One Hit Wonder

by Kristi Rose

  In the fridge was a tub of chicken noodle soup with my name on it. Literally. Someone had scrawled Sam in permanent marker on the container. I popped off the lid and stuck the entire container in the microwave, plastic and all.

  While I waited, I sat at the small round table and flipped through the latest paper, Thursday’s edition. Dad’s paper, The Wind River Journal, came out in print Thursdays and Mondays. News could be read online daily for those who preferred.

  When the microwave beeped, I took out the soup, putting it on the table.

  The nutty aroma of the coffee filled the air and signaled it was done. I was pouring a cup, my other hand holding the mug, when Dad’s sudden appearance startled me and I spilled scalding coffee all over my hand. I fumbled the carafe as I tried not to drop it on the counter in my haste to get to the sink.

  “I knew I smelled you.” His smile was smug.

  I dashed to the sink and ran cold water over my hand. “Crap. What does that mean?” I gave my pits a whiff, but it was a lost cause considering how congested I was.

  “I mean, I purposely left the coffee off so I’d know when you showed up.”

  That explained the smile.

  He said, “Tough night, huh?”

  I groaned. “The worst. I’m headed to the hospital to see Ms. Trina.” The least I could do for a woman who’d constantly shown me kindness was to see if her family needed anything. And also, work hard to help the police put the people who did this to her behind bars. My fondness for justice, for wrongs to be righted, was entrenched in my character. Maybe it came from my mom being a lawyer and my dad a reporter. Or maybe because as a kid I was different and people wrongly stereotyped me. Regardless, I was going to see this through.

  Dad poured himself a mug and topped off mine, then reset the carafe back in its place. He set both mugs on the table and sat. “Poor Trina. She’s had a run of bad luck. I hear she’s in intensive care.”

  The sting from the burn had lessened. I turned off the faucet and searched through a kitchen drawer for salve. Stella was a freak about having natural medicines on hand. Sure enough, a tube made specifically for burns lay among the band-aids and oils.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing all these images from the scene. I think I need to do something”—I waved my hand over my head—“to wipe my mind clean. Know what I mean?” Seeing scary stuff on TV was one thing. Seeing scary stuff in real life that affected people you knew and liked was entirely different. To say I was shaken was an understatement.

  “You get used to it over time. Of course, some things never leave you, but that’s how working in this business goes.” His smile was sympathetic.

  Did I want to be in this business?

  Dad continued, “Lyle says Trina’s deductible is incredibly high. A bunch of us are chipping in to help.” Lyle Wagonknect was the town’s auto and home insurance man. Bart Holland, Trina’s husband, used to be the other one until he died.

  From his shirt breast pocket, Dad took out a piece of paper and offered it to me. “Are you feeling up to taking this to Bob’s Body Shop? Tell him it’s for Trina. Every bit counts for her.”

  It was a check for three hundred dollars.

  “I hope they catch the guys who did this.” I set the check on top of my sling bag, then sat across from Dad.

  “Even if they find the guys, she won’t recoup any expenses she’ll incur because of this. These guys, these Comic Book Bandits, have worked their way down the state and have yet to be caught or get caught on tape. I doubt they’re the sort to be insured or pay up if she sued them. And that’s assuming they’re the ones responsible for this.”

  “Poor Ms. Trina. I guess the silver lining in this is whoever these Comic Book Bandits are, they aren’t violent.” Last I read no one had been harmed in their robberies, only tied up, Trina’s case being the worse. Had she been robbed by another group of criminals, the situation could have been much worse.

  “Another silver lining? She wasn’t working The Chief when it was hit three nights ago,” Dad said. The Chief was a popular diner outside of town.

  I dropped my spoon. “Graycloud’s was robbed, too?” How had I not known this?

  Walter Graycloud was one badass Native American who owned a scenic piece of land off the interstate and a big-wig with the Cowlitz tribe, who also happened to make the best homemade cinnamon rolls ever known to man. Not only did he own the diner, but a motel comprised of several small cabins that overlooked the Windy River. He even had a card room for the just-driving-through-gamblers in an ante-chamber off the diner.

  “Yep,” Dad said. “Apparently, Trina was supposed to work that night but switched with the other girl—I can’t remember her name. Had she not switched days, she’d have been a victim twice.”

  Dad always had the inside gouge; it helped that he played poker with half the town. This made his reporting job easier.

  I said, “The girl who works at The Chief is Jaime.” She’d dated Hue, my other best friend in high school, I had talked to her a few days ago when I swung by and bought two cinnamon rolls. “Wait, you said three nights ago?”

  Dad nodded.

  Three nights ago was when I’d bought the rolls. I could’ve been at the diner when it was robbed, and if I hadn’t gotten the flu, I would have been at Junkie’s last night, too. A shiver of fear ran down my spine. This was too close for comfort.

  “Why wasn’t this in the news?” I asked.

  Dad shrugged. “I kept it out of the paper by request of Graycloud and Chief Louney. Both wanted to keep it under the radar. Graycloud wanted to rule out the robbers were from the tribe.”

  “Oh, so it wasn’t the comic book guys that robbed Graycloud’s? I’d just assumed.”

  Dad held up his index finger and smirked. His way of announcing something good was about to be said. “Yes, the scene did look as if the Comic Book Bandits were the robbers, but Chief Louney believes the robbery was a copycat.”

  I pressed my palm to my temple in an attempt to process it all. “Are you saying whoever did this to Ms. Trina might have been a copycat and not these Comic Book Bandits on their crime spree?”

  Dad nodded.

  I was stunned. I’d assumed it was the Comic Book Bandits like the scene suggested. I’d have to remember this if I was going to use my PI license. What was that saying—assume makes an ass of you (u) and me? “Is keeping a lid on this smart? Shouldn’t other businesses be warned?”

  “The other businesses have been warned. Anything interesting in the pictures?”

  This last question was Dad the reporter asking. I knew the difference because Dad the reporter was also Dad the poker player and king of his fantasy football league. Dad the poker player taught me everything he knew. And Dad the poker player had a tell. He flared his nostrils slightly when he had something up his sleeve. Just like he’d done now.

  I shook my head. “I hope they’re good enough in both cases. I’m dropping off a thumb drive before I head to the hospital.” I blew on the soup as my stomach growled. Then said, “What are you looking for? Why are you asking about the pictures?”

  Dad dismissed my question with a wave of his hand. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I heard from Chuck who heard from Lyle that Junior’s car was stolen early this morning.” Chuck owned the market next door and he, Lyle, and a few others played poker with my dad every week. They were worse than women when it came to gossip.

  My mouth fell open. “What? How does that happen? Wasn’t it towed to his dad’s dealership? Junior manages the parts and service department, why didn’t he put the car inside?”

  Dad shrugged, indicating he was as puzzled as me. “This isn’t as uncommon as you might believe. I’ve covered stories of car theft rings. When you take the check down to Bob’s ask him if he knows anything about this and let me know what he says.”

  I narrowed my gaze, suspicious. “Why am I asking? If this is a story, shouldn’t you be asking?”

  Dad’s expression said nothing. H
e feigned innocence.

  I wasn’t buying it. “Come on, out with it.”

  “Bob lost money to me last week at poker, and he’s still sore about it. If he gives you anything good, I’ll follow up.”

  “If I do some digging for you, then I expect to get paid.” We’d done this song and dance before. The truth was I had questions for Bob regardless of getting paid. But Dad didn’t know that.

  Dad eyed the tub of soup. “I’ll take twenty-five bucks off your rent, and we’ll throw the soup in as a perk.”

  “Deal,” I said. I would have settled for the soup.

  Dad held up a finger. “Ah, but I also want to see the pictures.”

  I grimaced. “Can I do that? Because I don’t think I can.”

  “What if I happened to be looking over your shoulder? Or maybe you leave your camera out and I help myself.”

  I rolled my eyes and tsked. “You’ve been in the reporting business a while, right, Dad?” I teased. “Because this feels amateurish.”

  Dad sighed heavily and sat back in his chair. “I’d love it if you’d confirm for me the robbery at Junkie’s was a copycat, Sam.”

  “How could I do that? I’d have to know what makes one an original and the other a fake. Why not ask Crenshaw or Chief Louney?” I drank the broth from the container.

  “Crenshaw doesn’t know anything and Louney is buttoned up tight. There’s more to this story.”

  “You’re guessing. Speculating.”

  Dad raised a brow. “Am I? These robbers take Trina outside and chain her up to a pole. Which takes time. Then they peel out so fast they hit her car hard enough to push it into her?” He shook his head. “The pieces don’t add up for me. All the other robberies, the people are tied up outside. Jaime was tied up inside the diner. Not outside.”

  “If this was the Comic Book Bandits, maybe they’re mixing things up? Maybe they were spooked? Maybe they were in a hurry? Maybe they were afraid someone might come along?” I’d considered a thousand different scenarios in my need to understand this senseless act.

  Dad gave a skeptic shake of his head. “And if it was the copycat?”

  “Then he tied her up outside because he’s stupid and putting his own spin on it? He wants recognition for what he’s done. After all, his robbery of Graycloud’s diner wasn’t in the paper. It was ignored.” I’d learned this from true crime shows and maybe a bit from my class.

  Dad nodded. “Yeah, that’s why I think it’s a copycat. Because these Comic Book Bandits are clever. They’re calm and controlled. They’ve not been caught on store cameras. They’ve left no evidence other than what they wanted police to find. When you were inside Junkie’s, did you see the plastic novelty rings they leave behind as their trademark?”

  “Um.” Chief Louney adamantly said to not talk to the press. Even though the novelty rings were a publicized fact.

  Dad held up a hand. “Better yet, did you notice if a page from a comic book was left behind?”

  Snapshots of the scene flashed in my mind’s eye. “Nope.” I clasped my hands over my mouth in horror as I realized I’d divulged information I wasn’t supposed to.

  Dad sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, a smug smile on his face. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Chief Louney slipped up and mentioned the comic book pages to me a few weeks ago. The cops have purposefully kept it out of the media. Graycloud’s robbery didn’t have the comic book page either.”

  My stomach dropped with dread. We were looking at a copycat. “Do you think that means whoever is doing this is from here? Someone we know?”

  Dad’s smile was large and toothy. “You bet it does. Oddities at the scene are clues, too.”

  I was appalled. “Why are you so happy about that?”

  “I’m not happy these things are happening. I’m happy because this fool or fools aren’t too bright and will likely get caught. I’ll get point on the story. Makes for good press.” Being a newsman, Dad covered stories that would haunt the average person, but he’d built up a thick shell. This was how I excused his enthusiasm. Like a thrill seeker craving a dangerous high, Dad needed stories more horrific than the last.

  “Ugh, that’s terrible. People were hurt.”

  “Samantha, honey, bad stuff happens. Happens all the time. Happens in the town you live in and is done by people you know. Shining a light on it is the only way to get the cockroaches to scurry back to where they came from.”

  We sat in silence, me slurping soup and Dad drinking coffee. Stuck on Dad’s comments, my thoughts went to a darker place. Who among us would have done this, and did I really want to know?

  Chapter Four

  I left Dad’s and drove to Junkie’s. Crime scene tape roped off the parking lot and the door to the bar. I pulled LC in behind a patrol car parked on the side of the road.

  I flung my sling bag over my shoulder after patting the front pocket to confirm the jump drive was there.

  Seeing the scene in daylight would hopefully wash out the horrific images from the night before. Many of which had the creepy factor exaggerated by my imagination.

  I didn’t know how cops remained unbiased every day. I supposed only the good ones did.

  Outside the bar, standing in the parking lot, were Crenshaw, the owner, and Leo. His uniform was crisp and clean, as if he hadn’t been up a few hours before marking the crime scene.

  Leo faced me, hands on hips. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came out to see if any more pictures were needed.” I took out the thumb drive and held it out to him. “Do you want these or do I need to take them to the station?”

  “We’re good for pictures.” He took the small silver square. “I can take this in. Let me get you to sign something as proof of submitting.” He moved away to his patrol car.

  I focused on Crenshaw and was shocked by his appearance.

  A big man, Crenshaw stood over six feet, was bald and solid with a belly that preceded him by several inches. A wall of stone. He wore threadbare flannel and typically sported a lumberjack’s beard, only his beard was gone and his shirt, albeit still flannel, looked new.

  “You look nice, Crenshaw.” Dare I ask what the motivation for his new look was?

  He shuffled awkwardly.

  I did a quick subject change. “I’m sorry. What a mess to come home to. Have you heard anything?”

  “Only that she’s stable. She hasn’t woken up yet.” He pressed his lips together in a thin line.

  “I can’t believe this happened. Poor Ms. Trina.”

  Crenshaw said, “And she was out here by herself for who knows how long.” His big shoulders shook as he held back tears. “If I didn’t know this was done by those superheroes dumbasses, I’d put my money on Kevin Greevey.”

  He had my full attention. “That’s interesting you would think Kevin did this. How come?”

  Kevin’s history of substance abuse was often the topic of gossip, usually instigated by some off-hand comment by Kevin’s dad. If Kevin and Ms. Trina had a problem, I imagine the issue was either Ms. Trina cut him off or refused to serve him.

  “I don’t know. They were talking in hushed voices. Then Trina pointed to the door and told him to get out. I thought he might strike her. He was livid. I had to leave. I needed to be in Seattle. I showed Kevin the door, watched him drive away, and got on the road quickly after.”

  I took a stab at the timeline. “Wow, that’s an early hour to get your drink on.” My math had Kevin arriving at opening, five p.m.

  Crenshaw nodded. He pointed to the front door of the bar. “He was standing outside when I opened the bar.”

  Leo approached and pointed a finger at me. “Stop talking to her. This is an open investigation and—”

  I waved dismissively at Leo. “Oh, hush. What he’s saying to me is nothing we wouldn’t say if we met at Chuck’s market in town. Can’t you see he’s distraught?”

  Crenshaw bowed his head. “It’s my fault. Becca called and said her mom hadn’t made
it home yet and wasn’t answering her phone. I was…distracted. I didn’t call the bar right away.” He looked past my shoulder and cleared his throat. A pink tinge crept up his neck, his closely shaved neck. Clearly, the reason for his appearance change was a woman.

  “If I were on a date with someone I liked, I would’ve been distracted as well. And who would have ever expected this”—I swept my hands toward the crime scene tape—“to have happened?”

  “Do you even date? “Leo mumbled.

  “I date guys who aren’t buttheads,” I said. “As you can imagine, those are hard to find. Like the elusive Bigfoot.”

  Crenshaw continued, “Even when I called the police and asked them to do a drive-by, I underplayed my concern. I’ll never be able to forgive myself if something happens to her.”

  I patted his arm. I was contagious after all. “You did everything you could do. Stop beating yourself up.”

  He nodded and cleared his throat. “Speaking of Bigfoot, you want to see the video, Leo? It’s grainy, but I can’t come up with any other reasonable explanation than Bigfoot.”

  “Bigfoot?” I had to know.

  Crenshaw nodded. “One of my cameras caught a hairy leg coming out of the bar shortly after closing time.”

  My heart beat madly with excitement. “Seriously, that’s cool. You can’t tell anyone, though, because then you’ll have everyone out here camping and trying to catch sight of Bigfoot.” The Pacific North West hosted no less than four different Sasquatch research groups. One was housed near St. Helens, which was the backdrop for Junkie’s.

  “Which is exactly why I asked you not to say anything, Crenshaw. Her dad owns the local paper.” Leo sighed in defeat.

  I made like I was zipping my lips. “I totally won’t tell my dad. Unless of course word starts to get out, and he’ll hear it anyway.”

  Leo groaned. “You done here, Samantha?” Leo asked. “Because I’m not.”

  I took the hint. He didn’t want to talk to Crenshaw with me present.

  “I’m headed to the hospital. I’ll let you know if there’s been any change,” I said to Crenshaw.