Murder Wins the Game

by Maddie Cochere

  The can with the satchel wasn’t Dave’s. Whoever tossed the house and took the money threw the satchel away in the neighbor’s can. Why not use Dave’s garbage can? They wouldn’t have been seen throwing it away, and it would be perfectly logical for his property to be in his own can.

  Something was odd about this. Bernie Drucker and his dad lived upstairs next door. I had no idea who lived downstairs. A tall row of hedges separated Dave’s house from the house on the other side of his property. The house on that side didn’t feel pertinent. I should take Glenn with me to talk to the Druckers and the occupants of the downstairs apartment. If nothing else, maybe one of them saw or heard something after the murder.

  I changed my note on the board and added one more:

  Satchel in neighbor’s garbage can – not Dave’s can

  Question Druckers next door - ask if they saw anything

  “What are you doing in here? I thought you went to bed.”

  I smiled at Glenn. It was nice to see him standing in the doorway. I liked that he was here. It felt different from when he occasionally stayed over, and the feeling was a good different.

  “I wanted to add information to the board.” I tapped my notes about the garbage can and said, “You and I need to talk to Dave’s neighbors.”

  He walked over, slipped an arm around me, and looked at my new information.

  “Good idea. And I’ll ask Winnie for a picture of the candlestick they have in evidence. We’ll see if they match.”

  He lowered his hand and gave my bottom a light squeeze. “C’mon. Let’s go to bed.”

  He didn’t have to persuade me. I happily followed.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Miss Grimes, did you see someone running from your home on the night it was broken into?”

  The pretty woman on the stand pushed a strand of her long, honey-gold hair behind one ear. “I did.”

  “Did you see who this person was?”

  “I did. It was him.”

  She pointed to Wilbur Finch at the defendant’s table. Wilbur didn’t look much better today than when we had seen him on Friday. Someone should have helped him dress better for his trial.

  “How can you be certain it was the defendant?”

  “I saw his face. When he passed the garage, he looked back at me. The light over the garage lighted his face.”

  “I have no further questions for this witness.”

  The judge looked to the defendant’s attorney. “Mr. Howell, your witness.”

  “Ellen. May I call you Ellen?” He paused for a moment, allowing her to nod her head.

  What was she going to say? No, you may not call me Ellen. I always wondered if this was some type of psychological trick attorneys did in an effort to seem more friendly before they skewered you.

  “What time of night was this?”

  “Shortly after ten. I had just come home from a date.”

  Mr. Charles raised his eyebrows. “Your date ended at ten o’clock? Isn’t that a little early?”

  “I had to prepare for a meeting at work the next day. I asked my date to have me home by ten, and he did.”

  “What made you look outside? When you knew your home had been broken into, why didn’t you call the police right away?”

  “I was stunned when I noticed the money I had put in my cookie jar was gone. I looked out the back door and saw Mr. Finch running through my yard toward the alley. I don’t know why he looked back at me.”

  “You didn’t call out after him?”

  “No.”

  “The garage is some distance from your house, isn’t it?”

  “I measured it yesterday. It’s only thirty-two feet.”

  I couldn’t help daydreaming during questioning. Mama was probably right. Wilbur Finch was guilty. Ellen Grimes had seen him, and he was picked up by police based on her description, so his guilt seemed a no-brainer.

  I didn’t want to fidget, but I was restless. Two new cases had come into the office, and Arnie was having to handle them by himself. I was also in a hurry to talk with Richard Munson’s ex-wife. I felt there was definitely something to find out from her.

  Mama dug her elbow into my side. “Told ya,” she said.

  The judge looked over at us and frowned. “Juror Number Four, please keep your comments and your hands to yourself.”

  Mama shook her head, tried to look innocent, and pointed a finger at me. “Wasn’t me,” she told the judge.

  The judge and I rolled our eyes at the same time. The attorney had no more questions for Ellen Grimes, and she was excused.

  Mama looked over at me and smiled. I knew she was getting a kick out of my serving jury duty with her. She had been unusually cheerful when I arrived this morning.

  “Got a little nookie last night, did ya?” she had asked.

  Her words caused me to bristle. “Why do you say things like that?”

  “I can just tell. Last night nookie is a good look on you. You look rested and relaxed.”

  I ignored her inappropriate words and said, “I’m sorry I accused you of killing Dave Jackson. I saw you leave his place the day he was murdered, and I thought maybe you went off the deep end and whacked him.”

  “I know,” she said, patting my arm. “I suppose I did go a little crazy there for a while. I’m ok now. I went to apologize to him, but he didn’t answer his door, so I left.”

  “Have you stopped playing the lottery?”

  She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. There was a lot of that going around lately. “Of course not. I’m driving over to Patterson to buy my tickets. Dave can’t buy all the tickets there, and that leaves plenty for me.” She quickly corrected herself. “Well, Dave can’t buy any tickets anymore, so I suppose I could start going back to Lou’s again.”

  “Mama, don’t waste your money on the lottery,” I said sincerely. “You won’t win. Hardly anybody wins. You said yourself Dave spent massive amounts of money before he won.”

  “Oh, I’m going to win,” she said. “You’ll see.”

  The clerk called us into the courtroom, and that put an end to our morning chit chat.

  I didn’t like that she was still playing the lottery, but it didn’t seem to bother me as much this morning. Mama and I were like oil and vinegar and butted heads often, but I felt better knowing she was no longer angry with me.

  “Mr. Finch. Where were you at nine-forty pm on May first?” The defendant’s attorney spoke loud enough to snap me out of my thoughts.

  “I was at home in bed. I have to be at work at four thirty in the morning, so I go to bed at eight o’clock.”

  “Can anyone vouch for you that you were at home?’

  “My mother.”

  “You live with your mother?”

  “That’s right.”

  Well, well, well. This was a wrinkle Mama wouldn’t be able to explain away. He had an alibi.

  “No further questions.”

  The judge didn’t bang a gavel, but he announced, “Let’s break for lunch. We’ll reconvene at one o’clock.”

  It was only eleven thirty.

  After the clerk admonished us not to talk about the case, we filed into the hallway. Wilma, who was juror number seven today, joined us.

  “Want to walk over to the Courthouse Cafe?” she asked. “I hear they have a good ham and bean soup.”

  Soup sounded good, and a few minutes later, we were sitting in the cafe.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” Wilma asked. “I don’t know if he did it or not. She said she saw him, but he said he was home in bed.”

  “He’s guilty,” Mama said. “Plus, there’s that business with the glove. They should make him try it on. If it fits, they can’t acquit.”

  “What glove?” I asked.

  “What do you mean, ‘what glove.’ Weren’t you paying attention?” Mama asked. “She found a glove near the back door. He probably wore gloves, so he wouldn’t leave fingerprints, and then he must have tried to put it in his pocket but dropped it.�
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  “That’s what I think, too,” Wilma said.

  “What kind of glove was it?” I asked.

  “One of those latex, surgical gloves,” Mama said.

  I couldn’t respond to how absurd that was. No one was going to ask him to try on a surgical glove. “We shouldn’t be talking about this. We’ll get in trouble.”

  “Phooey,” Mama said. “Those instructions are only a formality. They know we all talk about what we heard. We’re going to have to talk about it in the jury room anyway, so why not talk about it now?”

  “We’ll know more when the mother takes the stand,” Wilma said.

  “She’ll be lying,” Mama said.

  “How can you say that?” I asked. “You have to hear all the evidence before you can make a decision.”

  “I got guts, and my guts never lie. He’s guilty, and she’ll lie.”

  I had to change the subject before I started arguing with her.

  “Have you talked with Pepper lately?” I asked.

  Conversation was momentarily halted while our waitress placed a large basket of bread on our table and set nearly as large bowls of ham and bean soup before each of us.

  Mama buttered a thick slice of bread, dipped it into her soup, and took a big bite. “Hmmm,” she said with her mouth full. “This is ‘licious.”

  The soup was better than good. It was thick with chunks of ham throughout. I hadn’t had ham and bean soup in years.

  “I saw Pepper this morning. She’s mad at you, you know.”

  “I know. I’ll stop by and apologize tonight.”

  “Don’t tell her I told you, but she’s not really mad any more. She’s happy you and Glenn moved in together, and you can get the nookie more often now.”

  My mouth fell open so fast, a bit of soup dribbled out. I quickly wiped my mouth with my napkin.

  “How in blazes did she know Glenn moved in?”

  Wilma piped up, “I saw it on the beauty shop gossip line. The text came through this morning.”

  “That’s how I found out,” Mama said. “I think it’s terrible your poor old mama has to find out something important like that on the gossip line. Pepper said she knew yesterday when she saw Glenn carting all his clothes and some boxes into your house. I think that’s when she decided she wasn’t mad at you anymore.”

  I swear, it was impossible to have a private life in a small town. I had planned to ask Glenn to keep our new living arrangement quiet for a few weeks, but that was no longer an option.

  Aware we were pressed for time, we didn’t talk while we ate. Wilma eventually looked at her watch and announced, “We should get back.”

  Mama buttered another piece of bread and used it to wipe the last of the soup from inside her bowl. “We won’t be late,” she said.

  Wilma fidgeted in her seat. I could tell she didn’t want to be chastised by the judge for being late. She looked at me and said, “By the way, I was wrong about the maid killing Mr. Munson. I met her on Saturday at the library open house. She’s a real nice lady. She couldn’t have killed anyone. And the remodeling at the library is fantastic. Everything is so fresh and clean. Estelle, you should have your book club meetings there. They added two new meeting rooms, and they give you free coffee.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You met Richard Munson’s maid? And you thought she was nice? I’ve only seen her twice, and she was horrible both times.”

  “Then we can’t be talking about the same person,” she said. “She was so sweet. She’s looking for new clients now that she can’t clean the Munson place any longer.” Wilma opened her purse and pulled out some business cards. She gave one to Mama and one to me. “She told me to pass these around.”

  They were homemade cards. The cardstock was cheap and the clipart and typography could have come from any generic photo manipulation program.

  The name on the card was Roberta Hart. The name didn’t fit the petite woman I knew as Richard’s maid. The name was pretty and feminine. Richard’s maid was a bulldog. I suspected it was an alias. I’d run a check on the name when I got back to the office.

  We stood in line to pay our bills at the cash register by the door. My phone buzzed in my bag. It was a text from Glenn.

  Candlestick is a match.

  Shoot! I forgot to call the farmer’s market. And now that we knew for certain stolen merchandise from the mansion was at the market, the chances of finding the killer had increased greatly.

  I shoved my bill and twenty dollars into Mama’s hand. “Pay my bill. I have to make a quick phone call. I’ll meet you outside.”

  I rushed out and lost a few minutes digging through my bag, trying to find the right notebook with the number to the farmer’s market. I dialed only to reach an answering machine.

  A man’s voice intoned, “Thanks for calling the greatest market in Ohio. Office hours are Monday through Friday, seven a.m. until noon. Please call again during those hours.”

  That was all. There wasn’t even a beep to leave a message and ask for a call back. I punched Glenn’s speed dial number. Just as he answered, Mama and Wilma rushed out of the cafe and took off at a run across the street.

  “We’re late,” Mama yelled over her shoulder.

  “Hi, Sherlock,” Glenn said. “Did you get my text?”

  “I can’t talk now.”

  I hung up on him, shoved my phone in my bag, and took off running after Mama and Wilma. I hated running. The ham and bean soup sloshed in my stomach, and I felt mildly sick.

  Under a disapproving look from the clerk, we scurried into the courtroom and barely made it into our seats when the judge walked into the courtroom. I knew this afternoon wasn’t going to go well. I was sweaty and miserable.

  I nearly fell asleep during Wilbur Finch’s mother’s testimony. It wasn’t that her testimony was boring, I was simply fighting a soup coma and had a terrible time keeping my eyes open. And I hated to agree with Mama, but she was definitely lying. She said her son was at home with her during the robbery, but it was obvious she didn’t have a clue if he was in the house or not.

  I came awake when the next witness came into the courtroom. It was Richard Munson’s maid. She took her seat on the stand.

  The clerk approached her and said, “Please state your name and address for the record.”

  “Roberta Hart. 455 Arch Street. Buxley, Ohio. Do you need my zip code?”

  The clerk shook his head and stepped back.

  Wilma tapped my shoulder from behind. When I turned slightly to get a look at her, she nodded her head to let me know Roberta was the woman she had met at the library.

  The defense attorney questioned her first. “Miss Hart, what is your relationship to the plaintiff?”

  “I own a cleaning service, and I clean Miss Ellen’s home.”

  “Did you clean her house on the first of May?”

  “I did.”

  He held up the latex glove that was apparently discussed earlier. “And do you use gloves like this when you’re cleaning?”

  “I do.”

  I suddenly couldn’t concentrate on her words. Her address popped back into my mind – 455 Arch Street. I had looked at that exact address time and time again. It was the same address as the one on Bernie Drucker’s subpoena. Roberta Hart must live in the downstairs apartment next to Dave Jackson’s house. That’s how she knew I was there the day Dave was murdered. That’s why she told Sergeant Rorski I murdered him.

  I couldn’t understand why the sergeant hadn’t asked me about her accusation - unless he dismissed it, because she was a crazy loon.

  After Wilbur’s attorney managed to get Roberta to say the glove on the kitchen floor may have been left there by her, she was turned over to the plaintiff’s attorney. Surprisingly, he had no questions for her.

  As she left the courtroom, she sent a positively murderous look my way. The intensity was similar to her intensity at the farmer’s market. My stomach took another turn for the worse, and emitted a loud rumble. I remembe
red why I stopped eating bean soup.

  The door closed behind her, and there was a brief moment when the courtroom was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Instead of hearing a pin, we heard Mama pass a long, low, rumbling fart. It was putrid.

  A few of the jurors let out sounds of disgust and held their noses. Mama turned her palms up and shrugged her shoulders. “Wasn’t me,” she said.

  She held her nose and pointed at me.

  Chapter Twelve

  I pushed my front door open and rushed into the house.

  “Glenn! I’m home,” I called out. There was no answer.

  I ran upstairs and checked the bedroom and the murder room. I ran back down to the kitchen and opened the door to call down into the basement. I checked the garage. No Glenn.

  As much as I hated running, I continued running and ran across the cul-de-sac, through Pepper’s garage, and rapped on her kitchen door before opening it and letting myself in.

  “Hello!” I called out. “Pepper? Anyone? Is Glenn here?”

  Pepper came up from the basement with a basket of folded clothes. “He’s not here,” she said.

  “Have you seen him?” I asked.

  “I saw him yesterday when he was moving into your place.” Her face broke into a wide grin. “Whatever made you decide to let him live with you?”

  I let out a big sigh. It felt as if I had been holding my breath the entire time I had been running. I also didn’t know how Pepper would react to my barging in. I was relieved to see Mama was right, and she didn’t appear to be mad at me.

  “I have to sit down,” I said, sliding onto a stool at the breakfast bar and taking a couple deep breaths.

  Pepper set the laundry basket on the first step to the upstairs.

  “Kelly!” she yelled up the stairs. “Come grab this basket and put your clothes away.”

  I knew Pepper would be the one to eventually take the basket upstairs and put the clothes away. I’d witnessed this before.

  She grabbed two glasses out of the cupboard and filled them with sweet tea before sitting down with me.