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

by Anna Drake

“That’s funny.”

  “Yeah, that’s Bella. A laugh a minute.”

  “Do you have some news for me?”

  He stepped backwards, his hands pointing to his chest. “Who me? News?”

  I couldn’t remember a single time when Jimmy had come by our offices — let alone stopped in to chat with me. “I thought maybe this was an official visit. Maybe you wanted me to type up a press release for the restaurant?”

  “Nah,” he smiled and this time the move seemed to be genuine. “I stopped in to check next week’s ads. That’s all.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Dad likes our advertisers to proof the copy. Was everything okay?”

  Bella was a good customer. She ran an ad for the restaurant in each of our three weekly editions. Not that I’d let their advertising dollars dictate my news coverage. Dad had always stressed keeping editorial decisions separate from thoughts of advertising buys.

  “Yeah” Jimmy answered. “They was good. They usually are.”

  “I would hope so. I know our staff works hard to keep things up to snuff.”

  I couldn’t help noticing how different Gravits looked away from the restaurant. There he always looked official. Dark suit. Slicked down hair. A professional greeting plastered on his singular mug. Here he looked much less sure of himself.

  I didn’t know the man well. He had nearly twenty years on me. And I’d never seen him around town. He seemed to be always at the restaurant.

  “That’s a shame what happened to Gary,” he said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “How’s Cordelia doing?”

  “It’s difficult for her, but she’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I told Mom.” He paused for a moment to catch a breath. “Do they have a handle yet on who did this dreadful deed?”

  Why did everyone assume I had inside knowledge?

  “Not that I’ve heard,” I answered, mildly.

  “I suppose Gossford will play his investigation close to his vest.”

  I picked up my pen and wondered where this conversation was going. “I suspect you’re right.”

  “Mom’s upset.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, she was real cut up. Gary had his bachelor party out at our place last week.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Really? Somebody told you about that?”

  “I knew it was scheduled, although I don’t know any details about what went on there.”

  “Huh.”

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  Gravits shuffled, looked almost ready to flee. “Nah, sorry. I keep my nose well out of the rumor mill.”

  I studied the man. Somewhere well past forty. Still living with his mother. Not part of the community, yet interacting with its residents daily A bootlegger for an ancestor who’d had an alleged tie to Al Capone. Bella for a mom. I wondered what sort of life he lived out there, sandwiched between Cloverton and the Interstate highway? Where did he go for his fun? Who held his hand when he was down?

  “Well,” he said as he nodded his head at me. “It’s been good talking to you.”

  “Yes, you too.”

  “You’ll keep us all posted on the murder, right… in the paper?”

  I nodded. “My Dad will. He’s covering the investigation.”

  “Is that right?” Jimmy’s head bobbed up and down. “And won’t that be a treat. He’s a good writer, your dad.”

  For a minute I considered throwing my pen at Gravits. But then my temper cooled, and I returned to my duties.

  After another five minute, my phone rang. What was it with interruptions today? I wondered, as I reached out and snagged the receiver.

  “Melanie, it’s Ginger. Do you think we could do lunch?”

  “Ginger," I exclaimed, my heart soaring. "I'm so glad to hear your voice. I’ve been so worried about you. Are you okay?"

  "Yeah. Turns out Gossford ultimately had to spring me. Boy, was he one disappointed dude."

  "That's a relief. I mean that you’re free, not that Gossford’s glum.”

  “Well, his sorrow pleases me no end, I’ll tell you. And what about lunch?” she reminded me.

  I checked my assignment sheet. “Just your luck. I’m available. But could you do me a favor?"

  "Maybe."

  "The murder story is coming out in today's edition. How about we meet at one rather than noon. I'd like to be around in case something comes up and extra hands are needed to square things around so the paper can be sent out."

  "Sure. I’ll have to reschedule one of my appointments. But she’s an agreeable old gal. One is fine. If not I’ll call you back."

  "What do you have a taste for?”

  “How about Howies?”

  I groaned internally. Another round of rich food. I'd need to hit the gym for sure this week, an activity that ranked right up there with my visiting a home for the criminally insane.

  "Howie's it is," I said.

  “See ya,” Ginger responded and rang off.

  After I'd disconnected, I sat at my desk, still anxious for this woman whom I often found full of such extreme contradictions.

  ***

  I needn't have worried about our meeting the paper's deadline. It came and went without so much as a frown from any of us. And after Dad had sent the edition off to the printers, I accessed our computer files and pulled up his murder story to read. I don’t mean to sound biased, here, but the piece was amazing.

  Dad had covered everything but with a great deal of style and class at the same time. The latest update on the murder investigation was there. As was the piece highlighting Gary’s early years. Dad had also put together a nice commentary on the community's grief over the loss of such a fine young man.

  After reading through the entire work, I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back in my chair. I’d have never been able to write-up Gary's death with Dad’s combination of grit and compassion. I vowed one day, after order had been restored to our world, I would return to this piece and study it closely in hopes that I might absorb a bit of Dad’s skill with words.

  “What do you think?”

  I glanced up.

  Dad leaned against the door jamb. "Will it do?"

  "I have tears in my eyes."

  He frowned. "You don't think I was overly sentimental, do you?"

  "Dad, you've hit a winner."

  The phrase was his favorite comment when I’d done something that pleased him. He smiled.

  EIGHT

  I discovered Ginger seated in a booth just a few steps inside the front door of Howies. Her face was drawn. Her mouth drooped. It looked as though someone had filled in the area beneath her eyes with charcoal.

  I slid into the booth opposite her. She offered me a weak smile. “So how was your morning?” she asked. “Have you come down from the high of writing up a murder?”

  How could I answer that question, I wondered. Finally I decided honesty would work best. I tossed up my hands. “Not guilty. Dad wrote up the murder. He claimed I was too close to the victim to do it.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope, truth be told, at first I felt cheated, but on second thought I don't believe I would have enjoyed working a story up on Gary’s murder. Dad was right. I knew the victim too well. Handling that assignment would have undone me.”

  "Huh." She shook her head. “I figured you’d be all over that piece.”

  I plastered a smile on my face. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But it was better handled this way. Dad did a stellar job. He brought the scope of our community’s loss home in a way I never could.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Still, I look forward to reading his story.”

  The waitress arrived at our table. She poured us each coffee. "What are you two having today?" she asked, gifting us with her megawatt smile.

  I’d forgotten that for some people this was just an ordinary Monday filled with sunshine and promise. Death
and murder was something they’d read about in the newspaper tonight. I counted them as lucky.

  Ginger and I both opted for burgers and a basket of fries. Ginger’s order spoke clearly to me of her mental condition. The only food I’d ever seen her consume before involved green frilly, leaves with dressing served strictly on the side. Occasionally, a few slivers of grilled chicken was allowed into the mix, but even that came rarely. My surprise must have shown on my face.

  "I’m hungry. Okay?” she grumbled.

  “Hey, knock yourself out.”

  “I intend to. Nothing like a night in jail to trigger a girl’s appetite.”

  I settled a napkin on my lap. "How did you and Gossford get along?"

  Ginger made a sour face. "You mean that charming man who hauled me off like a criminal in the dark of night?"

  "Yes, him. How did it go?"

  She shook her head. "All of that drama for such a small point."

  "What point. What was he after?"

  Ginger shot her gaze about the room before answering. "Well, it seems Gary received a phone call before he was killed.”

  “Yes. I know about that.”

  Ginger’s head reared up. “You do?”

  “Stepich told Josh and me about the call at dinner Saturday night.”

  Her brows contracted. “And you never mentioned this fact to me?”

  “I never thought to pass the information along. Okay? How was I to know you’d be arrested before I spoke to you again?”

  “Some way for a partner to behave. I thought we’d agreed to work together on Gary’s murder. What else are you holding back on me?”

  “Nothing. The phone call just slipped my mind. That’s all.”

  Ginger shot me a disbelieving glance. “Well, anyway, Gossford told me the call came from my cell phone and hammered me about it all night long. Wanted to know what the call had been about. Wanted to know why I’d made it. Chapter and verse, and a few questions I can’t even remember, thank my lucky stars.”

  “Ginger,” I thundered. “What have you been playing at. Talk about withholding information. Between us, you’re obviously the star. That call came from your phone?”

  Ginger’s face reddened. “You don’t think I actually made the call do you?”

  “I don’t know. Are you telling me you didn’t?”

  “Absolutely, I did not call Gary. Not then. Probably not for a week before, either. What do you take me for, a murderer?”

  “Then how do you explain the call having come from your phone?”

  “Look, someone stole my cell phone.”

  “It was stolen? When?”

  “I noticed it missing sometime after the rehearsal dinner Friday night.” She shook her head in frustration. “But try telling that to the police."

  "Gossford didn't believe you?"

  Ginger sighed. "I'm not really sure. He didn't lock me up, but he gave me one heck of a tough time."

  "Where was the rehearsal dinner held?"

  "Over at the steakhouse in Webster. They have a nice room there. It’s a good place for a small, private affair.”

  “Wow.” I leaned back, stunned. “Are you telling me someone in the wedding party swiped your phone?”

  “How would I know? One minute it was in my bag and the next time I went to get it, the thing was missing. That’s all I know.”

  “Was Stepich there?”

  “Would you get off his case, please?”

  “Are you two an item?” I pressed.

  Ginger laughed dismissively. “I hardly think so. He’s not too keen on small town anything. Including women. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  But her comment didn’t quite pass my internal lie detector. Maybe they weren't dating, but a connection between them had to exist. I couldn’t help but wonder why she was lying. I leaned over the table and lowered my voice. “If there’s nothing going on between you, then why did you defend him so vigorously the last time his name came up?

  "Because he's an outsider," she shot back. "Because he's on his own here. It makes him an easy target. Admit it, you'd rather he was the one who'd killed Gary than it be one of our friends. It's easier to see a stranger marched off to jail. It wouldn’t hurt as much to think of them doing hard time."

  I inwardly groaned. I absolutely hated it when Ginger made sense.

  "And you didn't like it too well," she continued, "when I pointed out that your friend Josh was drifting along in the same outsider boat." Ginger lifted her coffee cup from the table. "How is he, by the way?”

  "Who?"

  "Josh."

  "He's just fine," I snapped.

  Our waitress appeared with our food. She gave us each a pleasant smile and lowered our platters to the table.

  Ravenous, I picked up my juicy burger. “Look. Let’s not fight, okay? Especially not over two men we barely know.

  “I’m okay with that if you are.”

  “Then, why don’t we meet at the rose bed in front of the church after work tonight?”

  “What for?”

  “Check the place out. Search for clues. See if we can figure out how someone could have killed Gary within plain view of the church.”

  “Hmm.” Ginger dipped her French fry into a tub of ketchup. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “Thank you. But are you on?”

  “Sure, what do we have to lose?”

  Attagirl. I’d make a sleuth out of her yet.

  That, of course, was completely ignoring the fact that this whole investigation was Ginger’s idea from the beginning. “So what did you want to discuss with me?” I asked.

  Ginger glanced up from her food. “I don’t follow.”

  “You called this meeting. What was on your mind?”

  “Oh,” she said, “I just wanted you to comfort me. It’s no fun, being suspected of murder.”

  “Ginger, I want you to know I don’t suspect you of killing anyone.”

  She blinked rapidly. “Thank you.”

  “I’m certain you're innocent, and before this is over, Gossford will be too.”

  “Thanks.” Ginger shoved a French fry in her mouth and chewed and swallowed. “Ugh. I needed that.”

  ***

  After lunch I’d little more than returned to my office when my phone rang. I reached out and snagged the receiver. “Melanie Hart.”

  “The same Melanie I sat through two years of high school French with?” a male voice asked.

  “Maybe,” I said, struggling to name the man.

  “This is Don Treadway,” he said. “Do you by any chance happen to remember me?”

  “Sure I do.” I struggled to come up with a face to go with the name.

  “If it helps, we also had fourth period English together with Ms. Jones.”

  A small light bulb popped on in my brain. “Oh right, that Donny.”

  How could I have forgotten him? Unruly hair, pock-marked face, thick glasses, a pocket protector. He’d been a poor, lost soul, hopelessly in love with Cordelia. Of course, he hadn’t a chance of achieving that dream. But he'd never stopped trying.

  “Actually,” he said, “I go by the name Don now, rather than Donny.”

  “Got you. I’m making note of said fact even as we speak. But how can I help you?”

  I figured he’d called to take out a newspaper subscription. Many former Cloverton residents moved away only to discover that they harbored a love for this tiny burg and the doings of its residents. That surprising longing was living proof, I’d always thought, that absence really could make the heart grow fonder.

  “I’ve just learned about poor Gary’s death,” Treadway said. “I’m calling to see how Cordelia’s doing.”

  Oh, good grief. Did he believe, that with Gary out of the way, he might have a chance with Cordelia? He couldn’t still be interested in a woman who’d never showed the slightest interest in return?

  “You’re still close with her, right?” he asked when I’d failed to respond.

  I shook myself free
of my speculations. “Yes…. Yes, I am.”

  “So how is she doing?”

  “How do you think she’s doing? She’s devastated. Gary was the love of her life.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

  “Listen, is there something I can do for you? If not, I’ve got a job to get back to.”

  “I was wondering about the funeral.”

  “Gary’s?”

  “Who else?”

  “As far as I am aware, a date hasn’t been set yet.”

  “Could you call me when it is? I’d like to come.”

  The nerve of the man. He expected me to call him personally? “The obit will be available in the online edition as soon as I receive the information.”

  “Thank you. I’ll monitor the paper online, then. My subscription copy of the Gazette might arrive too late. I’d hate to miss the service. Could you give me the online url, please?”

  Grudgingly, I responded to his request.

  “Yes,” he said. “Thank you. That should work.”

  Even though I was anxious to be rid of the man, I suddenly found myself asking, “Where are you living now?” Life can be tough when a person is born nosy.

  “I have an apartment just west of Chicago. It provides me with a short commute to Helmont Lab, where I am employed.”

  “You’re a physicist?” I was stunned. The Helmont was a nationally recognized research lab. From what I’d heard, people working there had to hold many advanced degrees in fields far beyond my understanding. Upon second consideration I decided his profession shouldn’t have surprised me. Treadway might have been a social disaster in high school, but I knew even then that he possessed an incredible brain. In fact the teachers hardly let anyone forget the fact.

  “Are you married?” I asked.

  “Nope. No one’s managed to snag me yet.”

  Yeah, right. Like millions of women had volunteered for that honor. I stifled a snort. “I’ll see you at the service then?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there. No doubt about it.”

  I shook my head. Treadway might qualify as a genius. But I suspected he was delusional when it came to his chances of winning Cordelia over.

  Somehow, I found that thought comforting.

  ***