Murder on the Ol' Bunions (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery)

by S. Dionne Moore

  I scoured this article, surprised to find that Mark Hamm, a member of the council after a long time resident died six months before reelection, planned to recuse his vote. Strange. What reason would he have to do that? I mulled this over as I retrieved my bowl of stew.

  Most council members recused their vote when a conflict of interest prevented them from voting legally. Perhaps there was a connection between Mark Hamm and Marion’s building? Could his relationship with Valorie have some bearing on his decision to forego voting on the matter? And, if Marion had already been upset with Valorie over her visits to Mark’s restaurant, would her daughter’s cheating send her over the top?

  I turned the page and found an interview of Chief Conrad in regard to his first murder/homicide as police chief.

  So. . . he did think it was more than an accident. I wasn’t surprised, of course, given Marion’s disagreeable nature.

  The article continued by reporting that Conrad acknowledged there were certain persons of interest, but the tests run by the state police forensics team would shed further light and help clear a path to arrest if there had been foul play. “The innocent having nothing to fear from my investigation,” the reporter quoted Conrad.

  Last of all, I skimmed over Mark Hamm’s most recent column on historical tidbits he’d discovered as an amateur historian. Every other week he had something new to share about the gold-mining days of Colorado. Sometimes he slipped in a commentary on current events. I marked the article with a pen so I’d remember to read it later.

  I stirred the stew, releasing a puff of fragrant steam, and took a bite. Needed a little more pepper. Hardy’s vacant chair brought me back to my domestic dilemma. Where was that man? This was getting serious. Making me fidgety to the point that I lost my appetite halfway through the bowl of stew.

  I dumped the dishes into the sink and set about packaging the remainder of the food from my cook-a-thon the previous evening. Then I broke the food down into small portions more suitable for the two of us, and stacked each bag in the freezer.

  The phone chirped. I wiped my hands and waited to see if Hardy would answer. On the third ring, I gave up on him and plucked the cordless from its base.

  “Hello.”

  I welcomed the baritone of our oldest son, but my enthusiasm sprung a leak when he started right off with the reason for his call.

  “What d’ ya mean you can’t come home?” Not another cancellation. I gripped the phone tighter. “Cora’s been working every day, traveling all that way without a problem, but you don’t think she can make a three-hour drive here?” Frustration rose in my throat. I cleared my throat into the phone.

  “It’s the doctor’s orders, Momma. Cora’s getting close to her date and he wants her to start taking it easy. I’m even cutting back my hours to be home with her.”

  From deep down inside, the voice of reason scraped its finger across my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut. It was best this way. Really. I should be thrilled that my son and daughter-in-law would be so willing not to risk Cora’s health, or the baby’s. My first grandchild. Grand-child. This equals old. Washed up. Life over. Gone to seed.

  My children don’t need me anymore. They’re capable.

  “I know you’re disappointed, Momma. But just remember you’ll have your first grandbaby soon.”

  I nodded against the phone, dried the lone trail of a tear and fought to keep my voice steady. “Tell Cora we love her and to take care of my grandbaby.”

  With a vicious stab, I punched the OFF button, grateful for the solid counter to support my weight as my legs became quivery and my vision blurred. I should be understanding. Forgiving and kind and unwilling to be angry at Tyrone and Cora’s cancellation from Easter supper. And if I kept saying those things to myself long enough, the hurt might bleed away.

  I don’t want all my chicks back in the nest, Lord, but they could at least come by to cluck at me once in a while.

  My eyes landed on the bowl of stew I had heated for Hardy. It was time for him to eat, and I’ve never seen him turn down the notion of food. Unless he was mad at me. “Hardy!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “You better come eat or I’m gonna eat it for you.” I listened hard for a reply, satisfied to hear the scuffle of feet on the floor above.

  “You better keep your lips off my food. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  In a jiff, I’d reheated the stew and set his place at the table, all the while fretting over my dwindling list of Easter supper guests. I snapped the seals closed on the food storage bags and stacked them in the freezer, the blast of cold air doing nothing to cool my rising anger. At my children. At my husband. At myself for being so cranky when I’m so blessed.

  When the dining chair creaked behind me and I heard the clink of the spoon against the bowl, I didn’t turn, but began work on divvying up the chicken and dumplings. Let Hardy be the first one to speak. I’d had enough.

  “The newspaper sure has a lot to say about Marion,” he offered. “Did you see the police beat about the theft?”

  My mind snapped to attention. Now how’d I miss that juicy tidbit? Drat it all, and just when I had taken a vow of silence. Now he had the paper. I gulped down my pride, though it nearly choked me to do so. “Read it to me.”

  “Not much to read. It just says the police were called to 35 Rolling Way—that’s Dana’s house, isn’t it?—in regard to a reported book theft.”

  Book? Who would miss a book unless they placed great value on it? Could it be the diary she’d accused Marion of taking? But why would Dana report it now, after Marion had died, and did the diary mean that much to her?

  My last dumpling slipped from the pot into the bag. Chief and I needed to talk. He could confirm if it was about Dana’s diary or not.

  Keeping my hands busy always helped me focus, and this news needed to be analyzed. Could explain why Payton seemed so shook up at the chief’s presence. Maybe since Payton had been at Dana’s tuning the piano he had been questioned over Dana’s stolen book previous to Marion’s murder? Hmm.

  I wanted so bad to know Hardy’s thoughts. I risked a peek in his direction as I wiped the countertop. His eyes darted left to right, the paper spread out before him, spoon firmly clenched in his hand. Beyond sharing what he read in the paper, he would remain silent about the episode at the police station, knowing his silence pricked at me. After all this time being married to the contrary man, his tricks were nothing new to me. Even worse—they worked.

  Finally, he folded the paper and set it aside. He didn’t look my way one time.

  I heaved a sigh of resignation. “You’re thinkin’ I went overboard today, aren’t you?”

  He peered at me from under his bushy brows. “You could get that boy in trouble if you’re not careful. Tricking him into revealing things. . .and you weren’t right being less than honest.”

  My hackles were rising in self-defense. “But you did misplace money.”

  “You took it out of my wallet. Said so yourself, and I’m not arguing the point with you, Tisha. He’s a young man on the police force trying to make his way in life. If he were one of yours, you’d squash anyone who tried to put him in a bad light.” Hardy scraped the inside of his bowl clean and pushed it forward. His brown eyes speared me. “You stop giving that boy a hard time.”

  I turned my back, knowing he was right, and pressed my lips together. My hand grabbed for a long knife to begin the process of slicing the pies. I wasn’t quite ready to be humble. I’d let a slice of pie be my peace offering. Nice, sweet, cherry pie. I covered it in whipped cream and slid it before him.

  Our eyes met. He understood the symbol of my silent plea for forgiveness.

  “Who called?” he asked, as he picked up the fork.

  “Tyrone. They can’t come for Easter.”

  “Too bad. But I figure she needs to be careful since this is her last month. You remember how careful you were when you were carrying Tyrone?”

  How could I forget? My stomach was so huge with baby I thoug
ht for sure I would pop before I gave birth.

  “You couldn’t get off the sofa that one day and had to get on the floor and crawl to a chair.”

  The memory brought a smile to my lips. I tore off a piece of plastic wrap to cover the pie. “And you did nothing but laugh at me when I told you.”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed the side of his head. “You cuffed me a good one for that. Come to think of it, you always got mean the month before your due date. Seven times.” He lifted his fork and paused. His gaze met mine, spilling over me like warm brown gravy. My throat swelled almost shut and I reached out a hand to trace a finger down the side of his face.

  Hardy was right, I’d been tough on Mac Simpson. Officer Nelson, too, but I decided I wouldn’t tell him about that one. A woman has her pride.

  As he forked in another mouthful, he flipped the paper over. “Says here someone posted a reward for information on anything suspicious in regards to Marion’s death.”

  “A reward?” I’d missed that, too! “How much?”

  “A thousand.”

  “Whoo-wee.” I pulled down an old picnic basket and placed the cherry pie and a crock full of dumplings inside. “I’m going to take these dumplings over to Valorie’s house and see how she’s doin’. Then I’m going to drop off this pie for the boys at the police station. You coming?”

  “Naw.” He stretched and scratched his chest. “I need to get caught up on my beauty sleep.” A slow smile of approval spread across his face.

  Just as it was for him, he knew the pie was my peace offering to Officer Simpson. Of course, Simpson would think I was just being nice. I smothered a smile. Who knew, maybe it would loosen his tongue and grant me some more juicy tidbits.

  “As if you didn’t sleep like a dead man last night. The only way I know you was alive was the snoring.” Hefting the load, I stuck out my hand. “Give me the keys to the car and I’ll be out of here.”

  Hardy dug around in his front pocket and dropped the keys into my hand. “If old Lou breaks down, call the garage. I’ll be sleeping.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Old Lou,” referred to the beige Buick we’d bought on Tyrone’s tenth birthday. The car was as familiar to me as my kitchen. A spot of blood on the backseat from Mason’s almost-severed finger, stains from baby Shayna getting car sick a few hundred times, and the smell of old leather. Though Hardy kept the car running, its purr had deteriorated to a congested cough over the years. Still, Lou kept going and neither of us saw any reason to replace a car whose longest trip ended up being the few times we ventured into Denver or went to visit the children.

  I plunked the basket into the backseat and started to slide behind the wheel but got stuck. You’d think after all these years of living with a skinny man, he’d remember to slide the seat back for me. Not him. I backed my body out, pulled the lever and slid the seat all the way back, then shimmied behind the steering wheel. I let go a huge sigh of relief to be off my feet.

  At my age—and my motto is don’t ask, don’t tell—I refused to wear the orthopedic granny shoes I saw on the feet of other older women. You can bet my bunions chastise me daily for the abuse, but I have my pride. As sorry as it sounds, wearing stylish shoes—sans comfort—is my one point of great pride.

  Okay, two.

  Dressing to the nines and sailing down the aisle of our church in one of my lovely hats is another weakness. That’s where that rich young ruler got himself in such hot water. If he’d a thought twice about where his decision would take him, he’d have been willing to shake off his pride and give up his wealth. So, see, I’m safe. I can take off my hats anytime and be as humble as the next person.

  Lou chugged me past Sasha Blightman’s boutique. I craned my neck to see the robin’s egg blue Scala Downbrim hat perched on the head of a mannequin. Every hair on my head stood on end with envy. I’d eyeballed this little piece of divine creation ever since Sasha placed it there, and I was real happy to know that she hadn’t sold it during her sidewalk sale over the weekend.

  Sasha’s slender form, easily recognizable in the elegant, lime green pantsuit, rearranged the jacket on one of the mannequins in the store window. I couldn’t help myself. I slowed Old Lou down to get a better glimpse of that hat. Sasha waved when she glanced up. Maybe if I got that reward money, I’d be able to plunk down the money for the hat. If I tried to buy it now, Hardy would for sure get arrested for disturbing the peace—or murder.

  A little further down Gold Street, on the right, Marion’s narrow, all-brick home sported a wreath of bright springtime flowers on the front door. I pulled into the driveway and decided to see if anyone was home before lugging the basket out of the car. My knock echoed, the sound sad and empty.

  I waited a full minute before giving it another try, almost turning away at the pinch of guilt knowing I wasn’t just here to offer comfort, but to ask questions. Valorie might have been difficult in the past, typical moody teenager stuff, but I wanted so bad to let her know how my heart hurt for her. Losing one’s momma at a young age . . . yeah, I knew something about that.

  At long last the sound of soft footsteps let me know someone was on their way. The lock on the door scraped as it retracted and the door cracked open. Valorie’s puffy, tear-stained eyes pinched my heart. The girl clutched the doorframe, and managed a weak grimace that might have resembled a smile if her bottom lip hadn’t trembled.

  I spread my arms wide. “No tough-gal stuff for LaTisha. You come here.”

  Valorie blinked, then blinked again, and lunged forward. I caught her in a tight embrace as sobs wracked her slender form.

  “That’s it, baby, you have a good cry.” Valorie’s light brown hair tickled my cheek as I cradled her face against my shoulder. All the girl’s usual teenage haughtiness had dissolved under the weight of her distress, as I figured it would. Every heart needs another to shelter it when the storms rage.

  I closed my eyes, making that tender connection with the Lord and lifting up the broken emotions of my precious bundle. “Lord, you know this hurt,” I breathed the prayer, warm and gentle against Valorie’s hair. “You know our girl’s pain. Comfort her. Wrap your arms around her. Draw her closer to you.”

  We stood that way for a long time. Finally Valorie sniffed and pulled back. “Thank you, Missus Barnhart.”

  “Ain’t none of that Missus stuff. You done wet the front of my dress and I guess that allows you to call me LaTisha.” I held up a finger. “I brought you something to eat. You go on in and I’ll fetch it from the car.”

  In the kitchen, I pulled down a plate, filled it, gave it a spin in the microwave, and made sure Valorie got the fork to her lips a few times. She needed the nourishment. .’s plate was filled, I got her to eating. I took a good look around, puzzled by the boxes, some filled, some still empty. “You packing for college?”

  Valorie picked at a piece of chicken but didn’t meet my eyes. Something was up with that, I was sure. “I can’t stay here. I was packing when you rang the bell.”

  I yanked out a chair and settled myself next to her. “Where you going?”

  The old, familiar stubbornness radiated from Valorie’s eyes. “I’ve got a place to stay for a while.”

  Obviously some great secret, though I suspected Mark Hamm’s hug might have something to do with it. Best to let the subject drop. “I want you to know that despite finding your momma, I had nothing to do with it.”

  Valorie nodded. “Who would—?” She picked up her glass of water and sipped.

  “I don’t know, baby, but I’m doing my best to figure things out.”

  Valorie slanted me a look. “Chief Conrad’s in charge. He’s thinking it might have been a bad fall.”

  “You’re right about that.” Should I mention my feeling that it wasn’t an accident?

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to piece things together. My college courses give me a natural interest, so I figured I’d get to work doing what I could, in an unofficial capacity, if y
ou know what I mean.”

  Valorie stabbed a dumpling and examined it, but she couldn’t hide the tremble of her lips. “My mom wasn’t a real nice person most of the time.”

  “Your momma had her problems. We all do.” The time had come to ask the question raised by the report of her mother’s displeasure over her cheating. “Do you think she tripped and fell?”

  Valorie abandoned her efforts to eat and stared down at her hands clasped in her lap. “I don’t know what to think.” She swiped at her face and sniffed.

  This girl had something on her mind.

  A young girl loses her mother, what, besides grief, would she struggle with? Her mother pushed her, yes. Marion always wanted Valorie to be the best and do the best . . . Did that set a bomb ticking in Valorie’s brain? Would her resentment over her mother’s hovering anger her enough to push her mother into that radiator? What if it was an accident? One of those moments of pure rage that one lived to regret forever.

  With two girls of my own, it’s not hard for me to understand that a mother’s hopes and dreams for her daughters are different than those for her sons. I recalled the one time I had pushed Shayna to get her degree in something other than business management. For two years Shayna held her ground, resisting my suggestion. “Momma, it’s what I want. Why can’t you let me be me? I’m the one who has to live with my decision.”

  Such a simple statement of fact. No anger. Just a deep sorrow that radiated from my girl as she petitioned me with what I knew to be true.

  Hardy’s words from the previous night flashed in my mind. We had indeed raised our babies to be independent, with the attitude that they could do anything they put their minds to, and that God had blessed each of them with a good mind, so they most certainly had better use it.

  How much more pressure would there be on an only child? Especially from Marion. I liked to think that I wasn’t quite as pushy. Truth was, my girls would probably say I was.