Beau stood and walked back to his mattress. “You know, as much as you boast about how your dad was a Marine and never gave up, you sure are giving up on your gramps easily enough. Don’t mean you still can’t love him. If I only loved people who were perfect, I’d be lonelier than I already am.” He pulled the covers up over his shoulder. “Go to sleep, moron.” He turned away from me.
Sighing, I took Gran’s journal from my side table and read by the moonlight. Her entry must’ve been after she learned about Gramps’s gambling problem. It was dated March 23. The last thing she ever wrote in her journal.
Such a struggle, but I’ve decided. Tomorrow the truth comes out…Why does the love of money turn good people bad?
She took the words right out of my mouth.
* * *
Tick was standing in the kitchen cradling a steaming cup of coffee when I walked in the next morning.
I stopped and glared. “What are you doing here?” I shoved my hands into my jeans pockets.
He nodded a greeting. “Morning to you too.”
The sudden thought that Tick had changed his mind about not arresting us for last night’s episode glued my feet to the wooden floor.
“Why are you here?” I said.
Tick didn’t answer right away. Instead he took a long draw of coffee and stared over his mug at me. He lowered the cup slowly and sighed. “Your mama asked if I would go with her to see your gramps and his lawyer at the county jail. They’re trying to arrange bail and such.”
“What about me and Beau? We going too?”
Mama breezed past where I stood in the kitchen doorway. She dropped her purse on the table and set a small suitcase on the floor. “No. Mr. Gordon said he’d look after y’all until I return. You’re going to church with him, and he’s expecting you at his house in less than an hour. Ride your bikes.”
I glanced down at her suitcase. “How long will you be gone?”
She rummaged through her purse. “I’m not sure. A couple days? Maybe longer? It’s Sunday. Who knows how slow things will move.” She looked up from her purse. “And don’t think you’re getting off without any punishment after last night’s escapade. I’ve got two words for you. Community. Service.”
Images of picking up trash along County Road 95 while wearing a bright orange jumpsuit popped into my head.
Tick smiled into his coffee but remained silent. I figured the community service gig was his idea—it was the kind of irritating thing a deputy would come up with. Mama continued digging through her purse muttering about her car keys.
I swallowed. “What exactly will we be doing?”
“Police clothing drive.” She sighed and upturned her purse, dumping everything onto the table.
Definitely Tick’s idea.
I guess he took that as his cue to expand on Mama’s short answer. “After church, the four of you can go door-to-door and collect whatever folks have put out on their front porch for the drive. Then you can sort through it all and bring it to the police station.”
“It’s like a hundred degrees out there already,” I said. “Do you think maybe we—”
“Would you rather scrape roadkill?” Mama shot back.
Hauling bags of clothing around would be a pain, but it definitely beat roadkill. The humidity was so thick you could wring the air.
Tick put his hand on Mama’s shoulder and squeezed it before walking over to the back door. He pulled her keys from where they were stuck in the knob and set them on the table.
She scooped them up and sighed with relief. “I’ll meet you in the car.”
Tick nodded. “Be right there.” He rinsed his mug in the sink, and then he turned around to face me. “One more thing about last night. Before he left, Deputy Gomez asked me to talk to you. He wants you to know if you and your friends interfere with a police investigation again, you will be arrested. And we’re not kidding. Stay out of it. For your sake…and your mama’s. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” I said. “Nothing to interfere with now anyway, I guess.”
He reached for the doorknob. “I’m sorry, Coop. I really am. I didn’t want it to turn out this way, either.” And he left.
Beau came down minutes after the door shut, holding the papers and photographs I’d ripped off the closet wall the night before. “What are these?”
I scoffed. “A waste of time.”
He dropped them on the table and picked up the top two photos. “Why pictures of ledgers? I mean, obviously someone was stealing money, but why do you have them?”
Trust Beau to have figured out within ten seconds of looking at a photo that someone had been stealing. I hated him for being so smart. I snatched the photos out of his hand. “Never mind. It’s not important anymore.” I folded them up and shoved them in my back pocket. “Come on—we got to get to the Gordons’.”
Chapter 32
Pastor Joel shook hands with Mr. Gordon when we walked inside Windy Bottom Baptist. “When’s your wife getting home?”
“Not soon enough,” muttered Justice, holding his stomach.
Mr. Gordon rolled his eyes. “Next week.”
Pastor Joel grinned. “Hang in there.” He peered around Mr. Gordon’s shoulder. The smile slid off his face when he saw me. His voice softened. “I’m sorry about your gramps, Coop. We’re praying for him and your family.”
I stared at the floor as heat drew up my neck. “Thanks.”
“And I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your email yet. I wasn’t the pastor back then, and when the previous one retired, he moved to Florida. Been trying to find the answer for you, but you’re better off asking the Feather sisters. You can’t spit on the sidewalk without one of them hearing about it. They’d know for sure.”
I shrugged. “To tell you the truth, it doesn’t much mat—”
“And speak of the devil, here they are.” Pastor Joel reached out and took Miss Ruth’s hand between his own and pulled her in. “Miss Ruth. Miss Meriwether. Coop has a question for y’all.” He turned to me. “Service is about to start, so I need to dash—but let me know what you find.” He began to walk away but stopped and turned. “And if there’s anything your family needs—including your gramps—let us know.”
He disappeared through the doorway leading into the sanctuary. Mr. Gordon touched my shoulder. “Don’t take too long.”
“Yes, sir.”
Miss Meriwether peered around the doorway and scowled. “You answer his question, sister. I’m going to grab our pew before some newcomer sits in it.”
Miss Ruth turned to me. “Oh, Coop. Such a shock to hear about Harley.” She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. I wasn’t going to start crying. At least, that’s what I told myself. “An arrest, after all these years.” She adjusted the grip on her purse strap. “Now, what did you want to know?”
“It’s really not important, Miss Ruth,” I said.
“Nonsense. Make me feel needed.” She grinned.
My face felt tired from all the fake smiling I’d done since we got to church. Sighing, I jammed my hands into my back pocket and was surprised when they touched paper. I’d forgotten the photos I’d snatched from Beau’s hand earlier were there. Why not ask? Might as well. I pulled the photos out, unfolded them, and handed them to Miss Ruth. “I found some photos with Tabby’s things. It looks like the church’s bookkeeper was, umm,” I leaned in to whisper, “stealing from the memorial fund.”
She put a hand over her heart as she stared at the photos. “Oh, dear.”
“I just wanted to know who the bookkeeper was forty years ago.” I shrugged. “It—it actually doesn’t matter anymore, but…”
She looked around her and then took a step closer to me. “Who else has seen these?”
Jus and Lib had seen them, and Beau looked briefly that morning but no one who was alive from forty years ago. That�
��s probably what she meant. “No one.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “Well, that’s a relief.” She clutched my arm and whispered into my ear. “Because the person keeping the books for the church was your grandmother.”
Her words punched me in the gut. “What?” My mouth hung open.
“Meriwether was the volunteer bookkeeper, but between school and tutoring and such, she fell behind. She told me Tabby offered to help her out for a season—they were friends too, you know.” She blinked her eyes frantically, and sniffed. “Oh dear, this is horrible.” She fumbled with the clasp on her purse, then pulled out a tissue. “So distressing. I didn’t know. I mean, I knew there were money troubles.” She patted my hand. “Your grandfather’s gambling—oh, sugar, don’t look so shocked. The whole town was buzzing by daybreak this morning. Things must’ve gotten bad if she started embezzling the church’s funds.” She wiped her nose.
I wanted to throw up. My heart dropped to the floor with the weight of her words. Gramps was a liar and Gran was a thief. The family tree was becoming a thornbush.
Miss Ruth grabbed my hands. “Honey bee.” She pulled me in close and hugged me tight. “I’m so sorry.” Organ music floated through the doors. “The service is starting. Wipe your tears, now, child, and get going. It’s nothing a heartfelt prayer can’t help…soothe our troubled souls.”
I dragged myself down the aisle to where Mr. Gordon sat with Liberty, Justice, and Beau, and slumped into the pew.
Liberty nudged me. “You okay?” she mouthed.
“No.”
During the hymns I stood but didn’t sing. I didn’t hear which book in the Bible to turn to. And I didn’t care what Pastor Joel was preaching about. I stared at the floor forever and then at my shoes, lost in my own thoughts. If times were so hard for Gran that she started stealing from the church’s memorial fund, why didn’t she write about it in her diary? That’s what diaries are for, right? Or maybe she did. Maybe that last entry about money turning people bad was about her and not Gramps.
My neck grew stiff. When I couldn’t stand looking down anymore, I looked up. The answers weren’t on the floor anyway.
The stained glass windows glistened in the sunlight. The church had twelve in all. One of the Last Supper, and then one for each disciple—except Judas. You don’t get your own window if you’re the dude who betrayed the Son of God. He wasn’t even in the Last Supper scene—just his plate so at least you knew he’d been there.
The window closest to me had a plaque above it: “John writing the book of Revelation.” He sat at a wooden desk, wearing a blue robe, and holding a quill pen in his left hand and a piece of a parchment with writing on it in his right. No smears on the parchment. I mean, if John were left-handed there’d be smears across his paper. Duh. Just like with Liberty’s schoolwork. Just like in Gran’s journal. Every single page she’d written had smudges. Just like in the…no, wait. The…the photo of the ledger…the ledger had no smears. It was clean. Not a blur in sight.
I sat up. A spark of hope began to grow in my gut.
Unless Gran had suddenly started writing with her right hand, no way was she the person stealing from the church. Plus, now that I thought about it, I’d read enough of Gran’s journal to know her handwriting. I mean, sure, numbers look different than letters, but there were some words in the ledger too—like Wednesday. And they didn’t match what I’d seen in the journal. The W’s in the ledger had a funky little curl at the very top of the letter. Gran didn’t write her W’s like that—at least I was pretty sure she didn’t. I needed to get home and look in her journal.
Miss Ruth was confused. Maybe she’d misunderstood what Miss Meriwether had told her all those years ago. I reached for the photos in my back pocket, but they weren’t there. Drat! Miss Ruth still had them.
I faced forward and tried to focus. My ears caught the words “always faithful” from the pulpit. Is that what Pastor Joel was preaching about? Faithfulness?
Semper Fidelis. Always faithful. Daddy had lived out the Marine motto every day. He knew his duty and had never strayed or given up. Had I given up too easily like Beau said? Sure, Gramps seemed guilty, but if there was one thing I’d learned lately, it was things weren’t what they seemed.
Mama’s show of strength was totally bogus. I’m not an idiot. The last few days had really taken their toll on her. She pretended everything was okay. Except she cried behind closed doors and blamed her red eyes on not sleeping well. Gramps wasn’t the “keep your nose clean” guy he wanted us to think he was. Gran hadn’t abandoned her family. Tick wasn’t a traitor. And Beau wasn’t a total jerk—at least not all of the time.
Shoot… For all I knew, Earl’s muffins actually tasted good.
I had to keep fighting. For Dad. And for Gramps.
He might’ve been a liar, but he wasn’t a murderer.
And Gran wasn’t the one who did the books.
What really happened forty years ago? I was ready to find out.
* * *
After church, Beau raced ahead to Mr. Gordon’s pickup. “I call shotgun,” he said climbing up front.
“Mr. Gordon?” I climbed in behind Justice. “I left something at my house. Can we swing by on our way home?”
“I suppose so.” He turned on the car. “But don’t dawdle. The four of you need to get started on collecting clothes.”
“Why were you all squirmy during service?” Liberty slid in next to me. “Did it have anything to do with what Miss Ruth said? ’Cause you slinked in grumpier than a Disney dwarf but then got all twitchy toward the end.”
I lowered my voice so Mr. Gordon wouldn’t hear. “I was thinking about the murder.”
“Did you have an apostrophe?” asked Justice.
“An epiphany, dork brain,” said Liberty. “Check your dictionary.”
“I just want to grab everything from the case closet. That’s all.”
Mr. Gordon slowed to a stop outside my house. Liberty opened the door and jumped out. I followed.
“I’ll be right back,” I called over my shoulder as I jogged to the front door. Once inside, I hurried to the kitchen table and collected all the papers Beau had brought down earlier, and then dashed upstairs to make sure none had been left on my floor. I stuffed everything in a backpack and raced to Mr. Gordon’s truck.
Chapter 33
Liberty and Justice found their old red wagon in the garage under a pile of Halloween decorations, dirty laundry, and a bag of Chester’s dog food. We spent the afternoon loading bags and boxes of clothes into it. Heat floated off the sidewalk in waves, and I had no doubt bacon could’ve fried on the hood of a car. Sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades. Still, it was better than scraping roadkill. Barely.
After every four or five houses, we’d have to return to the Gordons’ to unload. Their living room was filling up fast and it was a good thing Mrs. Gordon was still out of town. Liberty said her mama would’ve felt having her house buried under a giant pile of mothball-smelling clothes was more of a punishment for her than us.
As we walked, I told them what Miss Ruth had said about Gran stealing from the church. “But it wasn’t her. I looked at the handwriting in her journal when we got home from church—it doesn’t match, and besides, there were no smears in the ledger.”
“Take it from a lefty—there’s always smears,” said Liberty. “I think your theory makes sense.”
“Why would Miss Ruth lie?” Justice let the wagon handle drop as we walked up the steps of Mrs. Garcia’s house.
“I don’t think she lied on purpose.” Two large garbage bags tagged “Clothing Drive” sat next to her door. I grabbed one. “It happened a long time ago. And she said it was Miss Meriwether who told her that Gran was the one keeping the books. Plus, people forget stuff. I mean, like every year, months after Christmas, Mama finds a present she’d hidden for Gramps or me but forgo
t about.”
“Good point,” said Liberty. “Our folks forget where they’ve hidden Christmas presents too.”
“My dad forgets Christmas period,” said Beau.
An awkward silence hung in the air.
Beau and I carried the bags to the wagon and balanced them on top of a box. We were on the final street—the same street the Gordons lived on. We figured it’d be better to work from the outside of town in rather than the other way ’round.
I glanced at the leaning tower in the wagon and counted the remaining houses. “If everyone’s cool carrying stuff from the last couple of houses, I bet this can be our last load.”
“So are you going to ask Miss Ruth if she was confused when we get to her house?” asked Liberty.
“Maybe—I don’t want to embarrass her,” I said. “But I do want to ask for the photos back. When the service started we both split, and I forgot to get them from her.”
We added another box and two more small bags to the wagon. Beau and I each held a bag by the time we got to the Feather sisters’ house, which was next door to the Gordons’. Thankfully, there was only one smallish box covered in a layer of dust on their porch. Liberty grabbed it and then took my bag. “Get the photos and meet us back home.”
“Yeah, and don’t take too long, lazy boy,” said Beau. “We still got to sort all this.”
I knocked on the door as they walked down the rickety steps. Miss Meriwether opened it. She peered around the door to where the box had sat and then to Justice, Liberty, and Beau. “Where’s our box walking off to?”
“Next door with everyone else’s and then to the police station.”
“Good.” She stepped onto the porch, letting the door close behind her. “Now pay attention, Cooper.”
“It’s just Coop, ma’am.”
She ignored me and continued. “I put a detailed list of what was in our donation box. I want Deputy Vidler to sign off on it. The IRS doesn’t care a horse’s heinie if those things have been sitting in a box in our attic for eons, and I need that tax write-off. Understand?”
Coop Knows the Scoop Page 17