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

by Anna Drake

  “Armando’s,” the bald, uniformed man called out after us, smiling widely.

  Armando’s? The place sounded more French or Italian than Mexican to me. But trusting cops to take good care of their guts, Ginger and I decided to track the place down.

  To me Armando’s also sounded like a classy place. So when we stumbled across the eatery and found it to be little more than a dive — the kind of restaurant one expects some makeover expert to step into and clean up — I thought we’d happened on the wrong place. But the hour was late and Ginger was eyeing me like I’d been basted with barbecue sauce.

  “I’m game if you are,” I said from giving the restaurant another once-over from behind the steering wheel of the Fiesta.

  Ginger passenger door handle and shoved the door open, “I’ll beat you inside.”

  We found the interior of the restaurant was to be no more inviting than the exterior, but I spotted two cops at a corner table and assumed we’d arrived at the correct place. Ginger eyed them nervously and looked ready to retreat out the door.

  “Listen,” I said, “nobody in here knows about our Thelma and Louise act except that cop that hauled us off to the station. Relax.”

  Ginger nodded but didn’t look entirely convinced.

  “Come on,” I said, leading the way to a small table. It was covered with oilcloth, which I hadn’t seen done for years. But the odors drifting from the kitchen made my knees weak. “This okay?” I asked, seating myself with my back to the kitchen.

  “Fine.”

  The waiter who delivered our water looked Italian, but the dishes listed in menus he handed us were one-hundred percent Mexican.

  “Paella,” I exclaimed, glancing up at my friend. “They have paella.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it,” Ginger responded without displaying any interest at all.

  We placed our orders. Ginger’s was laced with starches and fats. Obviously, she’d endured a challenging day.

  The waiter hustled off with our orders, and I settled back into my seat. Meanwhile Ginger nibbled nervously on a fingernail. “Who do you think turned us in to the cops?”

  I rested my elbows on the table. “My guess would be it was the ice lady we talked to in that first apartment. What a snob. And what a tragedy. When the cops turned up, the old man was just about to deliver the dirt to us on Treadway.”

  “Really? You think that’s the biggest loss of this trip?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you have any idea how close we came to chomping down on bologna sandwiches in a jail cell and not enjoying your precious paella in this stellar dining establishment?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I do. And believe me, I’m not going to forget this day soon.” Ginger stared at me earnestly, her face laced with concern. “Do you think Larkin will spread this story all over town?”

  She’d been standing beside me when the officer asked us for a reference to contact. There’d been no way to hide from her the name of my snitch.

  I released a deep breath. “I doubt it. Despite all his male preening, at heart, Larkin’s a decent guy.”

  “Then we’re lucky the stood up for us. That’s all I’ve got to say. From here on out, this weekend will never be mentioned again. You hear me?”

  “I do.”

  Needless to say, our plans from there underwent a slight revision. After the lunch, which was excellent, we drove directly to the shopping mall, where I found it difficult to focus on all the fabulous wares. That night, we explored other dining options from a long list of restaurants. Then we tumbled into bed early. The next morning, we rose, dressed, and climbed into my car to head home before the sun even broke the horizon.

  ***

  It was on the drive home that I decided direct action was needed. All this stealth wasn’t working out. I decided tomorrow, after I’d recovered from the stress of this hellish trip, I’d call Treadway up and schedule a little chat. We could get together the next time he came to town.

  I glanced over at Ginger. I couldn’t decide if she needed to be in on this latest adventure. She was already sore enough with what I’d put her through yesterday. I figured if I mentioned this plan, she might tattle on me to Larkin. Then where would I be?

  Plus I didn’t want to lose her. She’d proved effective in our current efforts several times. I might be a determined person, but I wasn’t a fool. Ginger was an asset, who offset my many weaknesses. Ultimately, I decided to feel her out about my latest scheme.

  She sat in the passenger seat, her head back, her eyes closed.

  “Ginger,” I said.

  “Go away.”

  “I want to run an idea past you.”

  “Go away.”

  I tried another tack. “What do you think we should do next?”

  “Retire.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  I spent a quiet moment watching the greening fields flash past my Fiesta’s windows. The day was sunny. The Interstate traffic heavy. Cars and busses and speeding trucks rushed past me. All of were us scurrying, determined to reach our destinations as quickly as we could.

  A family in a dark sedan roared past. A little boy in the back seat gazed out at me. He had freckles and large, earnest, brown eyes. He couldn’t have been much older than six or seven. But with a smile, he proceeded to give me a one-finger salute at as the family car darted ahead.

  Where do kids pick up these tricks today? I wondered. My generation didn’t even know the meaning of that gesture. Not when we were the age of this kid. Okay, I thought, maybe Larkin did. But that dude was in a class all by himself.

  At the thought of Larkin, I fought back a sigh. I figured I had one of his lectures coming, and I doubted he’d take his time about delivering it. It was entirely possible that I’d find him standing on my doorstep when I returned home.

  Dang. I didn’t deserve this. I was the good guy here.

  My passenger stirred in her seat.

  “Ginger,” I said.

  “Mmm?” she purred.

  “What would you think of our talking to Treadway when he comes down next weekend?”

  She shifted away from me toward the passenger window. “Knock yourself out. Me? I’m trying to sleep.”

  There I had it, Ginger’s official answer. If I wanted to deal with Treadway, I was on my own.

  ***

  Ginger and I returned home before lunch. I dropped her off at her house and then continued on to mine. Upon entering, I found a note on the kitchen counter. Dad was at the office. Taffy was in her little bed next to the back door. I decided I’d shower and nap and spent the rest of my day trying not to think about Larkin.

  Now, dinner was over. The dishes had been put away. Dad was settled in his favorite chair. The competitor’s newspaper grasped tightly in his paws.

  Then, the phone rang. I must have jumped four inches up out of my chair. “I’ll get it,” I said. Just from the sound of the ring, I knew the call had to be from Larkin. Obviously I was either turning psychic or paranoid.

  “Yo,” I said into the mouthpiece, opting for a strong beginning to what I suspected was going to be a nasty conversation.

  Dad glanced my way with his eyebrows raised high in disapproval.

  Larkin spoke up, his voice deep and firm. “Is this the ditzy woman I kept from going to jail yesterday?”

  “Speaking,” I said, “although I think your characterization of exactly what occurred is highly unfair.”

  “How about soliciting, then? With a very probable likelihood of an attempt at breaking and entering if I know you two.”

  “I don’t think I’d characterize our intentions in quite those terms.”

  “Meet me at our place in exactly twenty minutes, or I’m coming to your house and dragging you out the front door by your hair.”

  “If you insist,” I said evenly, “although I can’t see why I should. I already get the gist of your what you’re going to tell me.”r />
  “Just be there.” The sound of Larkin slamming his phone down echoed through the

  line.

  Oh, boy.

  As I ended the connection, Dad looked more than a little confused.

  I felt obligated to feed him some kind of a line. “I have to go see Ginger.”

  “What, again? I thought you two spent the weekend in Chicago. What gives?”

  I ignored the question and eased the front door closed behind me. I had a home here that I wanted to return to. I couldn’t do that if I told Dad one more lie.

  The drive took me a little less than twenty minutes but felt hours long. I couldn’t imagine what Larkin would have to tell me that he hadn’t already threatened me with over the phone.

  As usual, I found his car tucked behind the shed. I opened the door and slid in beside him. The radio was muted. The setting sun shone into our eyes. I blinked and turned my head to look at him.

  “Do you appreciate me at all?” Larkin asked.

  “Huh?” This wasn’t the tack I’d expected him to take.

  “I mean it,” he insisted. “I’m your friend, or at least I try to be. I’ve proved it to you over and over. And how do you repay me?”

  Between Larkin and Dad, I didn’t stand a chance. “What is this?”

  “Do you remember in grade school? That day the bully was threatening to beat you up? Who saved you neck? Who came storming in to tell the twerp if he harmed one hair on your head, I’d have his hide?”

  “You did.”

  “And did you thank me?”

  I stared off into the distance, trying to recall the day in detail. “I’m sure I must have.”

  “No, you didn’t. When it comes to me, you’re a snob. You don’t really see me.”

  “Nonsense. I treat all of my informants the same.”

  “Yes, you do. You call us informants and keep us at arm’s distance. That way you avoid becoming emotionally entangled with us.”

  I glared at the man. “I beg your pardon. How dare you presume to know what I do or why I do it?”

  Larkin leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I can do that, you see, because I think I’m just as good as you are. Oh, sure. My father doesn’t own the newspaper. I don’t live in a grand, white house or dine on fancy food. I don’t run with the city’s movers and shakers. And I won’t know if I can become sheriff until I stand for election. Still, deep down, I have faith that I’m just as worthy of respect as you are.”

  Man. Oh. Man. I never knew I could feel so small.

  SIXTEEN

  After a restless night, I had to drag myself to work the next day. The sun was shining, the birds singing. Thoughts of baking on a blanket under the warmth of a brilliant sun lured me into dreams of playing hookey. But, despite my longings, I headed for the newspaper office.

  I tried and failed to suppress a yawn as I stepped through the office door. I’d slept little last night. Larkin’s words kept replaying themselves in my mind. Not that I was offended by his blunt remarks. Rather, I was upset with the truths his statement revealed to me. I told myself it was okay. I could change. I’d be more humble with people from here on out. But I knew how difficult a shift in attitude can be.

  Sighing now, I slid my chair out from my desk and sat. Glancing up at the clock I saw it was a little before eight.

  I tore into a couple of routine press releases that had been stacked to the side of my desk. Despite my overwhelming exhaustion, I typed them up in record time. I then ripped open the day’s mail, desperately seeking interesting articles to relieve the dull copy awaiting my attention on my computer.

  The bulk of the pages in the newspaper had returned to my care and feeding. The dwindling updates on Gary’s murder had left Dad without any new copy to write. So the murder story was on hold until Gossford coughed up some fresh tidbits. And he wasn’t exactly excelling in that department.

  I glanced up from my computer and sought father’s image out. He sat at his desk, his nose buried in various folders with a sour look on his face. He obviously missed the excitement of following a breaking news story — especially one as gritty as murder.

  I roused myself from my desk and trudged to the break room where I poured myself a cup of coffee. I needed stimulation to make it through the rest of my morning chores. Betty fired up the the coffee pot every morning. It was one of those old, aluminum twenty cuppers with one of those black spigots near the bottom. But the thing still worked. And due to that fact, Dad refused to throw the old thing out and replace it with something grand and new and modern. As far as he was concerned, coffee was coffee,

  Blowing across the rim of my cup, I’d just gotten back to my office when the desk phone rang. I picked up the receiver. “Melanie Hart.”

  In return, I was treated to the sound of an enthusiastic Ginger. “I’ve found my cell phone.”

  “No kidding? You clever girl, you. How did you manage that trick?”

  “I tracked it down using that GPS tracking trick you told me about. The one Josh shared with you? I found the website and followed the directions given there and guess what? My phone’s someplace on Walnut Street.”

  “In Cloverton?”

  “Yeah. Right here. You wanna go down to there tonight and track it down with me?”

  That was the trouble with GPS, I thought. It lures people to the right ballpark but leaves them on their own to find their way to the exact seat.

  “Sure,” I responded, “now that we’re following up one of your ideas, you’re all sunshine and roses. You couldn’t muster that much enthusiasm for me yesterday.”

  “Oh, come on, Melanie. Don’t be a spoil sport,” Ginger responded. “One thing has absolutely nothing to do with the other,”

  I sighed and resigned myself to the reality of the situation. Ginger was Ginger. She’d always see issues through her own narrow lens of self interest. But I still wanted to track this killer down. I wanted justice for Gary. If this helped lead us to the killer, who was to step aside. Absently, I rubbed my forehead. I felt on the verge of my second headache this week. “When do you want to meet up?”

  “Right after supper?”

  “I’ll swing by your place about seven. Will that be all right?”

  “Perfect.”

  At least, I thought, she hadn’t ended our collaboration. I smiled at the thought that our investigation of Gary’s death was still to go forward as a team.

  I opened my left-hand desk drawer and pulled a plastic pill case from it. After downing a pair of aspirin, I stuffed the box away and returned my attention to the uninspiring pile of mail in front of me. There wasn’t a decent story to be found in the whole collection. Thank goodness I had the report from last week’s spelling bee typed into the computer. That story at least offered up the names of a few talented young folks for our readers to chew on. Parents and grandparents and even distant relatives would be delighted.

  I listened to my thoughts and gave myself an internal shake. I needed an attitude adjustment. Just when, I wondered, had I become so cynical? Then I reminded myself the condition probably arises after being forced to view oneself through another person’s mirror. My thoughts drifted back to the summary of my personality by Larkin. Heaven knows, I hadn’t much liked what I’d seen in the mirror he’d held to my face. I shook the memories aside. They wouldn’t improve my outlook much.

  But despite my best intentions, my attitude hadn’t lightened up much by the time I left home that night to pick up Ginger. I carried the newspaper’s reverse telephone directory with me. It was a handy little thing. The book provided addresses, and then listed the names of the residents. Given the inexact nature of GPS tracking, I suspected access to a list of people who lived in the general neighborhood of whatever coordinates Ginger had discovered might prove helpful in tracking the phone down.

  My partner in crime was revved and ready and standing at the curb when I arrived at her house. She wore a pair of jeans and a ratty T-shirt and a wide grin. “Can you believe this GPS
stuff works? It’s like magic.”

  “Right.” She climbed inside the car and I tore away from the curb. “I’ve been wondering, though, how come nobody’s come up with this discovery before you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m sure the cops know about GPS and how to use it to track cell phones. Why haven’t they discovered this phone by now.”

  “How do I know? And who cares? I’ve run the darn thing down. And that’s all that matters to me.”

  Well, Ginger might be satisfied with that explanation, but I wasn’t. “Where on Walnut Street are we going?”

  “Somewhere in the two hundred or three hundred blocks on the north side of town should get us there.”

  I tromped on the brake and swung onto Randolph Street. Finally, reaching our destination, I reduced my speed to little more than a crawl. The two blocks of Walnut Street we drove past were in the old section of town. Homes were small and one story and sat on crowded lots. Paint was peeling. Hopes looked dim. Tiny bicycles sat next to huge motorcycles on cracked and broken sidewalks.

  I pulled over to the curb and whipped out the phone directory from the depression separating the two front seats. Flipping through the book’s pages, I hunted down the listings for Walnut Street.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s see who lives around here.” My finger hadn’t trailed more than halfway down the list for the first block when my eyes grew wide with disbelief. “This has to be a coincidence.”

  Ginger straightened in her seat. “What is it? What have you found?”

  “Don’t get too excited,” I cautioned. “This might not necessarily mean anything. It would surely be much too bizarre.”

  Ginger flapped her hands in frustration. “I swear if you don’t tell me what’s up in the next two seconds, I will not be responsible for my actions. It’s my phone, for pity sakes. Cut me a break, please?”

  “Do you know who lives at 213-B West Walnut Street?”

  “Well, obviously, I don’t.”

  “Candy Collins. It’s the address of our missing waitress.”

  Ginger’s eyebrows snaked together in puzzlement. “From the bachelor party?”