by Hannah Reed
Hunter shook his head. “I’m not touching this one.”
“Johnny Jay isn’t bothering to investigate at all. Unless Patti’s attacker trots into the station and admits it, we aren’t ever going to be safe again on Willow Street.”
Now Hunter rolled his eyeballs. I caught it clear as day, even though it was pitch-dark. “Fine. I’ll see what comes up on him,” he agreed. Then he did some kind of strangled thing with his throat, then said, “You know I never tell you what to do, right?”
“That’s what I love best about you.”
“We respect each other just as we are, right?”
Now, we were beside Hunter’s SUV with Ben eyeing us from inside. “Right,” I agreed, sensing a but coming.
“But…” he said, “this time, just once, I’d like to…”
I silenced him the only way I knew—moving in close so our bodies touched, lifting my face to his, my eyes sending a promise he couldn’t mistake. When our lips came together, I felt an electric connection, one I experienced every time we kissed.
As Grams would say, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Men are so easy.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go over to Stanley’s and see if he found Noel.”
When we got inside the SUV, Ben licked my face in warm welcome. I put my arms around the big guy and hugged him tight. We took off through the night with only our headlights to guide us. The town seemed a scarier place without streetlights.
Apparently only our local area had lost electricity, because as we approached Stanley Peck’s place we saw lights in the houses we passed. I wanted more than anything to find Noel sitting at the kitchen table, writing in his notebook.
Johnny Jay’s police car was in Stanley’s driveway. I remained hopeful. “Maybe he found Noel and brought him home,” I said, jumping out.
My promising good mood was short-lived. Because, inside the house, Stanley was filing a missing person’s report.
“He hasn’t been gone that long, Stanley.” Johnny Jay wore the same old attitude he’d had last time we met up. “If it wasn’t for the storm and all, I’d tell you to wait a little longer.”
“You sure do like to wait, don’t you?” Stanley said with a matching attitude, risking ticking off Johnny Jay, but I had to silently applaud his boldness. Anyone who carries a concealed weapon and doesn’t like the chief is a friend of mine for life. “But this is a kid we’re talking about here. I don’t know why I’m even bothering to report it. You’re useless.”
“A little respect for the law, Stanley,” Johnny warned.
“Respect goes both ways.”
Johnny noticed us at the door. “Fischer. Wallace. We’re busy here. Take a hike.”
“No. Don’t. Come in,” Stanley said, visibly relieved to have friendly support. “Noel’s still missing. I looked everywhere.”
“We’re here to help search,” I said. Hunter opened the screen door, which creaked loudly, and we went in.
“You can’t predict what a kid that age will do,” Johnny said to Stanley. “He’s probably mad at you over something and making you pay for it. Did you have a fight?”
“No.” Stanley shook his head adamantly. “We never have a harsh word between us. Ever.”
Johnny Jay threw his personal opinion into an already emotional situation. “That kid causes all kinds of trouble in town. Blowing stuff into the air, running wild, now this. You should keep him in line better.”
Stanley gave him a disgusted look and said, “Noel’s a good kid.”
Hunter joined in. He stayed respectful even though Johnny Jay didn’t know the meaning of the word. “Maybe we can all work together,” he said to Johnny. “Stanley, let’s go over some of the places you searched already so we don’t cover the same ground. Story and I will help you. And chief, you might have a few ideas where to look, too.”
“I’m through here. I’ll let you know if anything turns up,” Johnny said and abruptly walked out.
“He’s a real team player,” Stanley said with a thick coating of sarcasm.
Then he filled us in on the places he’d looked, which turned out to be pretty much everywhere I would have thought to check.
“Does he have any friends close by?” Hunter asked. “Someone he might be visiting?”
“He keeps to himself,” Stanley answered. “Don’t get me wrong, he isn’t lonely, just preoccupied with his experiments.” Stanley couldn’t have been sadder. He hung his head. “I can’t call his parents and tell them I lost their boy. We have to find him.”
“You don’t have a single lead that might help us?” I asked.
“Let’s take a look at his room,” Hunter suggested. “Maybe something will jump out at us.”
Noel had been staying in one of Stanley’s spare rooms and his junk was scattered everyplace. It had a distinctively unpleasant odor to it—dirty-sock smell combined with lingering chemical fumes. My eyes watered as I took in the sights: beakers, funnels, kerosene, the place looked like a chemistry lab after a class of a dozen students finished with it.
“What about his notebook?” I asked, since I’d never seen Noel without it.
“Gone, too,” Stanley said. “But that doesn’t surprise me one bit. I’d be even more worried if he’d left it behind.”
Hunter swung his head across the room, checking it out as only a cop can. He opened a few drawers, stuck his head in the closet, lifted a pile of dirty clothes with the toe of his Harley boot. “You said some of his things are missing.”
“His backpack for one thing.”
I remembered the day before the festival, when Noel saved me from a round of words with Mom. He’d had a backpack with him.
“Can you tell if he packed any clothes?” Hunter asked. In the mess, I didn’t see how Stanley could.
Sure enough, he shook his head. “Noel forgets to change his clothes unless I remind him. I’m most worried because he takes that backpack when he’s done tinkering with his equations and ready to put the experiment to the test. What if he blew himself up?”
Just as we were discussing trying to track Noel with the help of Ben, Patti called my cell phone to whine about staying at my house all by herself. I brought her up to speed regarding Noel and told her to go to bed.
Stanley pulled out one of Noel’s dirty T-shirts to give Ben a sniffing start. Right then, I heard the screen door creak open.
And there stood Noel, as good as new.
“Where have you been?” Stanley wanted to know. From the expressions flicking across his face, I could tell he was vacillating between mad and glad.
“I lost track of time,” Noel said. “Then the storm hit. I got down in a ditch when the siren went off.”
My eyes took in the twelve-year-old kid.
The storm had only recently passed.
But Noel was perfectly dry.
Thirty-three
At the crack of dawn, I went outside with Dinky to visit my honeybees, who were still bedded down waiting for the sun to shine. I inspected several frames, pleased to see an abundance of honey in the comb cells. And no signs of any more hive robbers.
I’d already done some early harvesting in July. Based on what I was seeing for the late harvest coming up soon, this year I’d have a bumper crop. Right there in the beeyard I ate my breakfast: I dipped my fingers into one of the frames that had an overabundance of honey, then picked a small ripe Roma tomato, nibbled on that, and topped it off with raspberries from one of my berry bushes.
Life was sweet.
I heard my back door open and my roommate Patti joined me, already fully dressed for the day.
My taste buds lingered over the heady combination of honey, tomato juice, and mashed raspberries while I considered Patti. She was turning out to be a serious problem in my life. I’d taken the blame for more than a few of her screwups, including jail visits and interrogations by Johnny Jay. She used unethical techniques bordering on torture and abuse. In her book, the means justified
the end. She gets results any way she can. The woman had lost her moral compass. But friends should talk things out, right? Besides, the maniac lived next door, so I didn’t dare totally alienate her. Imagine what she could do to me?
“We need to clear the air, Patti,” I said, plopping down at my patio table. With a wary expression, she sat down across from me.
“What happened yesterday has me very upset,” I began. “I don’t know how things got so out of hand.”
“I agree,” Patti said.
I stared. “You do?”
“Absolutely. It won’t happen again.”
“Really?” This was easier than I ever dreamed.
“Really. Next time we’ll get every single bit of information out of the big wimp. You can even go first if you want.”
Okay, then, this wasn’t going well after all.
“I can’t be your partner anymore,” I told her. “You’re methods are too cruel.”
“Cruel?”
“Maybe that’s the wrong word.”
No, it wasn’t, but…
“I see where you’re coming from.” Patti leaned forward. “You’re a sensitive woman who can’t handle the icky stuff. From now on I’ll take care of the unpleasant part of our partnership, and you can be the brains behind the operation. How’s that?”
I liked that brains part but said, “I want out.”
“Out of what?”
“Out of… um… never mind.” I’d have to figure out how to extricate myself without a fuss. “That’s fine for now.”
At least next time she resorted to dubious methods, I wouldn’t have to witness any of it.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” she asked.
“Work at the store. Keep my ears and eyes open.”
Patti stood up and said, “I’m off.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
After Patti left to spread her reign of terror, I fed Dinky, showered, dressed, and walked down the street with Dinky sniffing everything along the way. I paused in front of the store and took a moment to enjoy the beginning of a new day. Then I heard a horn toot and saw Grams pull up in her Cadillac Fleetwood. Since The Wild Clover wasn’t open yet, there weren’t any cars obstructing my grandmother’s path. This time, though, she misjudged the curb by a good four feet, stopping way short.
Mom got out, assessed my grandmother’s parking job, and said, “You can’t park there. You’re in the middle of the street.”
I didn’t hear what Grams said, but apparently she got her way, because Mom slammed the door shut and headed for the store. She dug through her purse. “I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d open up.”
I watched her pull out a key chain with a wad of keys, search through the mess, select one, and insert it into the keyhole. Until now, I didn’t know she even had a key.
I decided not to comment on that, though, and instead followed her in.
“Does Tom belong to a political party?” I asked while we turned on lights.
Mom gasped in shock.
In Moraine, as in any small town, talking politics is the kiss of death, a big social no-no. Sex and religion are absolutely acceptable topics of conversation (if we really want to stir the pot). But differing political views have ruined friendships and family relationships.
Owning a business where people gather and share, I’ve learned a few things about personality types, political parties, and how sometimes I can peg a person’s affiliation just by what they do for a living, or how they live their lives.
We have a diverse and active mix of residents and some of them tend to get overly rabid regarding their stances. Moraine has its share of fanatics on both sides of the fence. And even though we don’t talk about it, we have a pretty good idea who sits on what side.
Still, nobody comes right out and asks like I just did.
“Well?” I said, waiting for Mom’s answer.
“You certainly are showing a lot of interest in Tom,” she said. “After what I’ve had to put up with from you, I now understand why you resent my interference in your own life so much. I’ll never stick my nose in your business again. And you’d better do likewise.”
Did my mother just tell me to mind my own business? “I’m trying to help him, Mom.”
“That’s exactly how you get yourself in so much trouble—interfering in other people’s business.”
“Please, Mom, just answer the question. It’s important.”
“No!” And with that, she stomped away.
Grams popped into the store.
“Hi, cutie,” she said, giving me a hug. “Your mother couldn’t sleep, so she came in early. Hard work is what she needs to get her mind off her troubles.”
“I thought Mom was in denial,” I said.
“She’s hopeful.”
“Does Tom have anybody we should notify?”
“Your mother said he doesn’t. Ford was it. Isn’t that sad?”
Before I could get distracted, I put the political question to her, too.
“Libertarian,” she said without even hesitating.
Bingo, I thought.
Libertarians are seriously into individual rights. They distrust the government more than any other party and are fiercely independent to the point of resisting any interference from government whatsoever.
Stanley Peck is a libertarian. Because of our friendship, he’s told me about all the weapons he buried in the ground in case the government tries to take them away. Bearing arms is big with the libertarians. “Nobody’s getting my guns,” he says often. “I’ll shoot the SOB first.”
I’d seen Tom with a rifle, even though it was only an air rifle. And I’d bet he had a few antique guns in his store. For all I knew, he might have some buried in his backyard, just like Stanley.
So based on the Libertarian point of view, I imagined Tom’s home would be his castle. And he might distrust banks.
I had to snort at that. Who really did trust banks?
Without any evidence that Tom kept his money in a bank, I had to think it was in that safe in the basement.
All of it.
And that’s what Ford was after. Ford was his brother. He’d know Tom’s quirks. Once he found out about the lottery win, he’d be after it.
I couldn’t help feeling pleased with myself. “I have an errand to run,” I said to Grams. “Want to keep Mom company in the store until I get back?”
“Do you have any of those tasty anise squares left?”
I laughed. “You know I do.”
“Then I’m in.” And Grams took off in the direction of the candy bins.
In Grams’s youth, Moraine had had a candy store on the corner of Willow and Main, and it had carried all the penny candy Grams and her friends could eat. So when she found out about the store I wanted to open, she demanded I have a candy corner, which she insisted I fill with all kinds of special items like:
• taffy—black jack, Turkish, saltwater, and Laffy Taffy
• hard candy—anise squares, mint twists, and root beer barrels
• bubble gum—Bazooka, Cry Baby, Gold Mine, and Big League Chew
• chewy candy—banana splits, Bit-O-Honey, candy corn, orange slices, and caramel cubes
• suckers—Dum Dums, Blow Pops, Slo Pokes, and Charms pops
• and all the fun miscellaneous—candy lipstick, wax bottles, and satellite wafers
I made an instant decision, right there on the spot. Dinky and I walked down the street, looked both ways, and crept along the side of Tom’s antique store.
The key was exactly where Mom had left it in the pot. It turned easily in the lock. I picked up Dinky and slid inside.
Tom’s apartment had a feeling of permanent emptiness to it, an eerie silence that put my nerves on edge. The entryway and kitchen faced the east, so dawn’s first light sent ribbons of sunshine streaming through the window. The refrigerator kicked in, its motor startling me and making my heart skip a beat.
From my arms, Dinky licked my chin as though she sensed my trepidation. I put her down and wrapped the leash around a chair leg. She’d have to wait for me there.
Last time I’d wandered through Tom’s apartment without a goal. This time, I was looking for two things: evidence of a bank account with a recent balance, and a key to the locked utility room, so I could search it.
I don’t know much about murder, but I’ve watched some television. There really aren’t many reasons to kill somebody. Leaving out organized crime hits and crazy serial killers, I can think of three big reasons to commit murder:
• Revenge. In Tom’s case, he could have killed his brother in retaliation for stealing his wife.
• Greed. That was totally out. Tom had plenty of money.
• Self-protection. Tom could have killed his brother because his life was in danger. Or his assets were.
So applying the same set of motives to Ford, what were his possible reasons for coming to Moraine:
• Revenge. Nope. He was the one who messed up Tom’s life, not the other way around.
• Self-protection. But then he would go into hiding, not show up where he wasn’t wanted.
• Greed. Ka-ching.
In my opinion, Ford was definitely here to steal from his brother. Or blackmail him for cash. Or murder him for his inheritance. Whatever. It had to do with Tom’s big lottery win.
Some days I’m really dense and can’t see the forest through the trees. But today I paused to consider the possibility that Ford’s mysterious partner could have played a much more major role in all of this than I’d originally thought.
Whatever the case, I was about to toss Tom’s apartment.
His place was small. I could do this fast. Nobody would know what I was up to. Patti didn’t have me on her radar. Nobody did.
The kitchen gave up nothing worthwhile. It had typical bachelor equipment and gadgets—toaster, coffeemaker, microwave, electric can opener, toaster oven—all lined up in a row on the counter. Not much in the drawers or cabinets, either.
Bathroom and living room. Nada out of the ordinary, only the basics.