The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder

by Cookie O'Gorman

  “For what?” I said.

  “Asking too many questions.”

  I laughed, but it didn’t come out right. Pushing through the door, I stopped in my tracks. I’d been here a couple times on school fieldtrips. Even though the floors were a clean, black and white tile, the walls a soft shade of cream meant to sooth, I couldn’t shake the anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. We were here to ask questions about a dead girl. Nothing suspicious about that. Nope.

  “We’ll just ask our questions then go,” I said to George. I’d done the research; George and I had even watched L.A. Confidential last night to get ready. “You with me, White?”

  She shrugged. “Lead the way, Exley. This is your rodeo.”

  Taking a deep breath, I walked up to the front desk, clutching the printouts from home in my fist. No one noticed us right away. There were three officers in a huddle, but they seemed to be having a deep discussion. Crapes, Truitt, and Tubbs. I knew them all from the bakery.

  “That dog nearly rips his throat out, and the man doesn’t even file a report?” Tubbs said. He was the shortest of the three, but also the loudest. “That don’t make no dang sense.”

  Crapes nodded, the indoor lights gleaming off his bald black head. “You know Crazy Mae had a dog? I didn’t know she had a dog.”

  “No sir, I did not.” Tubbs flashed an official looking piece of paper. “And what’s with these bite marks?”

  George and I leaned forward to get a better look. Seemed like the Bowie PD wasn’t all that concerned with privacy. It was a good thing Garrison wasn’t here or he’d have all our hides. Two pictures, one of Jim Wilder’s face and neck, the other a close-up of the neck. That pic was pretty gruesome, red and purple flesh, some blood still seeping out.

  “Ain’t no way those were made by a canine,” Truitt said. “My sister got bit last year. There just ain’t enough teeth.”

  “He’s right,” George whispered. “I got bit when I was a kid. Dogs have a lot more teeth. Those look like…”

  “Somebody bit him,” Tubbs declared, “and he just ain’t willing to say who.”

  “My money’s on Crazy Mae,” Truitt said.

  “That son of his was with him,” Crapes said. “Think he could’ve done it?”

  “I’m not saying he did.” Tubbs winked. “But I ain’t saying he didn’t either.”

  I’d had about enough. Clearing my throat, I gave a little wave as they came to attention.

  “Why hello, Delilah Doherty,” Crapes said, using his deep voice and charm to shield Truitt and Tubbs while they stuffed the pics of Jim back into a folder. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “There is,” I said, laying my papers on the counter. “I’d like to see the records pertaining to Anne Wilder’s death.” When he just stared, I added, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “Delilah, that’s a cold case. Those files are sealed.”

  “I know. But I’d like to see them just the same, please.”

  Truitt and Tubbs stepped up on either side of Crapes, the first tall and slender, the second short and compact.

  “Now, why on Earth would you be asking about a cold case?” Tubbs said, staring me down.

  “Just curious.” I forced a shrug.

  “Now, why would you be curious?”

  “We have a warrant,” George said suddenly, thrusting the papers at Tubbs with authority. “Read it and weep.”

  “The Freedom of Information Act.” Tubbs looked up. “This really cover cold cases?”

  “FOIA covers lots of things,” I said and snatched the papers back. I wasn’t sure it covered this but was hoping he wouldn’t look too closely. I did a quick scan of the room. Garrison was very by-the-book. He’d have never fallen for that, but luckily, he was nowhere in sight. “So…can I see those files?”

  Crapes folded his arms across his chest, mirroring the other two. “The file’s buried back there beneath about four years’ worth of paperwork”—I slumped—”but since we keep an electronic copy, I can look it up for you on the computer.”

  As he started typing away, I glanced at George in relief. She’d always been better at hiding her emotions, but I could see the triumphant gleam in her eyes. We’d done it!

  A few moments later, Crapes asked, “What do you want to know?”

  Flipping to my questions, I went down the list. “Did Anne Wilder seem depressed? Was she acting out in any way?”

  “No, says here she seemed very happy in the days before her death.”

  “I read somewhere she shot herself?”

  “That’s right,” Crapes said, “died of complications due to a gunshot wound to the stomach.”

  “Why not the head?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Well,” I said, checking my notes, “isn’t it more common for suicides to shoot themselves in the head? If she wanted a quick death, why not shoot there instead of the stomach?”

  Tubbs snickered. “Maybe she thought she was fat.”

  I rolled my eyes as Truitt guffawed.

  Crapes shook his head, said, “I can only tell you the facts, Delilah.”

  Fair enough. “What was she wearing?”

  He scanned the report. “An MIT t-shirt and sweats.”

  George looked at me, and I knew we were thinking the same thing. Why would a girl buy a t-shirt to a college she never planned to attend?

  “Was the gun ever found?” George asked.

  “No,” Crapes said after a moment, eyes glued to the screen. “The Wilders owned a gun. It’s assumed that was the one she used, but it was never recovered.”

  “How’s that possible?” I said.

  “I’m just telling you what’s here.”

  “What about a suicide note?”

  “No record of a suicide note.”

  “Was anyone ever charged in her death?”

  “Officially, no,” he said. “Unofficially, yes.”

  “Who was it?” I asked.

  Crapes gave me a look, while Truitt grunted, “If you gotta ask, you ain’t been paying attention.”

  I flushed.

  “Come in here asking questions like you’re Dick freakin’ Tracy,” Tubbs said, sneering at George’s black-on-black ensemble. “You two’ve been watching too much TV. Why don’t y’all just run along, and let us get back to doing what we do.”

  “And what’s that?” George said, eyeing his paunch. “Eating doughnuts.”

  “Watch yourself missy, or I’ll throw you and your friend in the clink.”

  “Clink?” George snorted. “Now, who’s been watching too much TV.”

  I hoped he was joking, but as Tubbs went for his handcuffs, I grabbed George by the arm and dragged her out of there. The police station was pretty much a bust. Everywhere I looked there was a startling lack of information. But I did know this: Anne Wilder’s death was looking less and less like a suicide and more and more like a well-covered up murder.

  #

  Several days had passed since my less-than-informative trip to the police station. Despite hours of searching the Internet, I still couldn’t find much on Anne’s death besides a few local stories on teen suicide and an entry in a conspiracy blog linking Anne to all the other teen deaths in Bowie, calling it a “suicide pact.” Knowing Bowie had its own conspiracy nut wasn’t as disturbing as seeing the faces of all those dead teenagers lumped together like that. I shivered at the memory. Some hadn’t even committed suicide, just died young.

  Lifting my apron over my head, I told Ronnie and Aunt B that I was taking fifteen.

  Ronnie asked all nonchalant, “You going to the music store again?”

  I didn’t miss the look he shot Aunt B or the one she gave back, but decided to ignore it.

  “Yeah,” I said, “you need something?”

  “Nope.” He grinned. “Actually you know what? Could you ask Wilder something for me? I noticed that he’s been coming in here lately, every night. And I was just wondering if he likes coffee
as much as he seems to?”

  My face was blank. “You want me to ask him about coffee?”

  “That boy sure does seem to like his coffee,” Aunt B chimed in. “A lot.”

  “Well,” I said, “if you know that already, I don’t really need to—”

  “I’d almost say, he loves the stuff,” Ronnie cut in. “Would you say that, B?”

  “I’d have to agree with your assessment,” she said, wearing a matching grin. “And how do you think coffee feels about him?”

  “Hard to say.” Ronnie looked my way. “What do you say, Delilah? Does coffee love Wilder as much as he seems to love coffee?”

  The look I gave them was less than friendly. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “For goodness sakes, what are you three talking about?” Mom had been due for a mental health day, and this morning she’d called it in. She’d been here in the bakery all morning, helping out where she could, talking with me and Ronnie and arguing with Aunt B. So far, it’d been the best day I’d had in a while.

  “Coffee this, coffee that,” she said. “If the boy likes coffee so much, why don’t you just bring him a cup and be done with it?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Aunt B said while Ronnie filled a mug. “Better bring one for Doc too or he might get jealous.”

  Ronnie filled another mug for Doc and brought them over to me. “Now, you make sure Wilder knows that just ‘cause he’s getting this cup for free, that don’t mean all coffee’s free. He’s got to work if he wants to get to the good stuff.”

  I rolled my eyes, taking the two drinks and moving to the door.

  “Course it’s not free,” Aunt B said indignantly. “And the good stuff’s not going to come until later. Way later. It might even be years. You hear that Delilah Marie?” she called as I pushed my way outside. “Years!”

  Just before the door swung shut, I heard Mom say again, “What the heck are you guys talking about?”

  It was a good thing Mom didn’t know what they were talking about, I thought. Otherwise, I’d have another wise guy to deal with. Apparently after that scene in the bakery, Ronnie and Aunt B were convinced there was something going on between me and Wilder. Knowing what’d gone down at the lake, George was even more certain.

  “Boys don’t jump in to save just anybody,” she’d said the other night.

  “You don’t know that,” I’d argued. “Maybe he hit his head that day and went a little loopy.”

  “First time could’ve been a fluke, but twice? I don’t think so.”

  “But—”

  “The boy’s got it bad,” she’d said. “He has feelings for you, D. That much is clear.”

  I was pretty sure she was full of it, but I did wonder what he thought about me, if he thought anything at all.

  Walking backwards into the music store, I almost dropped the two mugs I was carrying when I turned and saw Wilder and a girl I didn’t recognize caught up in an intense lip-lock, her sitting on the counter, him standing between her legs, his hands on her waist.

  At the sound of the door they broke apart, looked over at me, his eyes sharp, hers angry. Both sets of lips were puffy from their previous activities.

  Hastily, I slid the cups onto the checkout desk. “S-sorry, I just brought you some coffee.”

  “Delilah, is that you?” Doc’s voice came from the backroom.

  I slid back out as quickly as I’d entered, not waiting to see Doc’s smiling face, not wanting him to see my cheeks hot with embarrassment. Dodging questions about why I’d come back so soon, I walked into the bakery, without having listened to a single song, and took my place behind the register.

  George was right about one thing. Wilder had feelings alright, but they weren’t for me. They were for a blond chick with dark roots, big boobs and too much mascara. He was interested in a lot more around the bust area than coffee had to offer.

  That much was glaringly obvious.

  CHAPTER 11

  My day quickly went from good to bad to holy-crap-get-me-the-heck-outta-here.

  Less than ten minutes later, I wasn’t paying attention and collided with Ronnie, dropping a full sheet of vanilla birthday cake onto the floor. Pink, blue and yellow icing went everywhere.

  “Whoa,” Ronnie said, looking at the mess. “That’s a lot of cake.”

  I sighed. “I’ll get the mop.”

  “What’s up with you today? You were happy before you went to see Wilder.”

  “I didn’t go to see him,” I grit out. “I went for the music. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said, “and Wilder just comes for the coffee.”

  The bell over the door sounded, and Ronnie and I looked over at the same time.

  His eyes widened. “I’ll mop this up. You get the register.”

  “No, no,” I said hastily, wearing what I was sure was a similar expression, horror laced with a hint of fear. “It was my fault. You go ahead.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way.” I looked back. They were getting closer. “I had to deal with them last time.”

  “Yeah, but I had to clean up their table.” Ronnie shivered. “Never again.”

  “Rock, Paper, Scissors?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Best two out of three.”

  I lost. All three games.

  Ronnie smiled like he’d won the lottery and went to get the mop. I rolled my eyes, dragging my feet to the checkout. Considering how my day was going, I should’ve seen this coming.

  Sandy Chivers was a middle-aged, over-worked single mother of three, and she’d just walked in with her triplets-from-hell, Pete, Patrick and Poncho. The three were known in the bakery—and feared—for being loud and whiny and leaving whatever table they sat at a disaster area. From experience, I knew Poncho was the one to look out for. As he and his family came closer, I caught him staring at me like he was plotting my demise.

  “I want a cupcake,” Patrick declared, thumping his fist on the counter, “Chocolate with rainbow sprinkles and a large sweet tea.”

  “Me, too,” Pete said loudly. “But I want mine with extra frosting. And I want a cookie.”

  “What kind, sweetheart?” Sandy asked absently, paying more attention to her phone then her kids.

  “Peanut butter.”

  Frowning, Patrick crossed his arms. “Well, if Pete’s getting a cookie, I want one, too.”

  “Copycat,” Pete mumbled and shoved his brother when his mom wasn’t looking.

  “Hey!” Patrick gave Pete a vicious kick to the shins.

  “Ow!”

  “Stop pushing,” Sandy said, finally dropping her phone into her purse. When she looked at me, her eyes were tired but resigned, like this was normal—which I guess it was since she had to live with the little monsters every day. I shuddered in sympathy.

  “Hi, I’d like four large sweet teas, two chocolate cupcakes, two peanut butter cookies”—she turned to Poncho, who had up until this point remained suspiciously silent—”What about you Pon Pon?”

  I winced. Pon Pon? Was she serious? Great, now I actually felt sorry for the kid.

  Eyes darting to his mother, he said, “I want two chocolate chips and a jelly doughnut.”

  “Are you sure, honey?”

  He glared, the look saying, how dare you question the Almighty Pon Pon? “I want jelly.”

  “But you don’t even like doughnuts.”

  Poncho’s face was getting redder by the second. “I want jelly,” he said, voice rising.

  “Now Pon Pon,” Sandy said, “there’s no need to yell.”

  “That’s what I want!” Poncho said and stomped his foot. “I want it now! I want jelly, I want jelly, I.WANT.JELLY!”

  That last “I want jelly” reached earsplitting level; he’d screamed right in his mother’s face, and I thought what he was really asking for was a spanking.

  “Okay, okay. Two chocolate chip cookies, a sugar cookie, and a jelly doughnut,” she said to me.

  “Will that be all?” As she nodded,
I had half a mind to offer her an Advil or five, but like a good employee, I bagged the sweets, poured the teas and handed them over with a smile.

  Sandy passed out the sugar to her spawn as they went off to defile another one of our tables, picking a booth too close for comfort. Just before I went in the kitchen, I saw Poncho watching me when he thought I wasn’t looking. No good could come of it. The nine-year-old demon seed had me in his sights. I’d have to watch my back until they left.

  Coming back with a tray of pastries, I saw George stooped over the counter. She was tracing her finger round and round in slow circles, wearing her usual kick-ass black, but her face was glum. Ronnie was next to her, shaking his head.

  “What’s up?” I said, putting the tray down.

  “They forgot,” George mumbled.

  My brow contracted, but before I could ask, Ronnie said, “Don’t be ridiculous. They didn’t forget. You still got another week to go.”

  “Yeah,” she said, popping up, “but they haven’t even mentioned it, haven’t even bothered to ask me what I want. Not once.” She went back into her slouch. “I just…I can’t believe they actually forgot.”

  Okay, now I knew what this was about. But just to be sure… “Who forgot what?”

  Raising his eyebrows, Ronnie turned to me. “George thinks her parents forgot her birthday.”

  “Well, they did,” George muttered.

  I hid a smile. “George, I love you,” I said soothingly, “but Ronnie’s right. It’s still early, and I’m sure they didn’t forget. How could they? It’s their only child’s big eighteenth.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” George looked upset. “How could they do this? I mean, I get Dad. He’s an idiot. But Mom remembers everything, every freaking holiday of every freaking month all year long. You know I’ve been waiting to be eighteen since forever. And they’re not even going to acknowledge it? What kind of parents are they?”

  “Poor little Georgie,” Ronnie said, eyes twinkling.

  “Shut up, Scarlett.” George shot him a glare. “I’m trying to be depressed here.”

  “Is there room for one more at your pity party, or you all full?”

  “Ooh boy, you’re really asking for it.”