“Is there anything else you can remember?” Maggie asked.
“Well, one day, I saw her sitting in the parking lot. When I started walking toward the car, Sydney, that’s her name right? She drove off.”
“What about other girls?” Recognizing confusion on their faces, Maggie explained, “I’ve learned Jay was seeing another woman. Out of respect for her, I won’t reveal her identity, but did he say anything about her?”
Steve laughed. “Jay? A ladies’ man? Can you believe that, Carrie? Who would have thought of that?”
Before Maggie could probe the Fletchers for more information, her phone vibrated again. Frowning, she pulled it from her pocket and answered, “Give me a minute, Edie.”
“Edie? Who in Sam Hill is Edie?” a voice bellowed.
“Sylvie? Is that you? Why are you calling me? Is something wrong?”
“I’d say something’s wrong. I’m at the hospital and you’ll never guess why I’m here.”
Chapter Eighteen
Maggie heard Sylvie before she saw her.
“What I’m doing is knitting. What you’re talking about is crocheting,” Sylvie said to a plump woman sitting across from her in the ER waiting room.
“What’s the difference?” the woman asked.
Rushing to Sylvie’s side, Maggie interrupted the needlepoint lesson. “Sylvie,” she said, “how did you end up in the ER with W.L. Murphy?”
“I ain’t exactly in the ER with him.”
Closing her eyes and counting to ten, Maggie settled in a seat beside Sylvie and asked, “What happened?”
“Like I told you on the phone, he was attacked. They wouldn’t tell me nothing, me not being family, but I heard them people over there,” Sylvie nodded her head toward the front desk, “talking and they said something about a head wound.” Finally noticing Luke, Sylvie abandoned her knitting, adjusted her glasses, and said, “I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on you before.”
“Sylvie, this is my boyfriend, Luke.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Johnson. Maggie’s told me wonderful things about you.”
Sylvie returned to her knitting. “Then I reckon she’s told you there’s no call in trying to sweeten me up.”
Luke chuckled, but Maggie didn’t react to Sylvie’s sassiness. “Why did the authorities call you?” she asked.
“Huh. Because he didn’t have any identification on him. All they found on him was that card I give him. It was in his pants. I allow he’s worn that same pair of jeans ever since that day you and me went to his trailer.” Sylvie shook her head. “He probably ain’t even washed them. He probably throws them in that pile of clothes on his floor every night when he takes them off. Then he picks them out of that pile every day and puts them on again.”
“But you still haven’t explained why you’re here,” Maggie said.
“Why do you think I’m here?” Although Sylvie’s voice rose, she never took her eyes off her knitting. “I was sitting in my warm house watching Wheel of Fortune when I got the call. I left Pat and Vanna in the middle of a puzzle cause I thought that’s what you did when the police called you and told you they’d found your phone number in the jeans of some unidentified man that took a hit to his noggin. Now, does that explain clear enough why I’m here?” When Maggie didn’t answer, Sylvie added, “I guess I could ask you the same thing. Why are you here?”
Taking the reprimand in silence, Maggie watched as the woman who had been so interested in Sylvie’s needlework rose from her chair and crossed the lobby.
“Has his family shown up?” Luke asked.
“I reckon his brother’s back there with him now,” Sylvie answered.
“How is he?” Maggie asked.
“They won’t tell me,” Sylvie said.
As the minutes ticked by, Maggie reflected on the turn of events and Sylvie entertained Luke. “That girl that was talking to me about knitting is here because she thinks she’s expecting a baby,” Sylvie whispered. “She’s been to the doctor twice and he’s told her twice that there ain’t no baby in her belly. They’ve checked her blood and run those pregnancy tests on her, but she says she can feel the baby move. If you ask me, she’s just fat and off her rocker, but she wants them to run one of them ulcersounds on her.”
Sylvie’s story succeeded in taking Maggie’s mind off W.L. Both she and Luke were stealing discreet looks at the woman in question when the doors to the ER flew open. Sylvie didn’t need to reveal the identity of the young man who lurched through those doors. He was as small as W.L. and displayed the same bewildered look. Maggie stood up and approached him. “Hi, are you W.L.’s brother?” she asked. When he nodded, she said, “I’m his, uh, friend, Maggie. Sylvie called me. How is W.L.?”
“It was scary there for a bit. When I saw him laying there bloody and with his eyes open, I thought he was dead.” He blinked a few times and said, “He’s going to be okay. They said he has a … Well, I can’t remember what it’s called, but football players get it.”
“A concussion?”
He nodded. “A concussion. I didn’t know real people could get those. Dubya Ell don’t remember nothing that happened. One minute, he was on his way to the store. The next, he was waking up in the ambulance. Hey, I got to go call our mom. They’re putting him in the ICU tonight for, uh,” he looked at the floor and drummed his fingers on his legs, “now, what did they call that?”
“Observation?” Maggie suggested.
He turned his eyes upward and said, “Observation. I think that’s it.”
Maggie had a hard time imagining this diminutive young man breaking and entering an elderly couple’s home and bringing bodily harm to them. W.L. must have another brother, she said to herself. “Are you G.L.?”
He took off his baseball cap and slapped it against his leg. “That’s my name.”
Just as she had done with W.L., Maggie speculated to herself as to what G.L.’s initials meant. Although she hoped for something spectacular like Gustavo Lancelot, she suspected reality would be much more ordinary. As G.L. walked off, Maggie called to him, “Hey, what does G.L. stand for?”
Walking backward out the ER entrance, he said, “Gary Lee.”
“They must really like the name Lee,” Sylvie said.
“Why do you say that?” Luke asked.
“Because his name is Gary Lee and the one laying in the ER’s name is Wayne Lee.” Shaking her head, Sylvie said, “I don’t know what’s worse. Giving your young’uns the same name or calling them after letters in the alphabet.”
When Sylvie confessed to having trouble driving after dark, Luke offered to drive her pickup truck to her house. “Maggie can drive you home in my car and then I’ll take her home.”
Although Sylvie initially resisted Luke’s idea, she eventually said, “I don’t want to put nobody out, but I don’t want to wreck and kill myself, neither, so I reckon it will be okay.”
As they drove toward Sugar Creek, Sylvie speculated out loud, “If I was a betting woman – and I ain’t – my money would be on that ole hateful Curtis hurting little ole W.L.”
“That’s a possibility,” Maggie agreed. “But there are other suspects, too. In fact, Sydney first mentioned W.L. to me and I asked Gina if she knew a man with initials who had trouble with Jay. And, within the last couple days, I’ve also mentioned him to Steve and Carrie and Gentry, for that matter.”
“Gentry,” Sylvie all but yelled. “If you have any notion of him hurting that boy, you can get rid of it right now.”
“We have to explore all the possibilities. What if I said something that led Gentry to believe W.L. had hurt Jay? He could have attacked him out of revenge.”
“Don’t tell me you believe Gentry Harris would hurt somebody. I know I don’t believe it.”
“Now, Sylvie,” Maggie teased. “If you’re going to be a detective, you can’t allow your personal feelings to dictate the investigation.”
“Who said I was a detective?”
“Speaking
of you and Gentry, you seem fond of him.”
“That I am.”
“You’re both single. You’ve both lost your spouses.”
“You stop right there. Don’t you compare my no-count husband with Irmyjean. She was a good, hard-working woman. And I know what you’re trying to say and you can nip it in the bud.”
“Sylvie, what would be wrong with you and Gentry dating?”
“What would be right with it? What do you expect us to do? Hold hands and go to the movies? Me and Gentry are friends like me and your mommy are friends. The only difference is one’s a man and one’s a woman. If your daddy was dead, would you expect me to date your mommy?”
“When you put it that way, no.”
“That’s the only way I know how to put it.”
“I consider you a friend, Sylvie, and I just want you to be happy.”
“And you think me going steady with Gentry is going to make me happy? Listen, Maggie, I’ve lived by myself for nigh on forty years and I’m here to tell you I was more lonesome when I was married to my no-count husband than I’ve been in those forty years.”
Maggie pondered on Sylvie’s point of view until the older woman said, “So, I guess you have two mysteries to solve now. Finding Jay and figuring out who walloped little ole W.L. in the head.”
Chapter Nineteen
Maggie rocked back and forth on her heels as she waited for Tyler to finish briefing Joe on the status of a county government story he was writing. As soon as Tyler turned to leave Joe’s office, Maggie rushed in and asked him, “Have you called the police today?” Giving Tyler no time to answer, she added, “Did they say anything about finding a man last night with a head wound and no identification?”
“Why, good morning to you, too, Maggie,” Joe said. “How was your interview with the man who’s celebrating his twenty-fifth anniversary as a volunteer bell ringer?”
Maggie frowned and slumped against the door to Joe’s office. “Actually, it was disappointing. I expected him to share more observations about how giving during the holiday season has changed over the decades, but he wasn’t much of a talker. When he did talk, it was mainly about how his knees hurt. He has arthritis.”
“I’m sorry about that. His arthritis and his taciturn nature.”
“He also complained about having a cold head. He had left his toboggan at home and was worried that heat was leaving his body through the top of his head. So, Tyler, have you heard anything about –” Maggie paused when she saw the bewilderment plastered across Tyler’s face. “What’s wrong with you?”
“This man puts a sled on his head?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Tyler,” Maggie said. “He wears a toboggan.” When Tyler failed to comprehend, Maggie said, “You know, a knit cap.”
“A toboggan is a sled, Maggie. Only a bunch of backward, isolated hillbillies would confuse a sled for headwear.” Tyler smirked. “I can’t wait to tell my friends and family back home that the hicks around here wear toboggans on their heads.”
“Actually, we call them boggans for short,” Maggie said. “Don’t forget to tell them that.”
Maggie heard a thump and turned to see that Joe had pulled a dictionary from the shelf above his desk. Opening it, he hastily turned the pages until he found what he was looking for. “Toboggan,” he said in a clipped voice. “Noun. Definition one: a sled. Definition two: a stocking cap.” He closed the book with a flourish, eyed Tyler, and said, “Don’t forget to tell your friends and family that. Or is the author of the dictionary also a hick and a backward, isolated hillbilly?”
With the two men trading death stares, Maggie said, “So, Tyler, did the police say anything about –”
“A man with a head wound but no identification?” Tyler flipped open his notepad. “Yesterday evening at approximately six-thirty, a customer exiting the Zippy Market heard moans and found a man later identified as Wayne Lee Murphy lying face up in the parking lot. The customer called 9-1-1, and an ambulance rushed him, Mr. Murphy, not the customer, to the hospital where he was held for observation. I called Mr. Murphy’s mom and she confirmed that he had suffered a concussion. He’s still in the hospital, but they expect him to be released later today.”
“Do the police know who assaulted him? Was W.L. able to tell them anything about the attack?”
“W.L.?” Joe and Tyler asked in unison.
“Yeah, that’s what he’s called.”
Tyler turned the pages of his notepad. “He’s not from Sugar Creek? So, how do you know him?”
“I know lots of people, Tyler. Well, could he tell them anything?”
“Not much,” Tyler answered.
Remembering the role that security cameras had played in her two previous cases, Maggie asked, “Does the Zippy Market have a camera?”
“Yes, but it’s inside the store,” Tyler said.
“There’s something I don’t understand,” Maggie thought aloud. “The first responders didn’t find identification on him. That’s why they called Sylvie.”
“Sylvie?” Joe and Tyler asked in unison.
“Yeah, Sylvie. But why didn’t they check the registration in his truck?”
“It’s not like they found him with a leg hanging out his truck, Maggie,” Tyler said. “He was in the middle of a parking lot. Thank goodness that even law enforcement in a hole in the wall in eastern Kentucky respects civil liberties and doesn’t go around searching vehicles without a warrant.”
“Shouldn’t you jump off your high horse and write your story, Tyler?” Joe said.
Tyler clenched his jaw and ducked out of the office.
Maggie and Joe traded eye rolls. “Can you believe him?” Joe asked. “I’m not from here, either. And I’ll admit, it took me some time to understand the customs. But anybody with common sense realizes every region has their own vocabulary.”
“Yeah, while passing through eastern Pennsylvania once, I stopped at a sub shop and the guy behind the counter asked me what I wanted on my grinder. He was not amused when I told him I wanted a sub, not a food processor.” As she related the story, Maggie inched her way out of Joe’s office. More than twenty years her senior, Joe had served as her mentor and advisor during her entire tenure at the Sentinel. He was also her friend and she didn’t look forward to hearing his opinion of her latest sleuthing mission. Her attempt to escape without suffering through an interrogation was thwarted when Joe said, “You didn’t answer Tyler’s question. How do you know Wayne Lee Murphy’s nickname?”
Maggie sighed and plopped down in the nearest chair. “Remember that guy from Calf Lick who went missing last spring?”
Joe closed his eyes. Opening them, he said, “You’re looking into his disappearance, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
He covered his cheeks with his hands. “Don’t worry, I won’t lecture you. However, I want to remind you to be careful. And although I hope it goes without saying, you have my support.”
Standing up, Maggie said, “Good. In that case, can I take an early lunch?”
“You’re going to the hospital to see Wayne Lee Murphy, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. But, first, I have to make a stop.”
If W.L. was surprised to see Maggie walk into his hospital room, he didn’t act like it. He continued eating his lunch and treated Maggie as if she had returned after a brief visit to the restroom.
“People always talk bad about hospital food, but this is pretty good,” he said. “This is the best vegetable soup I’ve ever had.”
Maggie placed her purse and a plastic shopping bag on the floor. “That chicken salad sandwich looks good, too. Is that butterscotch pudding?”
“Sure is. You want some?”
“No, thank you.” Maggie scooted a chair closer to the bed and sat down. “I was sorry to hear about you being in the hospital.”
“It’s not your fault.”
I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Maggie thought. She waited for W.L. to ask how she knew about his attack, b
ut when no question was forthcoming, she said, “Are you okay? Are you in any pain?”
“I have a headache and it hurts where I got hit and I ended up cutting my face somehow, but it’s not too bad. Look,” turning his head, he said. “I don’t even have a Band-Aid back there.”
“What happened, W.L.?”
Chewing a bite of sandwich, W.L. shrugged. “I stopped at the Zippy Market to get some pork rinds and that’s all she wrote. I don’t even remember getting out of the truck.”
“Did you have your wallet with you? Could this have been a robbery?”
“I was going to the store, so I guess I had my billfold.” He laughed. “If they thought they was going to get money from me, well, the joke’s on them.”
“Do you have any idea who could have done this?”
W.L. finished the sandwich and moved on to the pudding. “I don’t have no enemies, if that’s what you’re wondering. The police asked me that, too.”
“You don’t think this could have anything to do with the poached deer you took to Curtis Moore’s butcher shop or with Jay Harris?”
W.L. spooned the last of the pudding from the cup and washed it down with milk. “I don’t mean to be rude, but the doctors said I’m not supposed to be concentrating or making decisions.”
“Oh, okay.” Maggie picked up the shopping bag and put it on her lap. “I brought something for you.”
W.L. exhibited an even more startled expression than usual. “You bought me a present for getting knocked in the head?”
Maggie smiled. “Not exactly.” She pulled a box from the bag. “It’s actually for your mom.”
“Is that one of them fancy toasters?”
“Yes, it’s a toaster oven. I figured your injury would prevent you from fixing that toaster for her.”
His face lost its coloring and, for a moment, Maggie feared W.L. would start crying. “I don’t … I can’t let you do that. You don’t even know my mom. You shouldn’t be buying her Christmas presents.”
“It’s no trouble,” she said. Maggie didn’t tell him that guilt had prompted the purchase or that she feared her sleuthing had brought attention to him and caused his attack. She returned the toaster oven to the bag and set it by his bed. Standing, she said, “Remember, this is a Christmas present, so if she comes by, don’t let her see it.”
Murder on Calf Lick Fork Page 9