Fries, Fritters and Fears: Book 7 in The Bandit Hills Series

by Merrin,Blair

  “Thank you, Steven,” I tell him, patting him on the arm.

  “Was that helpful?” he asks, hope in his voice.

  “Maybe more than you know.”

  ***

  Back in Dash’s car, he turns to me and asks, “I don’t recall seeing a white Ford sedan anywhere the night of the fire. Do you?”

  “Sure don’t.”

  He pulls out his cell phone and makes a call. “Phil? It’s Dash. Can you have the plates run for those exhibit guys, Vinnie and Sam, and find out what sort of vehicles they drove? And while you’re at it, a Morgan Connor of Arkansas? We’re looking specifically for a white Ford sedan. Great, thanks.” He hangs up. “We’ll know whose car it is soon.”

  “Where to in the meantime?”

  Dash puts the car in gear. “Let’s take a ride down Castle Road.”

  A couple minutes later we pull up to the front of the burned-out shell that used to be Middleton Manor. The big blue and white semi is still there, and the sign in the office window says “closed.”

  There is, however, a police cruiser parked at the curb, and we can see Deputy Sharon and a man in a shirt and tie perusing the wreckage of the house.

  We get out and walk up the lawn to greet her.

  “Hey, Sharon,” I call out. “What’s up?”

  She rolls her eyes and points at the man in the tie, who seems to be scrutinizing the remains of the fire and marking things on a clipboard. “Guy from Middleton’s insurance company. Since this is technically still a crime scene, I have to be here while he does his thing.”

  “Babysitting, huh? That’s a bummer.” We share a grin.

  “What are you two doing here?” she asks.

  “Investigating,” I tell her. I notice that Dash looks concerned, staring over at the insurance company guy. “What’s going through that head of yours, Columbo?”

  He lowers his voice so that only Sharon and I can hear him. “Well, Cynthia Middleton is a suspect, but she’s anything but dumb. Seems like a savvy woman. She would know that firebombing her own house wouldn’t get her a cent of insurance money. It’s not like whoever did this tried to hide the Molotov cocktail. It’s not even that creative of a way to start a fire.”

  Sharon arches an eyebrow. “You think Middleton could have done this?”

  “Oh, don’t mind him,” I tell her. “In his mind, everyone’s a suspect until they’re not. Heck, I’m probably a suspect. I once burned macaroni and cheese.”

  Sharon just kind of blinks at me for a little while. Luckily Dash’s phone rings at the same time.

  “Hey Phil. Aha, interesting. Yup, I’ll do a pass.” He hangs up. “Time to go, Cass.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “So one of those three has a white Ford Taurus registered to their name,” he tells me once we’re back in his car, cruising down Castle Road the way we came. “Care to guess who?”

  “Firebug?”

  “On the nose,” he says. “So we’ve got an eyewitness in Steven that says her car was at the scene on Halloween night. Now the question is, where is she?”

  “Last anyone saw her, she went to the hospital with Vinnie, right?”

  “Phil already called. She only stayed long enough to make sure he was alright, and then left.”

  “Sounds like an odd thing to do. I got the impression they didn’t like each other much.”

  “Yeah. Odd. Why don’t you call Penny and see if either of them are checked in there? Otherwise we’ll be driving around town looking for a white car in a haystack.”

  “Assuming she’s even still here.” I take out my phone and call Penny Harrigan, the owner of the fifties-style motel on the way into town. She answers on the second ring.

  “Hey, Penny, it’s Cassie.”

  “Oh, hey Cass!” she says brightly. “Weird, I was just thinking about you this morning. I cleaned out an old storage locker and have all sorts of stuff to bring by the shop…”

  “That’s great, Penny. I really appreciate it. But I’m sort of calling for another reason. Official police business.”

  Penny snorts. “Of course you are. One of these days Phil is going to wise up, pin a badge on you and call it a day. What’s up?”

  “Do you have a Morgan Connor registered in the motel? Or did you recently?”

  “Don’t think so…” I hear computer keys clacking in the background. “Nope. No one by that name.”

  “What about a Vinnie, or Vincent?”

  “Hm. Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. There’s a Vincent Papadopoulos staying in room 303 currently.”

  “Vincent what?”

  “Papadopoulos.”

  “One more time?”

  “Papadopoulos. Come on, Cass, it’s not that hard.”

  What a mouthful. “Is he in right now?”

  “Maybe. Want me to put you through to his room?”

  “Please. Thanks, Penny.”

  “No problem. Let’s have lunch soon.” There’s a click, and then the line rings again. On the third ring, Vinnie’s unmistakable nasally voice answers.

  “Hello?” He sounds as exhausted as I feel.

  “Hi, Vinnie. This is Cassie Cleary, I was there the night of… you know…”

  “I remember you.”

  “Great. Listen… do you have any idea where we might find Morgan?”

  He snorts. “Why would you want to find Morgan?”

  “Please, Vinnie, it’s important.”

  Silence on the other end for a long moment. “You don’t think she’s involved in all this, do you?”

  “Maybe.”

  He sighs. “While we’re out on the road, she doesn’t usually check into a hotel, because we can find her that way. She’ll park her car somewhere hidden and sleep there. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Thanks Vinnie.”

  “Cassie? Morgan’s not a bad person. She’s just… she’s been through a lot in her life. It wasn’t easy for her.”

  “What wasn’t easy?” I ask him. But he’s already hung up.

  “So?” Dash asks.

  I shrug. “Where would you hide a car?”

  “Hide a car? Jeez. I don’t know. Not many places in town that I can think of.”

  “Well, you could hide a car in the woods, right?”

  He chuckles. “Not a white car.”

  “Okay. Maybe behind a building somewhere?”

  “You know Bandit Hills. People would ask questions.”

  I roll my eyes. “True. Okay… What about behind a billboard?”

  Dash laughs again. “You’re thinking of The Dukes of Hazzard.”

  “No, I’m thinking about when Phil sets up speed-traps on the way into town.”

  His laugh quickly fades. “Oh. Yeah, that’s a good idea.” He pulls a u-turn and heads toward the highway. We pass Penny’s motel, and in another quarter mile reach the old dilapidated billboard. The façade of it is so faded with time and sun that no one even remembers what it once advertised.

  And sure enough, parked behind it is a white sedan.

  CHAPTER 13

  Dash sits behind the wheel, staring out at the white car. “We should call Phil or Sharon.”

  “No way,” I tell him. “Let’s go check it out.”

  “What if she’s in there?”

  “Then she already knows we’re here. You’re in plain sight, dummy.”

  “Still, we should call the cops and have them impound it. Then they can get a warrant, and… Cassie, where are you going?” I’m already halfway out the door. Dash gets out on his side and hisses at me. “Cassie! Get back here!”

  I cup my hands around my eyes and peek into the interior. There are some clothes, a blanket, and some fast-food wrappers, but no Morgan. “Nope!” I call out. “She’s not here!”

  Dash is already on the phone behind me, playing by the rules.

  Sharon shows up about ten minutes later. “What’s the hubbub?” she asks, gettin
g out of her cruiser.

  “Morgan Connor’s car,” Dash explains. He quickly tells her about my run-in with her and the firecracker incident, and then about Steven witnessing her car at the scene the night of the fire. “I was thinking that you could impound it, and then we can get a warrant and search… wait, where are you going?”

  Sharon rolls her eyes as she passes me on the way to her cruiser. “Is he always like this?”

  “’Fraid so,” I tell her.

  Sharon reaches into the trunk and comes out with a long crowbar. She goes to Morgan’s car and wedges one side of it beneath the lip of the trunk. “Probable cause,” she tells Dash with a wink. A mighty heft later, the trunk pops open.

  Not even Dash can help himself; all three of us crowd around and peer into the trunk. I let out a low whistle.

  Inside is an empty gas can, three bottles of wine, a half-empty bottle of vodka, several books of matches, and enough firecrackers to demolish a small building.

  “Jeez,” Sharon says. “This car is a bomb waiting to happen.”

  “Excuse me,” comes a sharp voice behind us, too high-pitched to be an adult woman, but sure enough, it is. “What are you doing to my car?” Morgan insists, seemingly unafraid of the presence of police. Today she has swapped out the sundress for a long pleated skirt and paisley sweater, but she still wears the oversized brown boots, and her frazzled brown hair is like a rats’ nest atop her head.

  “This is your car, ma’am?” Sharon asks.

  “Didn’t I just say that?” Morgan asks, looking genuinely perplexed by the question.

  “She might be nuts,” I whisper.

  “Are you Morgan Connor?” Sharon asks, already reaching for her handcuffs.

  “Yes, but I didn’t do anything!” she protests. “You’ve got nothing on me!”

  “So you didn’t set off firecrackers on Cynthia Middleton’s lawn? ‘Cause that’s vandalism. Turn around, please.”

  Sharon reads her the Miranda rights. Morgan doesn’t try to run.

  ***

  Dash and I head to Tank’s for a celebratory bite. Morgan Connor is in police custody, and I’m convinced that they have the right perpetrator. Dash, on the other hand, doesn’t seem so sure.

  “It just doesn’t feel right to me,” he mutters over a patty melt. “It’s like we’re missing a piece of the puzzle somewhere.”

  “I think Morgan is missing a few puzzle pieces.” I take a deep sip of smooth chocolate milkshake, a drink that I generally reserve only for special occasions. “I’m sure that Phil and Sharon will get her to spill the beans. I mean, look at all that stuff in her trunk! Serious arsonist right there.”

  Dash just shakes his head. An odd scent drifts through the diner, hitting both of us at once as we wrinkle our noses. It overpowers the aroma of grilled meat and fried things; the odor of stale liquor. Neither of us have to look to know who it is.

  Dexter Maximoff shambles into Tank’s. The eccentric old man has deep bags under his eyes, and his white hair is a disheveled mess on his head. He wears a long, expensive, oversized coat, which I happen to know from experience holds many a flask in its deep pockets. Maximoff is the last member of his family, who helped develop most of modern Bandit Hills. Guy’s got so much money he doesn’t know what to do with it, though he seems perfectly content drinking himself into a stupor daily.

  He starts toward the counter, but then he spots me and Dash. He hitches his pants and makes a staggering, serpentine line toward us.

  “Harumph,” he grunts as he drops himself into our booth next to Dash.

  “Hello to you too, Dexter.” I grin. Dash shoots me a look of disgust; the smell coming off the old man is impressive. “What can we do for you?”

  “Heard the cops got someone,” he mutters. “For the fire.”

  I roll my eyes. Bandit Hills is a pretty small town, and gossip tends to spread like the fire from a Molotov cocktail. (Too soon?)

  “They did,” Dash tells him. “But they’re not yet sure she’s the culprit.”

  “Eh,” Maximoff shrugs. “Long as Middleton didn’t do it, she’ll get her money. Real shame, too.”

  Dash and I exchange a concerned glance. “What money?” he asks.

  “What’s a shame?” I say at the same time.

  Maximoff blinks for a moment, unable to process two questions at once. “Shame about the manor,” he says finally. “I tried to buy it from her once. Offered her a real sweet deal—high six figures. She laughed at me.” He scoffs. “She laughed right in my face, and told me it was insured for double that.”

  “Because it’s a historical property,” Dash says, stroking his chin.

  “Right. The township declared it a landmark and everything,” Maximoff says. “Anyway, it’s a shame it burned down. Even if she rebuilds, it’ll never be the same. But at least she’ll get her money.”

  “If they’re able to blame someone else.” I can see the gears turning in Dash’s head. Suddenly he moves to get out of the booth, nearly toppling poor Dexter onto the floor. “Sorry, Mr. Maximoff. Cass, we have somewhere to be.”

  CHAPTER 14

  We get in the car and Dash makes a call to Cynthia Middleton, asking if we can meet with her under the pretense of sharing some new information about her case—which isn’t a lie, really. She gives him an address for an apartment building downtown, a few blocks off Main Street; only a couple minutes away, in fact, from Miss Miscellanea.

  As we roll past my shop, I spot Vincent Price in the window, with his devilish grin looking out, and I wonder again why it’s so important that he be in the window. Does he want to see something? Jeez, Cass, he’s a wax figure. He can’t see. Then something occurs to me; maybe it’s so that he can be seen by someone else.

  Before I can share the thought with Dash, he says, “Listen, we’re not going to go in there and accuse her of anything, okay?” He’s referring to my… less-than-stellar interview tactics.

  “Hey,” I say, somewhat defensively, “I go on instinct. They’re usually right. And my instincts are telling me Cynthia Middleton didn’t do this.”

  We pull up in front of a long three-story brick building that takes up half the block. This place used to be a textile mill back in the seventies, and then a savvy developer turned it into upscale loft apartments in the nineties. We knock on the door to the unit that Cynthia gave Dash over the phone and she answers, wearing a ruffled skirt and a blouse with a lace collar. I almost laugh; these units come furnished and contemporary in design, so seeing Cynthia here is like seeing an hourglass in a display of digital watches.

  “Come in, please.” She closes the door behind us and motions toward a leather sofa. “A friend of mine owns the building. She’s letting me stay while my affairs are settled.”

  “The manor house…” I say. “You lived there?”

  She nods sadly. “On the second floor.”

  This poor woman. Not only did she lose her business, and a family heirloom, but also her home.

  “Cynthia,” Dash says, “I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “By all means.” She settles into an armchair across from us.

  “I’m not going to beat around the bush here,” he tells her. “Can you tell me about the insurance policy on the manor house?”

  She furrows her brow. “What about it?”

  “I understand the settlement would be… substantial.”

  “Well, yes, of course,” she says. “It’s a one hundred and twenty year-old house, and a Bandit Hills historical landmark. Why, just the antique furniture alone was…” She trails off, and the color visibly drains from her face. “Wait, why do you want to know about this? You don’t think… No…”

  Dash puts his hands up, palms out. “We’re just getting all the facts here.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!” Cynthia stands and begins pacing nervously. “I would never… could never… that’s fraud! And worse, murder!”

  “N
o one is blaming you,” I tell her. “We just need to know the whole truth.”

  “You don’t understand,” she says, her eyes wide. “If the insurance company catches wind of anything like this, they could tie up the settlement for months, maybe years! I can’t afford that.” She sighs and smoothes some stray hairs that loosened from the tight bun on her head. “I’ll tell you the truth; Middleton Manor was in debt. That already looks bad, on account of the fire. But it would be stupendously idiotic of me to do something like that! If they suspected, I wouldn’t get a cent! And if…” She gasps. “Mr. Hamilton, you’re not here to arrest me, are you?”

  I can see the fear in this poor woman’s eyes. This is the last thing she needs right now. Dash opens his mouth to speak, but I cut in first.

  “Cynthia, please, calm down. We’re not here to arrest you. In fact, the police have someone in custody in connection with the arson—”

  “Cassie,” Dash scolds me under his breath.

  “What? Most people in town already know it. It’s only a matter of time before she’d hear it from someone else.”

  “But there’s no definitive proof yet, and Morgan hasn’t been charged with anything but suspicion,” Dash says quietly.

  “That horrible woman that destroyed my lawn?” Cynthia asks. “Oh, I should have known it was her!”

  “It may not have been,” Dash insists.

  “But it probably was,” I say.

  “Cassie,” Dash says through gritted teeth. “Step outside a moment, please?” To Cynthia he says, “Excuse us.”

  On the landing outside Cynthia’s temporary apartment, Dash makes sure the door is closed before he whirls on me. “You can’t say things like that!”

  “Why not? Look at her, Dash. She just lost her business, her home, all her stuff, in one fell swoop. And she’s clearly not an idiot. Why on earth would she have done it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he says sarcastically. “Maybe because she had two men in her home from out of town and a certifiably crazy woman with a history that would be just as easy to pin it on?”