Coop Knows the Scoop

by Taryn Souders

  Tick gave me a small smile. “Move fast and only grab your homework. Nothing leaves the house, and I check your backpack.”

  “Yes, sir.” I dashed upstairs, their footsteps falling behind my own. I didn’t have much time. I jammed the journal into the back of my jeans and pulled my shirt down. A quick check in the mirror proved nothing was showing. I slung my backpack across my shoulders and nearly collided with Tick outside my door.

  “Whoa, Coop. Let’s check the bag.”

  I spun around so the backpack faced him. He unzipped it and looked around. “Books and lots of work to be done.” He zipped it up. “Get going.”

  “I’ve got more reading now than I ever even knew existed,” I said over my shoulder. Once downstairs, I slipped the journal from my waistband into my backpack to read later.

  * * *

  Watkins and Harrison headed for their cruisers; each with a couple boxes in their arms. Officer Caesar followed behind with a typewriter. I didn’t know what was inside the boxes but only that they’d spent a ton of time in Gramps’s study, after searching the attic and second floor.

  I whirled around and faced Tick. “Why did they take his typewriter? Do they think it’s the typewriter the note was typed on? If Tabby typed it, of course it was. Duh! Gramps isn’t the murderer.”

  “No one’s saying he is, Coop,” said Tick. “They’re analyzing the letter your grandmother left. The paper, the ink—anything that might lead us to who typed it.”

  “Even if it was typed on that typewriter, I bet it wasn’t by Harley,” Mama said. “You know how things are around here. No one locks their doors now, let alone back then. Anyone could’ve used that typewriter.”

  Mama squeezed my shoulder as we stood on the porch, watching them drive away.

  “It’ll be okay, Coop,” she said. “You’ll see.” She ignored Tick, who stood a couple feet back.

  Her words fell to the ground, empty and lifeless. I didn’t know if it was going to be okay.

  Chapter 17

  I couldn’t sleep. I threw off my covers, sat up, and leaned against the headboard. The digital numbers on my clock rearranged themselves: 11:47 p.m. Moonlight flooded through the window and clung to the walls. I hadn’t bothered closing the blinds. There was no point. My room could’ve been as dark as Gran’s grave, and sleep still would’ve avoided me.

  Outside, a car drove past, its headlights forcing the shadows that had been cast on the walls to rise and then drop back into place as the car turned away.

  Daddy’s funeral. That’s what the rapid rise and fall of the shadows reminded me of. The honor guard, pointing their rifles in the air, firing a volley, and lowering them again with precision.

  Daddy had been strong. He could do anything he set his mind to. When I was a little kid, I always imagined him in a superhero outfit, even though most of the time he wore camouflage. But on special occasions, he’d wear his dress blues.

  Up to the day of the funeral, part of me clung to the hope Daddy would appear and make our world right again—just like Superman always did. But he didn’t, and Daddy was buried in his blue suit. He looked exactly like a superhero to me.

  Only I didn’t think superheroes could die.

  Gramps stepped into Daddy’s place. He’d never replace Daddy, but he was darn close. And Tick… He had helped to dislodge the sadness. But now he helped take Gramps away. He could blame it on the district attorney if he wanted, but it wasn’t the lawyer who put my gramps in the back seat of a squad car. I’d already lost Dad. Was I going to lose Gramps too?

  I flopped onto my pillow. The conversation in the kitchen with Gramps played over and over in my head. I wanted to turn it off and fall asleep, but I could no more do that than fold a butterfly back into its cocoon. What did he mean by “settling things quiet-like”? And that weird comment about taking whatever steps necessary to make sure that he’d “never again have the same problem with that person”? And the unfamiliar look in his eyes. Cold and faraway.

  Something about that chewed at my brain, but I couldn’t…

  Never again.

  I sat up in bed.

  Tick had asked if Gramps and Tabby were having problems…

  I shuddered.

  You didn’t get much more “quiet-like” than poison. And you sure wouldn’t have the same problem again. Not if you poisoned someone.

  Surely that’s not what he meant, though. Was it? I bit the inside of my lip. Then again, what did I know for sure about Gramps?

  He’d been acting like a horse with a burr under its saddle ever since the discovery of Tabby’s ring. I could understand being shocked by the news, but edgy and gruff?

  Mama and I had lived with him for the past five years, but he never talked about his past. Even Mama said she didn’t know a whole lot. Who was he really?

  A tornado of doubts and questions whirled through my head, but I couldn’t quiet them.

  Tabby…no, my gran had been so young when she died. Younger even than Daddy. At least he knew the risks of fighting for his country. She was just living her life. If Daddy were still alive, I had no doubt he’d consider it his duty to find his mother’s killer.

  Gran needed justice.

  And, as much as I wanted to believe Gramps was innocent, I needed truth. Daddy wasn’t here. That meant it was my duty to find her killer.

  No matter what road the truth may lead me down.

  I grabbed my pillow from behind my back and punched some air into it before flopping down to face the ceiling. Maybe things would look better tomorrow if tomorrow would just get here. I closed my eyes and attempted to convince myself to sleep. What was it adults always said? The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner tomorrow will come…or something like that.

  Only, what if tomorrow brought something worse?

  I might as well have tried getting warm using a wet blanket. Sleep wasn’t going to come anytime soon. I crept downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk.

  After getting my drink I carried it to the living room and twisted the tiny knob on the lamp that stood on the side table, bathing the room with soft light. I pulled Tabby’s journal from my backpack and read.

  I don’t know what time I fell asleep. But when I woke, the journal was still on my lap, and my whole body ached with cramped muscles I’d earned from a restless night on the sofa.

  Chapter 18

  I was never happier to have been suspended from school than I was that Wednesday. The last thing I wanted was to face anyone, especially Beau. I had no doubt the gossip grapevine of Windy Bottom had already taken root, sprouted its thick limbs, and branched out with the news the police had searched our house and hauled Gramps in for questioning.

  I was sitting on the front porch drawing in the dirt with a broken stick when Tick’s police cruiser pulled into the driveway early the next morning. Gramps slammed both the car door and house door before Tick had even climbed fully out of his seat. Tick held his hat in one hand and ran his other hand over his face.

  With a groan he sank and joined me on the porch. “I think it’s safe to say your gramps is mad at me.”

  I stared straight ahead. “He’s not the only one.”

  “I’m sorry, Coop, but Gomez had to do his job.” He spoke quietly, as if he was afraid his words would send me into a door-slamming frenzy like Gramps. “I want to believe Doc’s innocent, I really do.” He ran his hand over his brow. “But the evidence—it’s leading in a different direction. And oftentimes it is the spouse that…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  I refused to look at him.

  “Just ’cause Gramps was married to Tabby and owned a typewriter doesn’t mean he’s the murderer. Plus, what about Earl’s blood on her ring? Or the fact her emerald necklace went missing? Huh?” I said.

  Tick shoulders dropped. His forehead creased in worry lines. “We’re trying to track d
own Earl.” He sighed. “Your gramps had means, motive, and opportunity, and, between you and me, that’s all the DA is focused on. I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  “You’re wrong.” I stood and looked down at him. “I’m going to prove it.”

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the morning blasting Beethoven’s Fifth and putting together a case board—one of those things detectives on TV use to display photos of the victim, crime scene, and suspects. Technically, mine wasn’t exactly a case board. More of a case closet. I’d shoved all my clothes to one side and taped what little information I had to the wall:

  • Both pictures of Gran from the attic—the one on the tarmac with Gramps, and the one I’d taken on my phone where she’s wearing the emerald necklace

  • My copy of the fake (?) goodbye letter

  • Gramps’s torn-up photo with the I’m sorry, Never Again message on the back

  • My list of questions I’d written earlier.

  Then I made a suspect list.

  Earl. Where was he? His blood was on her ring. He had a criminal record and a love of jewelry. To top it off, a quick Google search showed undertakers used arsenic to embalm bodies…or at least used to. Comforted Souls Funeral parlor had been around forever. Couldn’t there have been arsenic hanging around?

  I wanted a photo to hang next to his name—that’s how the police did it. I found two. One was his old mug shot found online, and the other a half-page advertisement for Comforted Souls Funeral Parlor from the phone book. I opted for the mug shot and taped it to the closet wall.

  I’d been reading up on arsenic. Being both tasteless and odorless, it could’ve been slipped into anything Gran ate or drank the day she died. That meant Earl had motive, means, and opportunity. But one suspect wasn’t much. I needed more, because I wasn’t about to write: Gramps.

  Next, I came up with a plan. The first part was to talk to people who were close to Gran when she was alive. Maybe one of them had a reason to want her dead or knew someone who did.

  • Burma. He and Gramps had been friends since they were kids. Plus, he was right about news just walking into his shop and making itself comfortable in the chairs. If there was something going on forty years ago worth killing for, I had no doubt I’d hear about it at Burma’s Cut ’N’ Curl.

  • The Feather sisters. Nothing happened in Windy Bottom without them being aware of it.

  Sadly, hope of finding something incriminating in Gran’s journal was disappearing faster than fried chicken at a church picnic. I was nearly halfway through reading it, but wasn’t holding my breath.

  Part two of my plan was trickier. As far as I could tell, the police weren’t even looking for any other typewriters. They’d only taken Gramps’s. If I could find the typewriter the letter was written on, it might lead me to the real murderer. I just wasn’t sure how to put that one into action. I knew it was a long shot, but long shots were all I had.

  Help from Liberty and Justice would’ve been perfect. While I was relieved I didn’t have to be around Beau, it was a lousy time to be grounded. Then again, is there ever a good time?

  Chapter 19

  A couple years ago when our next-door neighbor, Mr. Wallace, went on to receive his heavenly reward, Mama remarked that deaths in Windy Bottom were treated just like births. People brought over food, then stuck around asking questions like how’s the family adjusting and is everyone sleeping all right?

  So it came as no surprise, once word got out that Tabby’s funeral was in the making, that I spent my first full day of suspension watching people trail in and out of our house like ants at a picnic, their arms loaded with food, their mouths jam-packed with advice, and their minds no doubt overflowing with questions and assumptions about Gramps.

  And I could hardly blame them.

  The Gordons were minding the bookstore so Mama and Gramps could work on funeral arrangements. Though, most of the arranging had been left to Mama for the time being. After Tick had dropped him back home, Gramps had left for some “alone time.” Mama told him a drive in the country was just what he needed and not to worry about us.

  Around three o’clock in the afternoon, when Mama couldn’t bring herself to answer one more doorbell or knock, it became my job.

  Justice grinned when I opened the door. “Nice shiner.”

  I reached up and gingerly touched my eye. “Yeah—it’s pretty sore.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Liberty, rubbing her baseball against her jeans.

  I leaned against the doorframe. “Y’all know I’m grounded for the rest of my life, right? I can’t hang out.”

  “We know,” said Justice. “We’re just here to drop off something for your mama.” He waved a pastry box. “From our folks.”

  “Apple turnovers from the café?” I asked, crossing my fingers. They were Mama’s favorite. Maybe they’d put her in a better mood.

  “Does a horse spit?” said Justice.

  “Uh…no.” I looked at Liberty, who just shook her head. “But a llama does.”

  “Close enough.” He stepped around me into the house, his backpack brushing my shoulder. “You’ve should’ve heard Beau today.” He walked toward the kitchen. “Crowing like a prize rooster about how he knew the police would figure things out about your grandpa.” He paused. “On second thought, it’s probably best you weren’t there after all.”

  Liberty tailed him.

  “You think?” I scoffed and followed. “Anyway, the police have hardly ‘figured things out.’ They’re trying to nail Gramps for the murder, which is totally screwed up. Or at least the DA is…according to Tick.”

  They both stopped and stared wide-eyed in the kitchen doorway at the food that covered every available surface. Mama stood in the center of the room looking lost.

  “Wow. That’s quite the haul.” Lib tossed her baseball in the air and caught it, then pointed to the kitchen table. “I see you scored another one of Mrs. Alcott’s German chocolate cakes.”

  “Two in one week.” Justice grinned. “Bravo, Mrs. Goodman.”

  Mama rolled her eyes.

  I nudged Justice. “I’m thinking I’ll have some for breakfast.”

  “Wrong, mister.” Mama faced me. “You’re still in trouble—there’s no cake for you.”

  “Speaking of breakfast, Miss Delilah,” Liberty grabbed the box from her brother and handed it to Mama. “These are from our folks.”

  Mama’s eyes lit up as she took them. “Apple turnovers?”

  Justice smiled. “Does a horse—”

  Liberty kicked him. “Yes ma’am, your favorite. And Mama says she’s sorry she can’t be here for support. Aunt Leslie just went into labor with her first baby, and Mama’s flying out tonight to help her.” She elbowed me and grinned. “Which means I don’t have to go to the Generational Tea. I dodged that bullet.”

  Mama’s eyes teared up. “Please tell them thank you. They are a godsend.” She waved toward the counter. “I’ll take turnovers from a friend over a three-course meal from a gossipmonger any day of the week.”

  The turnovers seemed to have cheered her. Maybe she’d loosen up the restrictions.

  I cleared my throat. “Mama? Can Lib and Jus stay for a couple minutes? Please? I need to talk—”

  “Nope.”

  She didn’t even let me finish.

  “You have one more day of suspension.” She poked me lightly in the chest. “And, unlike today, you’ll be spending it at the bookstore washing dishes.”

  I hung my head. “Gramps already told me.”

  She tussled my hair, then scowled. “After you get a haircut. With everything that’s happened, we never did get you a trim before school started.”

  A haircut? Perfect! I could start on my list and talk to Burma.

  Mama puffed out her cheeks. “And spea
king of hair, the three of you need to get out of mine. Lib, Jus, please tell your folks thank you. These turnovers mean the world. Coop, back upstairs and do your schoolwork. And, Lord help me, if one more person walks through that front door, I’m going to—”

  “Yoo-hoo! Delilah, dear,” Miss Ruth’s voice called out from the hall. “I brought you a batch of my fried chicken and some banana pudding. Plus, a jar of my best homemade mustard!”

  Justice made a face. Miss Ruth’s love for spicy mustards was as powerful as a Baptist preacher’s love for revival. And the heat in some of them could make you think you hadn’t quite made it through the pearly gates.

  Mama ran her hand over her face and muttered. The food on the counter was already threatening to slide in an avalanche of fresh green beans, jars of sweet tea, and six different casseroles—not to mention Mrs. Alcott’s German chocolate cake. She looked heavenward. “Lord, give me strength.”

  Justice leaned toward her. “Might be a good idea to ask for more counter space while you’re at it.”

  Mama pointed a finger toward the door. “Out! Now!”

  We passed Miss Ruth on her way to the kitchen. When we reached the front door, Justice spun around and glanced over my shoulder. “I got something for you.” He swung his backpack off and dropped to his knees. Unzipping it, he reached in and handed me a folder. “The photographs from your gran’s camera. I made them nice and big.”

  Yes! Finally!

  “Dude. You’re the best,” I whispered excitedly. Gramps would be so happy, and if there were some of Dad, so would Mama.

  Justice stood and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Wait till you see ’em.”

  I fumbled for the folder and flipped through picture after picture. My hopes disintegrated. “Stained glass windows? Flowers?” I looked at Liberty and Justice. “That’s it?” I quickly thumbed through the rest. “What the heck am I supposed to do with these?”

  “I’m pretty sure those windows are the ones up at Windy Bottom Baptist,” said Justice. “Maybe she thought they were pretty or something?”