The Wayward Waffle: Book 4 in The Diner of the Dead Series

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  CHAPTER 14

  By the time she had finished looking over the SD card it was already ten at night. There was no way she could call Corrie tonight, and besides that, she was exhausted. Instead, she shut down her computer and got ready for bed.

  She also realized, she couldn’t do this alone anymore. She would need to face Frank in the morning—it was still odd calling him Frank—and talk to him about more things than one. She was dreading that almost as much, if not more so, than the phone call to Corrie, but she needed his help. She needed to bring him the information she had found so far along with her speculations on the case.

  She figured he could potentially fingerprint the SD card—if she hadn’t already messed up the evidence by handling it. She had been impulsive and immature when it came to this murder case, and she couldn’t do it alone any longer. Just as with all the other cases she had helped solve, she needed Frank’s professional assistance.

  After a warm shower, Sonja slipped into her red and black plaid sleep shorts and black spaghetti strap tank top and then, turning off the lights, slipped into bed.

  Not long after she had closed her eyes, a whirring sound caught her attention. A blinding light shot across the room, forcing her to open her eyes again. Sitting up in bed she noticed that her laptop was sitting open, and on.

  Usually, Sonja would have second guessed whether or not she had turned it off, whether or not she had closed the laptop. Not this time. She knew she had shut the computer down and closed the screen, and she knew it was no mere coincidence that it was back on.

  Her thoughts wandered to the woman in white—the one who she had now seen three times in a singular day—and knew it had to be her again. Sonja even wondered if the ghostly experience from the previous night, in her mother’s attic, had been the same woman as well.

  Standing up from her bed, the supernaturally sensitive woman walked to the computer. She watched as the file browser opened on its own and pulled open the SD card full of pictures. The screen flickered a little as the first of the pictures opened. Then, with a surprising speed, the pictures flickered across the screen one at a time, filling the dark room with strange flashes of color.

  Blinking, Sonja tried to catch sight of the images going by, but was ultimately unsuccessful. Finally, the pictures stopped scrolling—landing on one image of Lincoln and Shamus standing near Sonja’s booth.

  “This is what you want to show me?” she whispered.

  The laptop rattled on the desk loudly.

  “Hey, hey,” Sonja protested. “Just show me what you want, but don’t bust my computer.” She felt stupid talking out loud, realizing she was getting all too complacent about the multitude of ghosts who seemed interested in her “services.”

  The picture began to zoom in, focusing on something fuzzy and pale in the corner of the screen. Sonja realized it was a finger—the cameraman’s finger.

  “The cameraman?” Sonja whispered.

  The screen flickers on, off, on again—light to black to light—almost as if in answer. Again, the images flipped through in rapid succession—almost blindingly—and again it stopped. This time on an image Sonja didn’t readily recognize. The picture was dark and blurry.

  Leaning in, Sonja tried to make the image out. It seemed as if the image was unintentional, taken from the camera while it hung around the cameraman’s neck. Finally making the image out, Sonja noticed the dark blur was someone’s hand hanging down next to their body, and in the hand, the unknown person clutched . . . a fire poker.

  This meant the murderer could only be one of two people.

  Like a definitive deceleration, the laptop slammed shut, causing Sonja to jump and squeak loudly. “Sheesh,” she mumbled.

  The new darkness obscured any vision she might have had, which made the new light—the yellowish glow coming from the attic of the main house—all the more prominent.

  “I knew it,” Sonja whispered. The ghost wanted her to go to the attic, to see whatever it was she had missed last night. “Alright,” she whispered. “I’ll go, but I don’t want you to do anything to make me jump.”

  Grabbing her hoodie and pulling it over her head, Sonja stepped out into the cool evening and walked across the wet lawn in her bare feet to the back door of her mother’s house. Slipping her key into the lock, she opened the door and stepped into the darkness of the house.

  The kitchen stairs creaked as if someone was walking up them one at a time, and Sonja followed—feeling the familiar chill of the supernatural run down her spine.

  Following the sound, Sonja headed up the twisting, claustrophobic staircase to the second-floor landing. Hearing the door open at the top of the attic stairs—the curious ghost hunter mounted the steep steps and entered the attic—the one hanging bulb already on and gently swinging back and forth. Bits of dust hung in the air, slowly dancing in circles in the yellow illumination.

  Stepping farther into the musty smelling room the door slowly, and gently closed behind her. At first, she waited for instruction, paid close attention for any sign of movement or sound. When nothing happened, Sonja took the initiative and began to walk across the room, shifting in between old furniture, dusty boxes, and stacks of long unseen photo albums.

  “Photo albums,” Sonja whispered a quiet exclamation. Perhaps what she was looking for was in one of these photo albums—she had found major discoveries among old photo albums and pictures before, so why not this time as well?

  Picking up the closest album, Sonja brushed the dust off an old rocking chair and took a seat. Instantly, the chair began to rock back and forth, the old wooden joints squeaking against one another. It almost felt as if someone was pushing the chair, gently rocking her.

  The curious investigator took this as a sign that she was on the right track. Cracking open the album, the old glue in the spine splintering slightly, she slowly began to examine each picture one by one.

  At first, it didn’t seem like much, just pictures of different families from the town from years prior. A lightbulb went on in Sonja’s head, and she realized that she was staring at pictures from one of the Founder’s Day Picnics from years before.

  While the pictures had an old quality to them, with faded color and splotchy lighting, she could easily tell from the booths, the people, the food, that this was indeed Founder’s Day.

  Flipping the page again, she felt a chill run through her body and her heart rate increase slightly. The first picture on the page was of a family. A young Lincoln Bidwell stood there with two pre-teen boys and . . . a woman dressed in a white sundress, the woman Sonja had seen in the woods.

  Pulling back the cellophane, Sonja pulled out the picture and examined it closely. This woman had to be Lincoln’s wife. Everything made sense now. Lincoln’s wife, Mrs. Bidwell, was trying to warn Sonja to protect her husband. Unfortunately, the spiritually sensitive woman hadn’t gotten the message in time. Now the ghost seemed determined find the murderer, and Sonja was there to help.

  Peering at the picture again, the young woman focused on the two boys this time. The slightly older one, looking to be about thirteen or fourteen, had to be the estranged son.

  Suddenly, the picture felt hot in her hand. Shouting in surprise, Sonja dropped the image on the ground, watching as the older boy, the one standing on the left, disappeared from the picture and into a black mass—as if someone was burning the picture.

  She had found her murderer—but who was the estranged son now?

  CHAPTER 15

  Sonja spent most of the night tossing and turning, thinking about the implications of everything she had learned that night. The son was the murderer, that much she was sure of—even if she couldn’t prove it with physical evidence yet.

  Additionally, she was pretty sure that one of the two photographers had to be the murderer, which meant one of them was the disowned son of Lincoln Bidwell and his wife, but which one?

  Sonja hated the thought that Benjamin might have been lying about who he was, about his life, th
e entire time. Perhaps his coming to Haunted Falls with the Spook Crew TV show had all been part of his plan to get closer to his father again.

  However, wouldn’t Lincoln recognize Benjamin or Samuel if one of them were his own son? Samuel had a big beard to cover his face, but even then it seemed like any parent would still recognize their own child.

  Although, either one of the men could have opted for some sort of plastic surgery—especially if the murder was something planned well in advance.

  If Benjamin had set up a whole plan to get back to Haunted Falls inadvertently through the Spook Crew, he could have easily gotten plastic surgery of some kind to hide his true identity—which could explain Lincoln not recognizing him.

  It was a lot of work, but Sonja supposed that some people would go to great lengths to exact revenge, and there had been a great many people who had lived lifelong lies in order to carry out dark deeds.

  Shivering at the prospect, Sonja rolled over and closed her eyes again—determined to get some sleep in before dawn came.

  * * *

  After showering and having a bit of breakfast, two over easy eggs and waffle from her own personal waffle iron, she took her second cup of coffee over to the computer. Today was her day off from the diner, with both Alex—Alison’s husband—and Vic—Alex’s father—running the show for the day.

  Booting up her computer, Sonja devised a plan where she, hopefully, wouldn’t need to call Corrie Bennett and could avoid any further embarrassment for either woman.

  Logging onto her search engine, she typed in the name Samuel Hawkins. The first array of results all dealt with news stories around an alleged murderer of the same name—but it wasn’t what she was looking for.

  Next, she tried typing Samuel Hawkins Photography. This time, she hit gold. The fourth result down was for a Colorado local photography company called True Image Event Photography.

  Opening the link, she was greeted by a well-designed and welcoming page labeled, our photographers. Scrolling down she finally came across the bearded man she knew as Samuel Hawkins, smiling warmly from the screen.

  There was a short biography listed for him, stating he had grown up in New York State where he had done photography for Broadway plays and brochures and had only recently moved to Colorado—to get away from the crowded city—and joined their company as one of their leading photographers.

  Clicking a link to his website portfolio, she scrolled through countless well-crafted images from Broadway plays and other events in New York. For a moment, Sonja was even taken back to her short few months living in New York City and pursuing her dream as a writer.

  It seemed that Samuel had more success as a photographer than she did as a writer. On his about page he had images of him with a young, blond haired wife and a young boy in his arms. He beamed and his eyes twinkled from within his bearded face, making him seem more like a big teddy bear, rather than a liar and a murderer.

  If this man was indeed the killer and was faking his way through life, he certainly was doing an excellent job of it.

  The amateur sleuth honestly felt guilty for even ever considering him as a possibility, which only left Benjamin—who made more and more sense as the murderer at this point. He had no romantic or family attachments as far as Sonja knew, and he had mentioned a few strange things in his letter. Perhaps, his initial vigor in helping her with her secret investigation of the murder would be so he could divert any potential suspicion from himself.

  Sonja shook her head, finding it difficult to even consider either man, but she knew she had to be professional about the situation.

  She decided she couldn’t rule out Samuel just yet, not until she talked to him herself. Searching his page for contact information, she prayed for a phone number. Unfortunately, all that was listed was a professional e-mail.

  Moving back to the True Image Event Photography page, Sonja looked for a phone number for the company office itself. Listed at the very bottom of the page was the phrase, “to schedule one of our photographers, or for general inquiries, please contact us.” Afterward was a phone number.

  Pulling out her phone, Sonja quickly dialed the number. After three rings a woman’s voice answered. “True Image Photography, this is Carol speaking.”

  “Hi Carol,” Sonja replied. “My name’s Sonja, and I am a local business owner in Haunted Falls, and we recently had one of your photographers out to document a local event.”

  “Ah, yes,” the woman responded. “Our top photographer, Samuel Hawkins, was covering that event, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Did you have a question regarding the event?”

  “Yes, actually,” she responded, quickly coming up with a reason for her call. “I was wondering if any of the images were available yet. I’m putting together a little blurb about the event for our local newspaper.”

  “Have you checked your account? Any images are listed in your personal account on the website as soon as they are uploaded.”

  “Well, actually, Corrie Bennett—a friend and associate of mine—is the one who holds the account. She’s busy today and asked me to just call and check if the images were actually uploaded or not.”

  “I see,” she stated. “Well, if you’re not the account holder then you can’t, unfortunately, access the images.”

  “Well, that’s okay,” she responded, trying to work around her lie. “I just need to know if the images are available, that way I can tell Corrie.”

  “Alright, then,” Carol commented. “Give me just a second.”

  Sonja waited while Carol typed in the background.

  “Okay, huh,” the woman muttered.

  “What is it?” the amateur sleuth pressed.

  “It looks like the images are not available yet. That’s unlike Samuel. Usually, he has the images up the same day as the event.”

  Sonja looked down at the broken SD card on the desk, inside a small sandwich bag where she had put it to keep it from getting damaged any more than it already was.

  “I’m sure he just stumbled on some technical difficulties and will have the images up today.”

  “I’m sure,” she repeated back. “Do you think I could contact him myself, just to see how things are progressing?”

  “Certainly,” Carol confirmed. “Do you need his phone number?”

  Instantly jumping at the chance, Sonja eagerly answered, “Yes, please.”

  Carol rattled off the numbers and Sonja wrote them down on her napkin.

  “Thank you very much,” she exclaimed before saying goodbye and hanging up the phone. This had been exactly what she was after, and now she wouldn’t need to call Corrie for the information.

  Eagerly, nervously, Sonja entered the phone number into her cell and hit the dial button. Putting the phone up to her ear again she waited for an answer. At first, there was only silence—nothing else.

  Had the call even gone through?

  A sudden beeping sound answered Sonja’s question. “We’re sorry, this phone number is unavailable at this time. Thank you.”

  With that, the machine hung up, leaving Sonja hanging. How could the number be unavailable when it was Samuel’s listed business number with his company?

  Sonja gritted her teeth, feeling as if she had just hit a brick wall in her investigation. Perhaps Samuel had a second phone number or a personal phone number where she could get in touch with him, but she knew there would only be one person who might have that information readily available, Corrie Bennett.

  * * *

  Sonja didn’t have Corrie’s phone number in her contacts list and was forced to dig out a directory to find all the Bennet’s listed. Soon, she came across the only Corrie Bennett listed. This had to be her.

  Dialing the number, Sonja waited with dread for Corrie to answer.

  “Hello?” A groggy voice echoed back.

  “Corrie,” the nervous woman mumbled, “It’s Sonja Reed, from The Waffle.”

  “Sonja,” Corrie excla
imed.

  She waited for the assault, waited to be berated.

  “I’m so glad you called,” she whispered.

  Her face twisting in confusion, Sonja was surprised by the sudden change in tone.

  “You must have found it,” she mumbled, a hint of embarrassment in her voice.

  “I’m sorry, Corrie. I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I was calling to get some information from you.”

  “Y-you are?”

  “Yes, I needed a phone number.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t find anything yesterday after I left?” she eagerly interjected, “anything I might have left behind?”

  “I’m sorry, Corrie. I honestly don’t know what you could be talking about.”

  There was a heavy sigh on the other line. “Well, when you go into the diner next, could you keep an eye out for me?”

  “For what?” Sonja asked, unsure of what was so important that she may have lost.

  “Well, just anything out of place, unusual. Anything that doesn’t belong there.”

  That certainly was the most ambiguous instructions Sonja had ever received. “I guess I can keep an eye out, but I think if you told me what it was you were looking for I could be of better help.”

  “Just give me a call if you find anything,” Corrie instructed. “And I’m really sorry about how I acted yesterday. I was foolish and rude,” she confessed, an amazing feat for the town gossip.

  “Well, I’ll help any way I can,” the Sonja offered.

  “Thank you,” the exasperated-sounding woman sighed.

  “Now, I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Anything, Sonja. Just name it.”

  “I was wondering if you had another phone number, besides his professional one, for Samuel Hawkins?”

  * * *

  Sonja sat with her phone in her hand, finally prepared to make the phone call she had intended to all morning. Dialing the number, she had received from Corrie, Samuel’s personal number since he had told Corrie his work phone was out of service thanks to an unexpected power surge during the storm the previous day. Supposedly he had it plugged into the wall to charge and then one freak strike of lightning fried the interior components.