Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont

by Chappell,Connie

  I need a diversion, I thought, for either the left side of my brain or the right, while the other ruminated about the alley. Knowing what my diversionary act would be, I gave the alley a self-conscious glance around. All alone, I succumbed to my baser instinct. Nearby, in perfect triangulation, were a sturdy bench, a waste can, and a basket of petunias hanging from the arm of a light pole. Absent access to a weedy flowerbed, I went to work on shriveled petunia blossoms.

  “I might as well deadhead,” I said to myself. I climbed to the bench’s wooden edge, then, in self-reproach, paused to consider the appropriateness of my word choice. Deadhead. That’s me.

  The wind lifted my short dark locks, and I became aware of the regal clock’s watchfulness over my antics. Nimbly, my fingers pulled a withered bloom loose and smoothly into my closing palm, before going back after another. My left hand spun the basket slowly on its chains until the process was complete. Satisfied with the improved appearance, I climbed down and tossed a handful in the receptacle. Brushing my hands didn’t remove the sticky residue transferred when handling petunias.

  I gazed up to the oversized clock with a nod of farewell. I decided to forgive the writing gods. It was late. They could anoint me with an idea tomorrow. With my eyes still fixed on the clock, an explosion of color flashed in my head, bringing with it a flood of inspiration.

  The clock! Of course, the clock!

  I raced back to my office.

  Breathless and on my knees, I hastily arranged a black-and-white collage on the floor. It had been right in front of me all the time. Why hadn’t I seen it earlier?

  “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen times,” I said aloud, counting each instance the depot clock appeared in a photograph. Several photographs pictured it in front of the train station. From that position, it could look down the alley to its current location. Nearly sixty years passed since the station closed, and the clock showed up both inside and outside of the shops around Piedmont Alley. Either it had a hard time finding a permanent home—going from pillar to post—or it was living it up on the road.

  Thank God, I finally had my thread. I would tell the story from the clock’s viewpoint. I began to write. Not just an outline. The real thing. Over an hour later, I emailed a sample to my pipsqueak-of-an-editor Irv Hammer, vying for a bigger spread, saying he’d have to set aside space for the pictures, and promising another installment on Saturday.

  A breezy twilight settled over Havens. I headed for the car. Internally, my inspiration still percolated. I pulled Midnight up to the exit, and my phone rang.

  “I called home,” Gideon said when I answered. “You weren’t there.”

  I detected an unspoken note of worry in his voice. “I’m in the car, heading there now.” I gave Midnight some gas, chirping her tires.

  “I heard that. Does that mean you’re anxious to see me?”

  “It means I have good news. My Piedmont Alley story is launched, and it’s going to be great.”

  I turned east off Gatling, onto Hattersfield. The windows were down. Night air cooled the car.

  “We should celebrate when we get home.”

  I stopped for the light at Hattersfield and Grand. “Where are you?”

  “Right beside you.”

  I spun my head to the left. The red Crossfire swerved to a stop in the next lane. I smiled across to the face I could not live without. Even in the waning light, I could tell he was beaming at me, his phone pressed to his ear.

  “If you’re using one hand for shifting and one to hold the phone, how do you steer?”

  “When we get home, I’ll show you how I’m steering.”

  I laughed. “You seem to be taking everything in stride, given your day.”

  “Even as we speak, the generals are advancing.” With that, he squealed his tires. The light changed from red to green. Breathing in his dust, I heard, “The last one home feeds the other one cake.”

  “But that’s not fair. Your car’s faster than mine.”

  “I know.” His tone was naughty. I saw evidence he up-shifted and hit the gas.

  I sped along behind him, closing the distance. His reference to the generals meant Eastwood’s board members had begun to arrive. They would convene their tribunal and deal with the crisis upon them.

  Sweetly, he set aside his problems and zoned in on me. “Other than your article, how’s everything else going?”

  Through the six lights between Sanborn and Redbrook, I tried to simplify the complicated situation I learned of at Connery’s, which in my mind all boiled down to one thing: “I’m wondering if there isn’t corruption in the police department.”

  “Corruption is a pretty big word, little girl. Are you sure you want to use it?”

  “Yes.” Then I faltered. “Maybe not. It just seems some things going on down there shouldn’t be.”

  “Shouldn’t be, because they’re cops?”

  “Some of it, yes. In fact, most of it. What I’m trying to say is: it’s happening because they’re cops.”

  “You’re holding cops to a high standard. You expect them to emulate Clay. No, let me rephrase that—and you may not like this—you expect them to emulate the Clay you think you know. Think about it, Wrenn, you don’t know everything in Clay’s past.”

  He was right. At Rosemont this morning, I mentally ranted on about my supreme knowledge of cops. I was cocky. I barely challenged Clay’s reaction this morning. Cops will be cops; men will be men. (Take Gideon’s desire-for-cake-in-the-heat-of-disaster example.)

  Now, what? What did I know?

  I knew I excused Clay’s behavior, exemplified it, accepted it, no question. I knew I wanted to live in a world where more cops like Clay carried a badge than like Elmore.

  Would I challenge Clay, ever? Yes, I would.

  Could I, should I claim to know cops when I was so naïvely blindsided by the idea of corruption?

  Gideon arrived at this junction first since my jumbled thoughts were snagged on notions of principle and trust. “I understand why this upsets you. But to use your word, the corruption’s always been there. You just had to face it today.” Dead on. That’s Gideon. “That makes me wonder,” he wasn’t through, “as you get more involved in this thing—and I know you will—will you be able to distinguish the good guys from the bad?”

  My heart nearly stopped. A lot was swept up in that question. It came across the airwaves with a whisper of fear I rarely heard in his voice. And in the falling darkness, as I pulled alongside him at the light, I prayed he couldn’t see my face. Reflected there might be the unbearable reality that I didn’t know the answer. I wasn’t cocky anymore.

  Somewhere in these last few blocks, he reached the foregone conclusion that I would not, and could not, leave this murder alone. What is the depth of his love that he simply did not ask me to stop?

  That question I could answer: Unimaginable.

  “Well,” I said quietly, “I guess I’ve been going on and on about my day, haven’t I?”

  “A bit,” he said, not a thread of fret eked through. “I’ve been quite willing to indulge your needs, so we might get to mine faster when we get home.”

  “Think again, buddy.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the light change and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. I left my horny racing partner stalled at the gate, spewing a string of profanity. In the rearview mirror, I saw him make up time.

  I dropped my phone into my lap and kept my eyes pinned to the road. Traffic was light. We did some bobbing and weaving, posturing for position. I caught a break at Webster and floored the PT Cruiser once more. With the wind in my face, I led the race all the way to the edge of town.

  I screeched onto Somerset with Gideon close on my tail. With no oncoming traffic, I hovered on the centerline, so he couldn’t pass. The Crossfire could easily blow the doors off my PT. What a ludicrous sight, I thought. The built-for-speed sports car with all its bucking horses under the hood trapped behind the cumbersome-looking retro wagon.

&nbs
p; Gideon lost a bit of his fight when I skidded onto Hancock Lane.

  First in the drive, I yanked the keys from the car, winged the door closed, and raced to the front stoop. The Crossfire stopped. Gideon was out. I laughed hysterically, struggling to fit the key in the lock.

  And then he was there. His fingers on mine at the lock. His lips at my nape. My giggle gave way to a low moan. Shivers slid sensuously down my spine. I closed my eyes and felt his hard body pressed to mine. He turned me toward him. I gazed up into his chiseled features, so alluring under the magic of starlight, and saw the love he spoke with his eyes.

  A current ran between us, bringing the ache in his body to mine, taking the passion of my beating heart to his. His lips, when they found mine, were tender beyond words. I melted into him, held firm in the bend of his arm. His hungry kisses became more insistent.

  The door fell open behind me. His strong arms and unyielding lips carried us over the threshold. He kicked the door closed, shutting out the pale moonlight.

  My dear sweet Gideon, turn your desire up. Tonight, there will be cake.

  Like A Troubled Marriage

  “Wrenn, have you seen my belt?”

  I looked up from the bottom of the stairs. Gideon’s palms were pressed to the banister he peered over. An open hall and balustrade ran the length of the second-floor loft with a full view of the downstairs. I held his belt. He watched me loop it around the newel post and smile up to him.

  “Oh, yeah.” His face broke into a satisfied grin. The prelude to his night of lascivious behavior with his lover came back. Draped over my arm were my bra and the shirt he wore yesterday. My navy jacket was hooked on a finger. All these things I collected on my way down the stairs.

  I made a quick right to the laundry room. It shared a hallway with the downstairs bath and a small guest room.

  I returned to find him in socked feet at the base of the stairs. He worked his belt into the loops of stone-colored pants, both pleated and creased. The long-sleeved denim shirt he shrugged into upstairs was an exact match for his eyes. The tie he donned for his day of meetings with the university’s board members was colorful with splotches of yellow, green, and blue. Gideon employed both the denim shirt and splotchy tie in his fight against traditionalism and were as dressed up as Gideon liked to get. As a concession to himself, he left the top button undone and the silk knot somewhat loose at the throat.

  “Don’t forget tonight is Clay’s darting tournament at Night Sticks,” I said.

  He pushed himself up from the stair step where he sat to tie his shoelaces and came to me. “I don’t know how today’s going to go, but I will definitely try not to stand you up.” He bussed my temple with a kiss. “How about some coffee?” I followed him into the kitchen. “I’m sure you’ll be talking to Clay this morning,” he said. “Invite him out to the park for the baseball tournament Sunday. Tell him I said that’s a sport for real men.” To this, he added a bit of a strut as he carried his box of Cocoa Krispies to the counter.

  Our breakfast conversation centered around baseball. We ate the meal on high stools at the long bar sectioning off the kitchen from the rest of the downstairs.

  When I was ready to leave, Gideon had the house phone squeezed between his ear and shoulder, talking with high-pitched Janice Jankowski and rinsing dishes. Our meager breakfast consisted of coffee, cold cereal, and toast. One of us had to get some groceries into the house.

  I gave him a peck goodbye, but he pulled me back for a longer, meaningful kiss. My fingers curled into the folds of his sleeves while Janice trilled distantly about the crime-scene tape that greeted her arrival at Blake Hall. Gideon neglected to inform her yesterday the building would remain closed until Saturday.

  “Take today for yourself, Jan-Jan. Then plan to be in at twelve Saturday. Can you do that?”

  Listening, Gideon rolled his eyes at her longwinded answer. I took a dog biscuit from the ceramic jar on the counter and gave him a wave at the door while he tried to calm his assistant.

  Out on the cottage’s porchlet, I said good morning to Tarbutton. The Irish water spaniel rested on his haunches. He politely accepted the Milk-Bone I offered. This was our morning ritual. The hefty seventy-pounder owned the obligatory wet nose. His topknot, longer and less curly than the rest of his coat, fell lazily across his eyes. It fuzzed at the ends, like the remnants of an old perm.

  Tarbutton wasn’t my dog. He belonged to Mary Hancock up at the rambling farmhouse. The big, black lug of a dog would spend the rest of this pleasant morning fishing at nearby Crooked Creek.

  The spaniel and I moved in single-file along the walk, past the iron bench, and out into the drive. At the PT’s front fender, we paused. I wished him a good day, and he cocked his head with an air of complete comprehension. In the lane, I shifted Midnight into drive and glanced back. Tail wagging happily, the dog broke into a trot, heading around the cottage’s back corner toward the woods and Crooked Creek.

  I made a beeline for City Hall and found Lucy in the conference room adjacent to council offices.

  When she saw me, she raised her spectacles atop her furrowed brow. “Your office is a mess again.” Then she grinned brightly. “But I traipsed through, anyway. Your mail and a phone message are on your chair. Have you seen the paper?”

  I shook my head.

  “Better take a look.”

  I nodded toward the legal pad on the table and several loose sheets torn from it. “What are you working on?”

  “Winding Trail. And don’t worry. I’m going to have this all pulled together by the end of the day.”

  Mentally, I groaned. The sinkhole certainly garnered a lot of attention. Lucy worked on it for two days; the street crews, off and on for more than a week. I guess I should feel fortunate my Saturday assignment would extend an hour, maybe two, but I didn’t.

  From the conference room, I jogged around Lucy’s desk and into my office where I arranged the photographs into two piles: those with the depot clock and those without. These piles were stacked on my desk. The phone message and today’s mail were transferred from my chair, and I sat down.

  A pink slip indicated I should wait for a fax from the Chamber, confirming the guest list for Breckenridge’s ribboncutting. It should be received by day’s end. No mention was made of a sponsor for the program’s last page. The mail consisted of large, brown interoffice envelopes pierced with air holes and laced closed. I set them aside and shook the paper open. Immediately, my cheeks burned.

  As expected, the page-one stories were an unemotional retelling of my life from yesterday. Quite unexpectedly, my face stared back at me. Clay’s likeness shared the newsprint next to mine. Both photos resided in the newspaper’s archives. We received top billing under the headline MURDER AT THE EDGE OF TOWN. At first glance, it appeared one or both of us might be dead. Since neither photograph flattered, and given the criminal nature of the article, we could just as easily be cast as the assailants. Subscribers choosing to read the story would find it accurately reported that we discovered the body.

  The square beneath was titled EASTWOOD BURGLARIZED. As with the first installment of most crime stories, these two were peppered with typically vague comments relayed from police department personnel. Only one meaty detail leaked. An unnamed source identified Clayton Addison as the man questioned extensively by officers at the scene. Sarcastically, I thought, Now who could that be?

  Out front, the phone rang. I flipped irritably to the second section. Yesterday’s early-morning accident on Winding Trail—where truck met tree—made it into the paper as well. I looked up from rattling the paper back into its folds to see Lucy standing in the doorway.

  “I just took a call from Lynn in the Records Room down at Police. Your statement is ready to be signed. You’re to see the officer-in-charge.”

  “Ah, a trip down to the enemy camp.”

  “That’s how you feel?”

  “After yesterday, yes. I feel like Clay’s being unjustly persecuted. You know Elmore�
�s the unnamed source who spoke with that reporter, and he probably suggested the paper run our pictures,” I groused, sliding the offending newspaper off my desk blotter. The lieutenant kept his promise: he was coming after Clay. There was no doubt the weight of my promise to let Clay handle Elmore without interference from the mayor’s office picked up a few pounds.

  “So you think he’s trying to get under Clay’s skin with this, and you’re just the icing on the cake.”

  I felt my eyes cross at her oversimplification and mismatched metaphors. “Something like that.”

  “Well, my advice is to let it roll off your back.”

  “You’ve been talking to K.C.”

  “A little bit. On the way to the parking lot last night. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

  “I’m sure he will,” I said, still annoyed. With Lucy swayed to K.C.’s side, I opted to change the subject to the upcoming Breckenridge Security International ribboncutting slated for Monday afternoon. K.C. lured Stephen Cross, his college buddy and owner of BSI, to town and persuaded him to bring his new corporate headquarters with him. We spent a few minutes ticking off the duties.

  Lucy was back at her desk before K.C. arrived. I breezed into his office through the connecting door. His shirts always looked starched, his ties expensive. Today was no exception.

  “Are you expecting an update this morning from Chief Montague on the investigations?” I asked.

  “Monty knows my tolerance for police work. I’ve told him before: Just show me the baby; I don’t want to hear about the labor.”

  “That would be a lack of tolerance, K.C.”

  “Well, if you’re going to split hairs,” he teased.

  I sensed he didn’t want to go another round with me on police matters when he changed the subject, just as I had with Lucy. Isn’t this just like a troubled marriage? The partners won’t talk about what’s really wrong, so they talk about everything else. The subject of choice was Breckenridge.