by Anna Drake
“Good for you. Did they catch the culprit?”
“No, I’m afraid I thoughtlessly flipped on my bedroom light. That must have scared the burglar off. Because before the police could arrive, I saw someone race down the stairway from the apartment and run down the driveway. I’m too old for this, Melanie. It never occurred to me that I’d alert the thief.”
“Could you tell who it was?”
Wendy sighed. “No. It was too dark. He… or she… was little more than a shadow.”
“Any idea what the person might have been looking for?”
“Heaven only knows. Barnaby didn’t own anything of much value.”
“You did know he won a lot of money on a recent run to the riverboats?”
Wendy gaped. “He didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
“But he never said a word to me. How did you find out?”
“I spoke with Porter. He knew about the money. Barnaby wouldn’t have kept a wad of cash in his apartment, would he? He’d have used a bank, right?”
“I don’t know. I’d never asked him about his finances. I just assumed he didn’t have any.”
“He was also counting on adding to his total.”
“You mean more money?”
“Yes, he told Lester Porter that he was expecting a lot more cash to come his way soon. Do you know where it might be coming from?”
“I’ve no idea. He’s my heir, of course, but I’m as healthy as a horse.”
I smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Wendy gave me an answering grin. “But what was he going to do with the money?”
“He intended to start a business. He was going to buy that old warehouse on the east side of town and establish an antique and craft mall there.”
“Oh dear, starting businesses has never worked out well for him. Not over time, at least.”
We settled to our coffee, both of us now silent. Nero sat on top of the refrigerator, keeping a close watch on us. I wondered what would have happened had the cat not managed to wake his mistress up?
There was a knock on the back door. Wendy opened it up to find Patrolman Debbie Blake standing there. She was young and new to the force, but she stood in front of us displaying a steady confidence. “Miss Cartwright, would you mind coming over to the carriage house to take a look around? I’d like you to check and see if anything was taken from your cousin’s apartment during the break-in.”.
“May my young friend come with me?” Wendy asked.
Debbie shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Just don’t either of you touch anything, you understand?”
We both nodded. I recommended Wendy take time to put on warm clothing. This was not the night to wander even such a short distance in a nightgown and house coat. In a few short minutes, Wendy returned to the kitchen clad in corduroy slacks and a bulky sweater. After tossing on a warm overcoat she pronounced herself ready to depart. While she’d dressed, I’d gotten myself back into my parka and scarf and gloves. Now, bundled against the cold, the three of us marched our way to the carriage house and up the stairs to Barnaby’s apartment.
“Remember, don’t touch anything,” the young patrolwoman said after closing the door behind us.
Wendy and I stood in the living room gazing about. “They didn’t take the TV,” I said. “Isn’t that odd?” I glanced at Debbie.
“If it were a normal burglar, yeah, you’d think they’d take something as portable as a TV,” she responded.
“So this wasn’t a normal burglary, you think?”
“I didn’t say that. Please, don’t put words in my mouth.”
I backed off. Sometimes cops needed a little room. Plus, I suspected it was a tough job to be new i. She’d learn to speak carefully around us news types in the future.
Under an uneasy truce, we proceeded on through the rest of the rooms. Once finished we returned to the front door. I stopped and faced the officer. “Did you find any cash in the apartment?”
“Cash?”
“Scroggins apparently won nine grand recently at a local casino.”
“I haven’t found any tonight. Not that I was looking for money. But I can’t speak to what they found when they searched the place after Scroggins death.”
I turned to Wendy. “Do you have any idea where Barnaby might have kept cash if he didn’t deposit it in the bank?”
“None. But why do you think it might be here?”
“Since the TV and other portable items weren’t carried off, the cash seems the most likely attraction.”
She sighed. “There’s no safe hidden here. Not that I know of. If the money were here, I assume he’d have put it in a drawer.”
I wondered. I’d heard of all kinds of hiding places for cash — the freezer, the centers of toilet paper rolls, dirty socks in a hamper.: What about bank records? Do you know where he kept them?”
“If I remember correctly, they might be in that desk drawer over there.” Wendy nodded toward a small walnut desk in the far corner of the room.
“May she check the drawer?” I asked Debbie.
“Why don’t you tell me what you want, and I’ll look for you,” she replied.
I glanced at Wendy. “Is that okay?”
She nodded.
I turned my gaze on the officer. “We’re looking either for a bundle of cash or Scroggins’ bank records.”
Debbie donned a pair of latex gloves and crossed the room. She slid the desk drawer open and used a delicate finger to shuffle through a stack of papers. Finally, she picked up a sheet. “I don’t see any money. But this appears to be the latest bank statement. Is that what you’re after?”
“That should do the trick,” I said.
Debbie carried it to us. Wendy reached out to grasp it, but Debbie jerked it back out of her reach. “I said don’t touch anything.”
Wendy’s head jerked back. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Will you hold it for us then, so we can inspect it?” I asked.
“Of course.”
We scrunched close together and studied the document.
The first thing I noticed was for someone who was allegedly short of cash, he had a darned healthy bank balance. I suspected Porter was more correct about Scroggins’ finances than Wendy was.
She now glanced over at me and said,. “His balance is a lot higher than I expected it to be.”
“I wonder if that balance includes the nine thousand dollars?” I asked.
“What’s so important about that money? Debbie asked.
I explained about Scroggins’ big win at the riverboat recently and that we wondered what he’d done with the money.
“I’ll be sure to tell Gossford about this,” Debbie said.
I nodded. “Maybe, you might even give the apartment another pass. Make sure there’s no large stash of money hidden here.”
“I’m sure we’ll want to search the place a second time in light of what you’ve told me.”
Our contribution to Debbie’s efforts apparently finished, Wendy and I wandered back to her house, leaving Debbie to do whatever she needed to inside the apartment.
“More coffee?” my host asked upon entering her kitchen.
“Please.” I was overwhelmingly tired and wanted desperately to kick back and think of nothing while I poured liquid energy into my flagging body.
We both shrugged our way out of our coats and settled ourselves back down at the kitchen table with filled coffee cups before us.
“Will you stay with me for the rest of the night?” Wendy asked.
“Sure. But I’ll be heading off to work early. I have an obligation to the newspaper that I can’t afford to miss. Especially not today.”
I didn’t tell her I’d be spending time writing up my final draft of her cousin’s murder. Now, with this latest bit, I’d also be adding the break-in at this apartment into my story. I figured she wouldn’t want to hear about that, either.
“If you could just stay until it’s light outside, that would be s
uch a help. Maybe we could even work a quick nap in. There’s a little of the night left.”
I glanced down at my coffee cup. “I doubt I could doze off now.” But somehow I managed to accomplish the trick, even if it occurred while sitting upright in one of her living room chairs.
~~~
The sun finally crept over the horizon a little before seven that day. Wendy and I were seated in the living room by then. She’d been snoring for the past hour, but I’d woken up in my chair early. I rose and collected a notebook and pen from my purse.
After dashing off a quick line about needing to report in at the newspaper, I left the note on the table beside the couch. Then, I donned parka, scarf, and gloves and quietly let myself out the front door.
A half hour later, freshly showered and appropriately dressed I entered our newspaper offices. The place was oddly quiet. I’d beaten even Dad into work this morning, but only because I had two significant stories to write.
I started on the routine stuff first, checking for overnight accidents and road conditions. Then, I polished up the Santa’s Cabin story and dropped in a fresh quote or two. I also mentioned that henceforth hot chocolate would be available, crediting Roger Bradley with the donation. I could picture that little fact brightening Ginger’s breakfast immensely.
Then, I fed the photos I’d taken over the weekend into the computer. The choice of which ones to use, if any, was the editor’s job. In this case, of course, that was my father. I paused for a moment wondering which story, Santa’s Cabin or Scroggins’ death, Dad would place above the fold? The murder was important news. But then the start of the Christmas shopping season wasn’t to be discounted, either.
After I’d been hard at work for more than hour, Betty McCracken wandered into my office. “You’re here early.”
“Yes well, Cloverton’s had more than its fair share of news this weekend.”
“Isn’t that the truth. I wanted you to know there’s a fresh pot of coffee in the break room, I figured you could use a cup.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. How did Toby like spending his weekend in Santa’s Cabin?”
“He loves the job.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Has he managed to adjust his costume?”
“No. He couldn’t get any changes past Ginger. You never mentioned how inflexible that woman is.”
“Ginger?” I protested. “Really?”
Betty laughed. “Don’t forget the coffee.”
“Right.”
At shortly before ten that morning, I felt comfortable checking in with Gossford. Apparently Debbie had reported in on the missing nine grand.
“Where’d you hear about that money?” he demanded.
I told him about Porter and what he’d told me.
“You aren’t sticking your nose into another murder enquiry are you?”
“No. I went to see Porter to get background on Scroggins for the Gazette’s murder coverage.”
“You better not be blowing smoke in my face.”
“I’m not. Honest.”
Someday, God was going to get me for telling such whoppers.
“I’m currently working on the murder story,” I said. “I was wondering if I can mention that poisoning angle you gave me?”
“Yeah. Go ahead. I got confirmation from the state crime lab about five minutes ago. From the report, it looks like someone had mixed digitalis leaves in with the regular tea leaves.”
I thought it so sad. I’d looked the plant up on the Internet. The flowers were beautiful. I dragged my mind back to my job. “About the break-in at Scroggins apartment, may I mention that nothing appeared to be missing?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Leave that part out about the money, though, or we’ll have every thief within six counties breaking into the place.”
“Got you.”
“You’re a good reporter, Melanie. It’s a treat to work with someone like you.”
If I worked for a larger paper, I thought, I might not be quite so compliant. But living in a small town, I had to not just work with Gossford but live with him day in, day out for the rest of our lives. Besides, I really didn’t want the entire world traipsing into Barnaby’s apartment. Poor Wendy might never sleep again.
Nine
About a half hour after submitting my final stories, Dad gave me the high sign that the day’s edition had been electronically pasted up. From that point, it would be shipped off to be printed in a neighboring town. But my interest this day was not in the paper getting out. I wanted to know how Dad had handled the coverage.
My curiosity remained centered on which article got top billing — the murder or the opening of Santa’s Cabin. I pulled up the front page and saw that Dad had refused to take an either/or stance but had cleverly merged the reports.
The piece on Santa’s Cabin pointed out that one of it’s most beloved characters had been murdered. From there Dad shifted into my piece on how Scroggins would be missed by the children and the adults of Cloverton. He next inserted the quotes from Ginger on how important the man had been to the success of Santa’s cabin. Then, the piece introduced readers to the cabin’s new elf, Agnes Plummer. I knew Ginger would be delighted with the way Dad had handled the events.
But the hard news on Scroggins’ death had not been buried. That the man had been poisoned by using foxglove leaves was appropriately highlighted as the piece of late-breaking news it was. The whole was polished off then with my report on the break-in at Scroggins’ apartment.
As I sat reading the stories, I shook my head in wonder. Dad had taken my bits of information and scored another journalistic home run.
Betty stuck her head in my door. “Great stories.”
I shook my head. “Great editing.”
Betty grinned. “You and your father both get my vote. Will that do?”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
“You bet.”
Then it was Dad’s turn to arrive with praise. “That’s an award-winning front page,” he said, beaming.
I smiled and knew Father would be submitting the page for consideration when the state awards rolled around again. Dad was a super competitive fellow, who never missed a chance to prove exactly how good our little paper was.
~~~
Later that afternoon, I looked up to find Dad standing in my doorway. “I’ve been watching you, Melanie. You’re falling asleep at your desk.”
I smiled and nodded. “I didn’t get much sack time last night.”
“Go home. Take a nap.”
“I’m fine,” I protested.
“No, you’re not. As your boss, I’m ordering you out of here.”
I’d have protested further, but I couldn’t suppress a yawn. “Maybe a bit of rest would help,” I admitted sheepishly.
But plans and reality often clash, and this day was no exception. Apparently my being home in the middle of a work day had disrupted Taffy’s routine. The little dog, who usually ignored me, suddenly decided I was her best friend.
After I’d been in bed a minute or two, she jumped up and pressed her cold nose against my warm one.
“Go away,” I muttered. I was stretched out on top of the covers with an afghan tossed over me. Taffy backed away from me, head down, rear end raised, tail swishing. She yipped and charged at me again.
I rolled over onto my other side and tossed the pillow over my head.
She leaped over me, pawed my shoulder, and whined.
“Honestly,” I said, shunting the pillow aside, “what about ‘go away’ don’t you understand?”
She bounded forward to me and licked my chin.
I sat up and glared at her. She pranced about before me, giving me a series of little woofs. Obviously, I thought, this dog was not going to give up.
Sighing, I rose from bed and climbed into a pair of old sweats. What they hey, I thought, I hadn’t been sleeping anyway. Maybe a walk would do me good, too.
Taffy bounded joyously around my feet, nearly tripping me a time or two as we m
ade our way down the stairs.
“Knock it off,” I said, which also turned out to be another waste of my breath.
Into my parka. Into my boots. I attached her leash. Out the door we flew. She burst into the open air with her tongue dangling happily from her mouth and with me trailing behind her. I grunted and reminded myself never to come home in the middle of the day again for a nap.
But the sun was brilliant. It highlighted the white snow, the blue sky. The whole sight cheered me. I pulled in a deep breath, and on we trekked down the sidewalk. At some point Taffy paused to take care of a minor duty.
“Good girl,” I said. I started to set off back to the house, but Taffy tugged against me in the opposite direction. Figuring she had further business, I relented and we continued on to the next block.
As we trod along, I spotted the mailman, Harry Gibbons, coming toward us. Tall and slender, if turned sideways, the man was little more than a shadow. But what he lacked in volume, he made up for with an expansive nature.
“Hello there,” he said when he reached us. “And how are two of my favorite young ladies today?”
“We’re fine.”
As though understanding his statement, Taffy danced about his feet. He leaned over and patted her head.
A mailman who got on with dogs, I thought. Amazing.
Straightening back up, he asked, “What’s brought you home in the middle of the day?”
“Long story.”
“I imagine you’ve been busy... with this murder and all.”
“That’s part of it,” I said.
“Is there any news on what killed Scroggins?”
“Yes. Gossford released the information this morning. It’s coming out in the paper this afternoon.”
“You wouldn’t be willing to fill me in now, would you? I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
I laughed. I doubted that was true unless Gibbons failed to encounter anyone else before finishing his rounds. I knew how he loved to talk. But fiddlesticks, I thought, the paper would be on the street soon, anyway. “Apparently, he was poisoned with foxglove leaves.”
“No kidding, my wife grows a flower by that name. And, of course, there’s the heart medicine, right?”