Death among the Roses: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Anna Drake

  “I’ve put together a decent profile on Gary,” Dad said, pushing the chopped carrots aside and attacking a stalk of celery. “His teachers and friends at work all talked to me. Even his father gave me a few good quotes.”

  “Our readers will appreciate your taking the extra time to dig into Gary’s life.”

  While I wasn’t certain of my journalistic abilities, I’d never had any doubts about Dad’s. When the need arose, he could write his way around any story that came up. It had been that way as long as I’d had anything to do with the paper. All of our subscribers trusted Dad’s reporting.

  "None of that will help a thing, though,” he now complained, “if I can't come up with a new angle on the murder investigation for tomorrow’s paper."

  "Gossford will come through. He's never left us floundering for facts before."

  "Probably. At least I'll know by noon tomorrow." Dad laid his knife down. “So back to this Josh Devon you ran off with last night. What’s his story?”

  I bristled at his question. “Since when have you started keeping tabs on me?”

  “Melanie, would you humor your old man, please?”

  “Wow. This is so not like you.”

  Dad gave me an exasperated shrug. “There’s been a murder, Melanie. Everything and everyone tied to this crime concerns me. Especially if they come within five-hundred miles of you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ve already pulled me off the news story. What’s next? House arrest?”

  Dad grinned and resumed chopping. “If I thought I could get away with it, yes.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  Taffy looked up at me and whined. Heaven only knew what she thought was going on.

  “Just humor an old man, please,” Dad said, “and tell me about the guy.”

  I expelled a lungful of air. “His first name’s Josh. He and Tony Stepich and I had dinner at Bella’s Place.”

  “Why?”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Why? I guess because Josh thought I might want to dine with him. He doesn't know anyone here but me. Maybe he didn’t want to eat dinner alone. What's the big deal?"

  A part of me thought I knew what lay behind Dad's push for information. When I came home from college unmarried, Dad went ahead and picked out my future mate. Hugh Jennings taught history at the high school. He was a nice, dependable, and safe candidate for marriage. Only neither one of us cared the slightest for each other. And I couldn’t see that changing. Meanwhile, Dad kept a wary eye posted for anyone who might upset his plans.

  Talk about a control freak.

  “This Josh, then,” Dad said, “he was one of Gary's college friends?"

  “No, Josh was Gary’s cousin.”

  Dad’s head jerked up from his work, his eyes large. “He's Rose’s son?”

  “I guess so. He never mentioned his mother’s name. But you went to school with both the sisters, didn't you?”

  "Yes.” Dad studied his knife. “Yes, I did. Violet was in the same class with me. I knew both the girls. But I'm surprised Josh came to the wedding. Or even that he was invited. As far as I knew the sisters hadn’t spoken to each other in decades.”

  Trust Dad to know details like that. “Josh and Gary planned to use the wedding to end the estrangement,” I said. “Josh's mother died recently. He thought it was time to move on. He doesn’t even know what started the feud.”

  I must have said something right, because I saw Dad's jaw line soften. "You might want to invite him over for dinner one night. I can tell him all about the girls and how they fell out."

  “Would you do that? I know Josh would be so grateful.”

  “Sure. What's the benefit of living in a small town, if I can't provide the next generation with a bit of family history?”

  I leaned over the cutting board and kissed his cheek. We might not see eye to eye on potential marriage plans, or this news story, or the state of my freedom, but I couldn’t doubt my father's good heart.

  ***

  The distress call from Cordelia didn’t come in until a little past eight that night. Dad and I were in the living room giving our competitor's newspaper a second once over.

  “Melanie,” Cordelia demanded when I picked up the receiver, “what does Gossford think he's doing?”

  I blinked. “I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”

  “Gossford’s hauled Ginger in for questioning. What I want to know is… why?"

  I closed my eyes. Ginger arrested? Could this have anything to do with that last-minute phone call at the church? I couldn’t see how. As far as I knew, Gossford knew nothing about the call.

  I took in a deep breath and considered my options. No need to share my concern over the phone call to Josh at the church. Cordelia wouldn’t want to know. Besides, why worry her. “What makes you think I have information about this?” I asked, stalling for time.

  “Because you’re so tight with that dratted police chief.”

  "Cordelia," I responded, "all I do is collect news from Gossford. We are not personal friends. Cops mostly dislike journalists. We need each other, yes, but after we do our duty by each other we usually keep our distance. There are some exceptions, but not many."

  "Then, call him up as a reporter and demand to know what he's doing with Ginger. You're a news hound. Tree him, shake him loose, wring some answers from the obnoxious man."

  I shook my head in disbelief and tried to wrap my mind around Ginger being suspected of anything. “When did all this happen?”

  “Not very long ago. Gossford just showed up at my uncle's place and hauled her off. No explanations. No by your leave. I didn’t know he could do that.”

  “Well, since it's happened, I guess he can.”

  “That’s crazy,” Cordelia countered. “Ginger could never kill anyone. She won't even go after a spider. She never could.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I doubt Gossford thinks she killed anyone. I’m sure what’s more likely is that he suspects she knows something that can be helpful to his investigation."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed I now had Dad’s full attention.

  "Besides," I continued, "Ginger was a bridesmaid. She was with you in the church when Gary was killed, right? She has you and the entire bridal party as an alibi.”

  There was a long silence from the other end of the line. Finally, Cordelia said, “It might not be quite that simple.”

  My stomach clenched. “Why not?”

  “Because Ginger arrived at the church with only fifteen minutes to spare. Worse yet, she wasn’t even dressed. She was carrying her dress on a hanger. I was so mad I could have throttled her right there in front of everyone. Of course, now, after Gary’s death, my anger seems terribly unimportant. But the unpleasant fact remains that if Gary died thirty minutes before the wedding, then Ginger can’t be ruled out as a suspect.”

  I suppressed a groan. Why couldn’t anything ever be simple? “And Gossford didn't tell you what he wanted with Ginger?”

  "No. As I said, he offered us not a word. Or at least, that's what Uncle Frank said."

  "You weren't there when Gossford grabbed her?"

  "No I'm here, at home. Still in my bedroom, actually."

  "Has your family hired a lawyer to represent Ginger?" I certainly hoped so. Ginger might not think to ask for one.

  "I'm not sure. I heard Dad tell Frank to call someone. It might have been a lawyer."

  "Well, check that out for me, please. If it hasn't been done, make certain someone sees to it. Other than that, I don't know what to say."

  "That's it?" Cordelia asked, her words dripping with disbelief. "That's all you're going to do for her? Melanie, this is Ginger we’re talking about."

  I sighed. "That's all I can do. As I've said, I don't have any special clout with Gossford.”

  I replaced the receiver in the cradle and wondered what this meant to Ginger’s and my efforts at investigation? I’d said I couldn’t see Ginger as a killer, and I’d meant it. Surely
Gossford would question her and let her go. She’d be home by morning, I reassured myself.

  Then, I delivered the news to Dad.

  SEVEN

  The next morning, just after waking from too little sleep, I grabbed my cell phone and called Ginger. I was dying to know how her interrogation had gone. I’d stewed most of the night. I couldn’t stop myself from worrying if she’d been arrested or if Gossford had listened to her story and cut her loose.

  I assumed any change in her status would result in a phone call from someone. An occurrence which had not happened during the night, I reminded myself. Now alarm bells clanged as I wondered why no one had called me?

  After six separate unanswered efforts to reach Ginger, I started in on Cordelia. Same deal. The phone rang on and on, without any response.

  I reminded myself that Ginger, Cordelia, and her folks had been through a difficult night. They were probably still in bed, sleeping. And, as worried as I was, I still couldn’t conceive of Ginger being charged with Gary’s murder.

  At last, I gave up trying to contact then and proceeded with my usual morning ritual. Eventually, showered, dressed, and supposedly ready to face the day, I made my way downstairs.

  A note on the kitchen table informed me Dad had left for the newspaper office. That didn’t surprise me; he had a murder story to write. No doubt, he was excited to start his day.

  I slugged down a glass of orange juice and poured some Wheaties into a bowl.

  Then, unable to silence my conscience and curiosity, I grabbed up my cell phone and made the call I probably should have placed hours earlier. My connection rang through to Gossford’s direct line.

  “Good morning, Melanie,” the police chief said upon answering. Like the rest of the world, the man apparently delighted in having caller ID. "If you're phoning about Gary's murder, I'm under strict orders to feed whatever information I have to your father."

  "Yes. I already know that, sir.”

  I heard myself spit out ‘sir’ and nearly gagged. But since I was trying to make points with the man, the title seemed a good idea. But trust me, humble isn’t my favorite slice of the pie.

  "This is about something else, then?" Gossford asked.

  "Yes, I wanted to be certain you'd picked up the same information I recently stumbled across.”

  "Really? What have you learned?"

  "It comes from Tony Stepich. He was Gary’s best man?”

  “Yes. I’ve spoken with him.”

  “Ah... we were out to dinner together Saturday night, and he just happened to mention that Gary received a phone call shortly before the wedding was to begin."

  No way did I want Gossford knowing I’d been pumping the man for information at the time.

  "Yeah, I pried that little gem out of the man too. In the church basement, right after I spoke with you and Devon.”

  I clenched my teeth. Gossford already knew about the phone call? First, I’d appeared humble, now, dumb. But I plowed on. "I'm relieved to hear it. I thought you probably had, but this morning I woke up thinking about assumptions and how they can mess up a person."

  He chuckled. "I appreciate you're reaching out to me. That's all, then?"

  "Yes, unless, you’re willing to tell me if Ginger’s still in custody?”

  “No, Melanie, she isn’t. I released her early this morning.”

  I let go of a breath I hadn’t even known I’d been holding. “Oh, I’m so relieved.”

  Talk about sounding unprofessional. Serious-minded reporters never gushed like that.

  "You tell your dad to give me a call,” Gossford answered. “I've got some interesting stuff for him."

  "I suspect his will be the next phone call you get, sir.”

  Sir again? I wondered. Had I no self-respect left, at all?

  After we disconnected, I sat on my stool and chewed over our exchange along with my Wheaties. From the tone of Gossford's voice, I suspected he was making progress in the case.

  That prospect cheered me. I couldn't wait to have the murder solved and the killer locked up in jail. But I squirmed anew, wondering if the killer would turn out to be someone I knew... or even, possibly, Ginger?

  ***

  The newspaper office I walked into about thirty minutes later certainly couldn’t be called a beehive of activity. Even with a murder story taking center stage, our rooms looked their usual, dull, understated selves.

  Occupying the first floor of an old building on Main Street, the offices had existed here since the newspaper’s founding under Isaac Hart. But although our place of operation had remained fixed, time had wrought a huge number of other differences.

  Our staff had been whittled down over the years to just four people. Betty McCracken was office manager and general drudge. Lillian Whitcomb sold ads. Dad, of course, was General Manager and Editor, and served as ad man when the need arose. I held the lofty positions of reporter, photographer, and doer-of-other-assignments that Father or anyone else sent my way.

  But I wasn’t the only one. All of us were gladly willing to do whatever it took to get out the Gazette.

  And where giant presses behind our offices once would have rumbled to life, now the operation was purely electronic on our end. We wrote our stories on computers, assembled those stories electronically onto mocked up computer pages, and then the whole was sent off to be printed in a city miles distant.

  I glanced to my left and saw Dad hard at work, his ear glued to the phone and a happy smile plastered across his winsome face. I suspected he relished returning to his reportorial roots. And I wondered how many times he’d had to literally sit on his hands to prevent them from ripping stories out of my grasp and taking them over himself? I suspected the answer to that question would be far higher than I’d ever thought.

  “Morning Melanie,” Betty offered. She sat behind the front counter keying data into the computer. Somewhere in her middle forties, She’d been with the Gazette since Dad had hired her straight out of high school. Although no one would ever call her beautiful, she had pleasant features. She also had salt-and-pepper hair, a husband who adored her, and three sons who would probably knock the blocks off the shoulders of anyone who didn’t think her the prettiest woman alive.

  She served as our first line of defense at the paper, the first person customers met when walking through the old building’s wide front door. Some days, I didn't envy her that role.

  “Morning, Betty,” I said. "Anything new over the weekend… beyond the murder that is?”

  Betty offered her condolences on the death of my friend. Then she turned her attention to a small notebook next to her elbow. Betty scanned the answering machine for messages the first thing each morning. “Coach Burdock called from the high school. The awards banquet is Thursday night at seven. He was hoping for coverage, of course.

  “You bet.” I made a mental note to add the assignment to my daily planner.

  I spent a lot of nights running around, snapping photos and jotting down names to fill our pages. Doing so provided the tasty tidbits that helped keep our little paper well read. For the most part, people were delighted to see their names and faces featured in the Gazette. And when our coverage involved their children or grandchildren, their satisfaction with us rose even higher.

  The grumbles usually only came when the names were fed to us by the police. The residents being listed in the police column hated it. The other half, who were able to read about the arrests in the comfort of their living rooms, adored the updates. Speeding tickets. Loud noise complaints. Barking dogs. That was the stuff that mostly came our way from the police blotter. But there were also the occasional bar brawls and domestic disputes to write up.

  After picking my mail from its slot, I made my way to my office. We each had one, except Betty, although she did in fact have the reception area all to herself. Otherwise the offices were plain. White walls and trim. Nothing fancy. This was a work environment, not a place designed to impress anyone. What money the paper brought in fro
m ads went into salaries not into our surroundings, which seemed to please all of us just fine.

  I slipped my purse from my shoulder and slid it to the side of my desk, a darkened oak affair that had probably existed in this exact same spot in this exact same room since it had been purchased sometime in the late eighteen hundreds.

  After firing up my computer, I checked my email. Our city’s two funeral homes had sent over the most recent obits. I copied and pasted the details onto a blank electronic page and began manipulating the information to fit our publishing format. I did the same for hospital admissions and dismissals.

  Next I checked with the state police. Their newsline had a report of a minor traffic accident in the northwest corner of the county. I called the public relations department of a nearby hospital to get the condition of the driver. But he’d merely been treated and released. All the above information got typed up into a small story and saved on our computer system. Later, Dad would pull my accident story and the obits and paste them up on the newspaper pages electronically.

  The above was all routine and part of what I did each and every day we published. Only on this day, I kept shooting sideways glances at my father, wondering what juicy stuff he was ferreting out on the murder investigation. Our office walls were part windows, and we could all see each other from our desks.

  When I checked him this time, he was leaning over his keyboard, studying intently whatever words he’d just keyed in.

  A twinge of envy shot through me.

  “That’s a sight I like to see… a woman hard at work,” a male voice said.

  I pulled my gaze away from the view of my dad’s contented face and directed it to my office doorway. Jimmy Gravits stood there, his dark, hooded eyes, evaluating me and my setting.

  “Hi,” I said. “Thanks for the compliment, but I can’t imagine there’s a harder working woman than your mother.”

  Jimmy smiled, but it didn’t manage to reach his eyes. “Just ask the dear old gal, she’ll repeat your sentiment word for word.”