Twice Dipped Murder

by Daphne DeWitt

  “What sort of things, Darrin?” I asked, swallowing hard.

  “Other than the strange timing of her return, the way she lied to me about what brought her here, and the fact that she’s answered to the name Kaitlyn at least twice since her return, she disappeared for a few minutes today.”

  Kaitlyn? Why on Earth would she answer to that?

  “Let me guess,” I said, quirking my mouth to the side. “it was the same time Myra received the call threatening her life.”

  Darrin nodded his confirmation.

  “Myra said it was a male voice,” I replied, remembering what Dr. Appleton had told me. “But that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have used voice modification software. You can download that onto your phone in thirty seconds these days.”

  “Right,” he said. “And then there’s her social media,” Darrin said. “After I spoke to our old captain, I searched her Facebook and Twitter profiles. She had always been very active with those things. Then, three months ago, they both just went silent.”

  “Around the time of her firing,” I mused. “Did your old captain tell you specifics of Angie’s termination?”

  “No,” he answered simply. “It’s against procedure, even among partners who were as close as Angie and me.”

  As close as Angie and he? How close were they exactly?

  “It leads me to believe that she might have gotten into something bad,” Darrin said. “Something that connects her to what happened to Lionel Sulkin.”

  “What could that be?” I asked, honestly at a loss.

  “That’s why I brought you here, Rita. I want you to figure it out,” he said.

  My heart sort of leapt hearing Darrin’s proposition. After being told I could basically be put up on the shelf with the arrival of his old partner, Darrin wanted my help.

  But did I want to give it to him? Could his intentions be so easily forgotten just because he had come back to me?

  Maybe. Maybe not. I hadn’t actually decided yet. Either way, it didn’t matter. It was the right thing to do, and that was enough to get me to push past everything I might have been feeling.

  “What do I need to do?” I asked, looking up at him.

  “Myra Plimpton told me something while questioning her, a lead I think we should follow,” he said. “I can’t do it though, not with Angie so close to me.” He sighed. “When Myra was being questioned, she heard some ambient noise in the background of the call, including a phrase that went right over Angie’s head.”

  “Phrase?” I asked, my eyebrows shooting up curiously. “What phrase.”

  Darrin smiled. “Forty-three. No tears.”

  I smiled in return. I didn’t have to wonder why Angie wouldn’t recognize that phrase. It wouldn’t have made any sense for anyone not from Second Springs.

  I was from Second Springs though, so I knew exactly what I needed to do next.

  I nodded at Darrin.

  “I’m on it.”

  15

  “Forty- three. No tears,” I said to myself as I marched down Main Street. For the first time in either of my lives, I didn’t recognize most of the faces I saw as I passed. Sure, there was the odd person or two.

  Carter Samson, who runs the General Store. Debra Johnson, three-time winner of the Second Springs Annual Greatest Garden Contest, and even Mayor Hester who had been in overdrive since the dog show opportunity turned into a story about the sad final days of a celebrity dog handler.

  She had wished for attention, and she got it. This, however, wasn’t the sort she wanted. Perhaps that was why she was so quick to run me down the instant I crossed her path.

  “Ms. Redoux,” she said, waddling toward me as her dark tight curls bounced up and down. “Oh, Ms. Redoux. I need to speak to you for a moment.”

  “In something of a hurry, Madame Mayor,” I said without breaking stride. I weaved through the crowds; an extreme oddity for Main Street, even during the busiest of times. There were more than a few news vans parked along the street, including one showcasing the smiling image of none other than Candy Devine herself.

  Mayor Hester wanted her in town. Something told me she wasn’t as happy about it as she thought she’d be.

  “I’m afraid that’s not an option, Ms. Redoux,”she said, catching up with me.

  For someone with stubby legs, she sure was quick.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, looking up at me as she kept stride, a haughty aggravation in her eyes.

  “Running an errand,” I answered, trying my best not to make eye contact. I wasn’t exactly telling the truth, but police business wasn’t the mayor’s concern; at least not for now.

  “I do hope that errand is related to the Southern Skies Dog Show,” she chimed. “Otherwise, I’m afraid you and I might have a problem.”

  “Right,” I said, sighing. “The dog show. Listen, about that, something came up, and I’m not sure-”

  I heard a gasp so large, I had to look around to make sure the mayor hadn’t inadvertently sucked up a rose bush.

  “Tell me that sentence ends with the words, ‘I’m not sure I can wait until the competition’ because that’s the only way I’d find it acceptable.”

  “Madame Mayor, I understand you were counting on Mayor McConnell and me to join in on the fun, but I’m sure you understand how busy life can get.”

  “Too busy to help your community in its time of need?” she said, shaking her head hard. “I’m afraid I do not understand that, Ms. Redoux. I do not understand that at all.”

  My blood boiled just a little as I tried to come up with just the right way to answer the mayor without offending her too much. Didn’t she understand that was what I was trying to do? It wasn’t like my crime solving escapades were a secret around town anymore. After uncovering the Covington mystery over in Harbor Heights, people had actually started teasing me about my connection to things like that. Townsfolk even began approaching me, asking me to find their missing bikes or help them collect on debts, which was weird because I was a baker turned amateur detective, and decidedly not a 1920s gangster.

  Still, perhaps the mayor hadn’t heard about my growing reputation. Maybe she just thought I was too shy or selfish to join the dog show.

  “I understand you’re a relatively new arrival here, Ms. Redoux, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you show a little town pride, even if this isn’t your hometown precisely.”

  Not my hometown?

  Okay. So there was no way for the mayor to know that I was actually born here, that I lived my entire life here, that I died here for Pete’s sake.

  So, I took a deep breath, pulled myself to a stop, and tried to keep my voice steady and unaffected as I answered her.

  “Madame Mayor,” I said, plastering on a smile as sweet as any pie I’d ever baked. “Of course I have town pride. This is the best place in the world, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Well at least you got that much right,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

  I sighed but soldiered on. “You understand there’s been a murder here, ma’am.”

  Her eyes went wide as she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the doorway of Anderson Video Rental; a place that- during my two-year death hiatus- had lost so much business that it sadly had to close. Luckily, Mr. Anderson still owned the Laundromat across the street.

  “There has been a suicide, Ms. Redoux!” she said in a hushed and panicked whisper. “A tragedy, undoubtedly. A media interest, unfortunately, but definitely not a murder.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I said looking down at a woman who was technically the most powerful woman in town.

  Her face got red, and she tried so hard to hold anger in that her tiny frame began to shake.

  “You know something, Ms. Redoux?” she said, her muscles tightening enough to almost completely stop the shaking. “I had heard the talk about you, people whispering about you around town. They seem to think that you’re some sort of special oddity, that you’re som
ething to be praised and admired. Now, I try to keep from judging others, at least until I’ve gotten to know them myself. Because of that, I wanted to give you a chance to impress me the way you seem to impress so many others around her.” She shook her head, letting me know I had fallen short in that regard. “But I see now that you push for this sort of thing. You’re the kind of person who digs around in the underbelly of things until you find a thread to pull at.”

  “What are you talking about?” I balked, no longer able to hold my irritation at bay. “Second Springs doesn't have an underbelly, and there are people being thrown off buildings. I don’t have to pull at anything.”

  “Jumped!” she answered in a gasp. “He jumped off that building, and I won’t have you walking around town telling people otherwise. This is a story we need to get in front of. Tragedies fade from memory. Scandals never do. I will not be the mayor known for allowing our town to become a torrid media punchline.”

  “Someone is dead, Madame Mayor,” I said. “I know you’re not part of the police department, but you’re a servant of this town and, as such, you should want what’s best for it.”

  “Spoken like someone who doesn’t have the entire town to think about,” she answered, her outrage spiking so much, her body began shaking again. “This is a big opportunity for our town, Ms. Redoux. This could change everything for us.” She shook her head. “Something like this is the reason Cold Creek is on the short list for a Wal-Mart.”

  I crinkled my nose in distaste. The last thing our little town needed was one of those big box stores coming in and taking out the mom and pop stores that made this place so special.

  “Look,” she said, swallowing hard in an attempt to calm herself down. “It’s too late for someone else to take your place. That nice color commentator and that nicotine addict of a doctor already pulled strings to get you involved at this late date. There’s no way they can do that again.”

  “Nicotine addict?” I asked, scrunching my nose. I had never seen Dr. Appleton come even close to a cigarette.

  The mayor ignored my response though. Instead, she took my hand in hers, looking up at me. “I’m not sure if you’re a Star Trek fan, Ms. Redoux, but our little town is in trouble. We need to change the narrative and you, as strange as it seems, are our only hope.”

  “I’m one hundred percent sure that’s Star Wars,” I answered.

  Her face tightening, she dropped my hand. “In any event, you will continue with the competition, and that is a mayoral order!”

  “Is that even a thing?” I asked, quirking my mouth to the side.

  “It is now,” she answered. Turning to walk away, she stopped short, looked over her shoulder, and said, “Those pies you delivered the other night were delightful, by the way. I’d like to order two more and maybe a tray of tortes. Do you have tortes?”

  “We do,” I answered.

  “Then a tray of tortes,” she said, her voice lilting into its formal ‘mayor’ tone. “Good day, Ms. Redoux,” she said and started back down Main Street.

  “Um…okay,” I answered. “Good day, Madame Mayor.”

  Taking a deep breath, I turned and kept walking toward my destination, mumbling.

  “Forty-three. No tears.”

  16

  With the ‘mayoral order’ still fresh in my mind, I did my best to steer clear of the newscasters and reporters littering the streets as I made my way to my destination. It wasn’t hard. I sort of blended into the busier than normal streets and, given that my connection to the dog show wouldn’t be public knowledge until it officially started tomorrow, I wasn’t of specific interest to any of them.

  That didn’t stop me from eavesdropping on several of the interviews taking place as I passed by. Mayor Hester would have been pleased to hear it, as none of them seemed to be talking about anything other than the ‘terrible suicide’ of Lionel Sulkin. Some of the people being interviewed must have either been friends with Lionel or were pretending to, because they spoke about how ‘shocked’ they were and how they ‘didn’t see it coming.'

  Oh, course they didn’t see it coming. Lionel himself likely hadn't. All of the clues were coming together in my mind; the fact that Lionel was afraid of heights, the broken clock hidden in his hotel, and the fact that he told the police he was afraid for his life.

  It all led to the nearly undeniable truth that Lionel didn’t kill himself. Wanda was right. Her husband had been murdered. I just needed to figure out by who, and I needed to know what Myra’s death threat had to do with all of it.

  As I marched toward my destination, I went over the events and realized I still didn’t believe Myra’s threat was genuine. Oh, it certainly happened. Darrin had seen her call log displaying the blocked call as proof. Still, what if that was orchestrated by Myra herself? What if this was just a ruse to throw us off her scent once Myra got wind that the police (and I) were looking into what happened as a possible homicide.

  If that was the case, then two things were true. We were extremely lucky that the media hadn’t gotten wind of our endeavors. One word from Candy Devine about the possibility of murder, and our investigation would get a lot more complicated.

  And secondly, if this was a ploy by Myra, then all of it was, including the phrase she overheard over the phone.

  Forty- three. No tears.

  If she was in on this, it meant she was trying to lead us right here.

  I settled in front of the Burger Bonanza Barn, looking up at the aged sign and remember when my father used to take me here every Mother’s Day. We’d get double doubles with bacon and milkshakes, and he’d tell me the story of how he realized he was in love with my mother right here in the far booth.

  “I looked over at her, at that blonde hair and that crooked smile, and that was it,” he’d say, smiling mournfully and dipping French fries into his chocolate shake.

  He’d then tell me how I had those same eyes, had that same hair. It was the piece of her that remained in the world.

  As I looked at myself in the window’s faint reflection, it was undeniable that I no longer had that crooked smile, no longer had that blonde hair. The pieces of my mother that my father had in me were gone now too, and he was left with nothing.

  I shook my head and soldiered on. I couldn’t let that get into my head right now. I had a murder to solve, and I wouldn’t do it by feeling sorry for myself, even if it involved French fries and milkshakes.

  The inside of the good old Triple B was jam packed today, more crowded than I had ever seen it. In fact, as I walked in and saw the always empty seats near the door filled with people looking at faded menus, I realized there was a wait to be seated.

  “Well, now I’ve seen everything,” I said to myself, taking a hard right and heading toward the kitchen.

  I wasn’t looking for food today, though I wouldn’t have said no to a bowl of chili and a chicken club. I needed answers, and hopefully, I could get them here.

  Annabeth, a snarky woman in her sixties who I had known since I was knee high to a folding chair, was behind the bar. She was pouring coffee into mugs with the speed of a pit crew attendant and summarily ignoring people’s request for cream and sugar with a curt, but chirpy, “No time, honey.”

  I suppressed a grin, settling in the only open spot I could find on the bar and trying to get the petite, white-haired woman’s attention.

  “Annabeth?” I said, smiling and waving from where I stood.

  She looked up at me, narrowing her eyes and putting on the kind of polite smile Southerners always do when dealing with strangers.

  “Hey there, sweetie,” she cooed. “You give Miss Annabeth two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and she’ll be right back to take your order.”

  Oh, that’s right. She didn’t know me anymore. If anything, I was the weird new girl at the pie shop who wore too many flowered dresses.

  “That’s not necessary, ma’am,” I said, returning her politeness with some of my own. “I was just wondering if Eddie was working today
.”

  “Oh sweetie,” she said, looking me up and down. “I’m not one to tell somebody what to do, but you could jump into a swamp wrestle up a better date than that boy.”

  “What?” I asked. “Oh. Ew. Oh no,” I said, realizing what she thought I wanted. “I don’t want to go out with him. I just need to ask him about an order that was made earlier.”

  “Oh, he messed up your food,” she said, shaking her head. “That makes a lot more sense. He’s back in the kitchen. Feel free to yell at him if you want. But I’ll warn you, it’s as busy as a confessional after a bachelor party back there.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said, nodding. I, of course, went back there anyway.

  Miss Annabeth wasn’t lying when she said the kitchen was busy. The instant I walked in, I was handed a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes and told to, “Bring that to table 3.”

  “Oh, I don’t work here,” I said, looking up at and seeing that the person handing me the plate was none other than Eddie.

  “Like I care,” he answered, shoving the plate forward until I took it.

  As with most of the people in Second Springs, I’d know Eddie ever since we were kids in school. He had always been something of an outspoken guy, a person who had his own sort of lingo. That was why when Myra mentioned something about hearing ‘Forty-Three. No tears’, I knew it had to be Eddie. He was the cook here, after all, and he was the only one who spoke like that. Anyone else in Triple B would have called it a mushroom burger without onions, but to Eddie, it was ‘forty-three, no tears.'

  “I just need to ask you some questions,” I said, looking at him.

  “You want me to answer your questions?” he asked, wiping a huge amount of sweat from his brow.

  I made a mental note not to eat here on days when Eddie was on duty as I answered.

  “Yes I do,” I said confidently.

  “Good. Bring that to table three, and you’ll get some answers,” he barked, and then turned.