibility.” Willie played with a dry golden leaf, stroking its spine and veins as he talked. “From what we can tell, he’s only been with this outfit a short time. Say he finds out that one of his new employer’s distributors is his former in-laws, including his ex-wife. And that the ex-wife is now playing house with a cop. Seems ripe for blackmail to me.”

  “But what about the real Frankie McKenna?” I asked.

  Willie shrugged, crushed the leaf in his hand, and blew the pieces into the air.

  “You mean he’s dead?”

  “A very good possibility, little mama. He’s been missing for a while. He’s either dead or decided on a change of scenery. And it might not have been Morgan who did the killing. McKenna could have pissed off the wrong people, got whacked, and Morgan borrowed his identity. They were about the same height, weight, and coloring—even about the same age. But, of course, none of this is solid fact, just a string of possibilities.”

  “And it still doesn’t tell us who the murderer is or why Odelia’s mother is protecting them.” Greg stroked my arm in a comforting gesture.

  “Not really.”

  “Your people come up with anything on Brenda?” I asked.

  “Nope. So far she’s exactly what she claims to be—a peon on a TV news show. She’s originally from Portland, Maine. Currently lives in Boston with a roommate named Nina Cummings.”

  “So,” Greg said, “where do we go from here?”

  “Hold the phone,” I said. “I think we’ve found something.” Both men looked at me with expectation while I hooked together a train of information into a viable choo-choo of theory. “Her roommate’s last name is Cummings?”

  “That’s what my guy said. Why?”

  “Cummings. Marty Cummings. Does that ring a bell?”

  Willie looked at me while he thought about it. I pantomimed someone smoking a joint.

  Pointing at me, Willie laughed out loud. “Of course! Marty Cummings, the porta-potty pot head.” He quickly brought Greg up to date on Marty’s failed gig as the maze lookout.

  “Yes,” I added when Willie was through. “And his mother is Joan Cummings, who works at the local police department. Cummings might be a somewhat common name, but it could also be how Brenda is getting some of her inside information. After all, Brenda knew I was Clark’s half sister and was staying at this particular B & B. She knew exactly how long it had been since I’d last seen my mother. She even knew when Clark was going to pick up Mom from the hospital. Joan could have known all that from her close proximity to both the police and Clark and passed it on.” I looked at Willie. “Can your people find out if Joan Cummings has any other children besides Marty? Or where Nina Cummings is from?”

  “We can sure try, little mama.” He yanked out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial number.

  I slapped my knee and kissed my husband. “I’ll bet Nina is Joan Cumming’s daughter. And I’ll bet she and Brenda have been friends a long time.”

  Greg looked at Willie in awe. “Where in the hell do you get this information? You secretly CIA or FBI?”

  Willie shrugged as if he’d just been asked a question as mundane as his birthdate. “Simple, really: hackers. Highly skilled and well-paid hackers.”

  Although not a breakthrough on the murder, discovering Brenda’s possible secret data bank buoyed my spirits. I looked at my watch. “We’re expected at my mother’s at one. It’s almost ten now. Maybe while we’re there, the three of us can each target someone to chat up. Never know who might slip and say something.”

  Greg yawned. “Unless you two have some unauthorized sleuthing to do right now, I’d really like to grab a short nap before we go. I didn’t sleep well on the plane.”

  “And I’d like to get in a walk before I shower for the day. What about you, Willie? Any more dates with the gossip girl?”

  “Later tonight.” Willie got up and stretched. “You know, with Greg here now, they won’t be pressuring you to stay with them.”

  “You’re right. That’s a bonus I hadn’t thought of.” I turned to Greg with a smile. “Thanks, honey.”

  “Hey, I’m here to help.” Greg studied me. “Are you sure you should go walking by yourself?”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “It’s safe. And Willie’s been asking most of the questions, so I haven’t had the opportunity to really get under anyone’s skin.”

  “Yet.” The word came out simultaneously from both men.

  While Greg rested and Willie caught up on some work in his new room, I changed and took off down the road with my iPod. It wasn’t as humid as it had been when I’d arrived just a few days before. The daytime temperature had dropped today, and there seemed to be more red and gold leaves than green ones just since yesterday. Fall had come to stay.

  I had been walking at a good clip for about three songs when I heard a car come up behind me. I was walking on the left-hand side, facing oncoming traffic. The car approached from behind and slowed down. As soon as I glanced over my shoulder, I felt a growl form in my gut. It was Brenda Bixby, reporter wannabe. I turned back around and kept walking. As before, she slowed her car to keep pace with me.

  “Come on, Odelia, talk to me.”

  I ignored her.

  “But maybe, considering the circumstances,” she persisted, “I should talk and you should listen.”

  At her baiting words, I felt the rhythm of my gait break but kept walking. Willie had said I should be nicer to her. Keep her close. What’s that old saying: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer ? I wasn’t so sure about that. Brenda wasn’t exactly an enemy, more of a major pain in my big butt. In my book, that didn’t qualify her for close treatment as a friend or an enemy. I kept walking. She didn’t give up.

  “Tell me, Odelia. Are you involved in your family’s drug business? Or are you here to cash in on the rumored hidden treasure? That alone should be motive enough for an abandoned daughter to suddenly show up.”

  I stopped. So did her car. Spinning around, I snapped, “Do you have some sort of light on your dashboard that goes on when I take a walk? Or do you lie in wait for me to leave the inn?”

  From the look on her face, she knew she’d hit a nerve and was inwardly celebrating. “I was on my way to see you when I spotted you walking down the road. Certainly makes it easier without your curious guard-dog cousin around.”

  “Then you’ll be thrilled to know that I now have two guard dogs. My husband arrived this morning.”

  “He in on it, too?”

  “No one is in on anything.” I barked at her so hard, my back teeth knocked against each other. Calm down, I told myself. Anger will make you slip, and you’re not ready to show your cards just yet. “You’re fishing, Brenda, and you know it. You want a story so bad, you’re willing to make up crap as you go, just to get people to react to you.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, really? So I guess I’m making up the fact that it was Cathy Morgan’s ex-husband who was killed and not Frankie McKenna. And I guess I’m making it up that there is a booming drug business going on at Buster’s.”

  Now I was sure Brenda Bixby had an inside track with the local PD. She might have found out about the drug dealings on her own, but not about Les Morgan. That had only happened yesterday afternoon, and it had not been in the papers this morning.

  Standing on the side of the road, I pulled out my iPod earbuds and challenged Brenda. “You seem to know everything. Have you figured out who the murderer is yet?”

  The young woman jutted her sharp chin out the car window. “No, but I will. And that’s why I wanted to talk to you. You help me and I’ll help you, and together we can get to the bottom of this.”

  I laughed in spite of my resolve to remain aloof and bitchy. “I have all the help I need, Brenda.”

  “A guy in a wheelchair and that oily cousin? Come on, Odelia. We women can do stuff like this faster and better.”

  Oily cousin? Little did she know just how slippery Willie could be. And that in him, not me, she had a career-making story.

  “Chasing murderers is dangerous business, Brenda. Trust me. I have the bullet wound, broken bones, and emotional trauma to prove it.” When she didn’t respond, I put my earphones back in place. “As entertaining as this is, I have places to go, people to see, and calories to burn. So go find some other sandbox to pee in.”

  Brenda flipped me a rude hand gesture and gunned her engine, sending her car speeding down the road.

  Well, I tried to be nice. At least nice enough not to return the gesture, no matter how tempting

  A few minutes after one o’clock, we pulled up in front of my mother’s in a two-vehicle caravan. Willie decided to take his own vehicle so if things got too close cop-wise, he could take off, explaining that he had other plans. Before we left the inn, we asked Mrs. Friar if we could extend our stay. She was delighted, since she had no other guests besides us until Friday.

 

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