Cinnamon Girl

by S. J. MacIver

  Lacy took a quick glance around the room. All heads were bowed, staring intently at their keyboards or whatever busy work they could find. She looked back at her work area, aware that something else was out of place. Something about the bulletin board. One by one she studied the items jabbed into the cork with colored stickpins, a collection of photos, quotes, anything that caught her interest or needed her immediate attention. At last she spotted an item she had not personally driven into the cork.

  "Paula," she called out, not bothering to look away from the object. "I think one of your photos wound up on my bulletin board. How could that have happened?"

  A moment later Paula appeared at her desk. Her cheeks were flushed and she couldn't look Lacy in the eye. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said lamely.

  Lacy jabbed a fingernail against a small photograph of her and Mike together at the entrance of the church. They were standing very close to one another, staring into each other's eyes, and laughing about something. The picture had been taken when Lacy had tried to leave the church and Mike had convinced her to stay. She recalled the moment as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. Come to think of it, it had.

  "This has your name written all over it," Lacy accused the blushing photographer.

  Paula lifted her shoulders. "I don't know why you'd think that's my work. Anyone could have taken that picture."

  "Anyone who just happened to be in the parking lot yesterday morning. You were probably just sitting there in your car eating pilfered brownies when you spotted us. And since you always, always carry your camera with you, who else?"

  The evidence was damning, not to mention the fact that Paula was not gifted in the practical joke department. Still she continued to deny all knowledge.

  "It's a lovely photo," she said, running her nail around the edge. "I wish I had taken it. Who's your boyfriend? He's very handsome."

  Of course by now the other reporters, even the librarian and copy editor were snickering and whispering among themselves.

  Under her breath, Lacy said to Paula, "Just wait. I'll get you for this."

  "Oh, I'm so terrified, absolutely horrified," she said with a laugh. Then she flounced away.

  "So who is he, Lacy?" asked Devin, the outdoor reporter. "He got a name, an occupation? He's got to pass muster with us before things get too serious."

  "I'll bet he's a model," added Jenny, the food editor. "I could mold him in chocolate, if you'd like."

  "Enough," Lacy hollered, even though she knew the comments were all in good fun. After all, just about everyone in the newsroom had been urging her for months to date again, up to and including offers to set her up with this one or that one.

  "He's nobody special," Lacy insisted, even though the moment the words were out, she knew they were untrue. "Just someone I met on the job."

  "Was he being arrested at the time?" asked Roger, the business reporter.

  "No," she said, intending to share a brief bit of that information. The police scanner Lacy kept on her desk squawked then, interrupting her explanation. After listening to the call, she grabbed her bag and jumped to her feet.

  "I'd love to stay here and listen to all your very nosey questions, but I'm on the job." She glanced at Paula and said, "We've got a standoff situation over on sixteenth."

  Paula grabbed her camera and said, "I'll drive."

  I'll drive. Lacy thought of those words as they made their way the short few blocks to the scene. It occurred to her that those words were quick to fly out of the mouths of just about everyone she knew. Not that she held it against anyone. She wasn't that fond of driving with herself either. Still, it was an irksome legacy, an albatross that would have labeled her as an airhead had she been a blonde.

  When she and Paula arrived at the scene, they were met with a line of police tape and warnings to stay clear of the small wood-framed home at the center of attention. Paula kept on the move, snapping photos as she followed the bright yellow tape, and angling for the best shots of windows and police officers. Lacy stayed put, waiting for the right moment to catch the attention of any law enforcement official who might be willing to share some information with her.

  After interviewing a couple of bystanders, she'd managed to find out that three people were barricaded inside the home—two men, one woman—and that shots had been fired earlier. Police were trying to convince the trio to surrender, but not having much luck. This prompted a call to the West Dakota SWAT team so they could take over negotiations. Lacy was making a note to that affect when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  "Fancy meeting you here," Mike said as she turned to face him.

  "What are you doing here?" she blurted out. "How did you even know to come to this address?"

  His grin was smug as he leaned in close and said, "Once a cop, always a cop. I have this highly developed intuition that lets me know when crimes are underway at all times. It's kind of like a sixth sense."

  Lacy just stared at him, mouth agape. This was too ridiculous to be true. Still, she had heard of stranger things in the world of ESP.

  "I..." She paused. "Oh, I don't believe you just 'know' when and where a crime is being committed. You must have been with Brian or something when the call came in."

  He shook his head. "Nope. I was at my office."

  "And I'm supposed to believe that you just knew somehow to come here."

  "Yep." He gave her his best smile. "Of course, it probably didn't hurt that I have my very own police scanner."

  Lacy doubled up her fist and lightly punched his shoulder. "I'm working this scene and don't need any silly distractions. Besides, isn't having a scanner illegal or something? I've always been under the impression that law enforcement doesn't take kindly to regular citizens listening in on their calls."

  "You'd be right about that in most cases. They don't mind so much that ex-cops keep up to the minute. Mostly it's those pesky newspaper types listening in that get on their nerves."

  There wasn't much of an argument to that. Law enforcement officials were always scrambling their signals, making it difficult to impossible to pick up their calls. This method didn't hold true for the fire department or ambulance squad signals however, and they were generally put into action right along with the police department.

  "So what's going on here?" Mike asked. "Do you have any details yet?"

  She glanced at her notes. "So far I've interviewed a couple of bystanders, but they didn't know any more than I do. I've got my eye on that woman in the yellow jacket." She pointed her out. "She just finished talking to Detective Olson, so I assume she knows something."

  "Mind if I tag along?"

  Lacy shrugged. "Suit yourself, but no more smart remarks."

  "How about dumb ones?"

  Lacy just shook her head and headed for the woman, who was wearing a Green Bay Packers jacket. "Excuse me, Ma'am," she said. "I'm with the Bismarck Herald and would like to ask you a couple of questions. Would that be all right?"

  The woman, somewhere between forty and fifty, glanced beyond Lacy's shoulder and said, "Who's he?"

  "He's, ah, my photographer."

  "You're not going to take my picture, are you?"

  "No Ma'am," Mike vowed. "Not if you don't want me to."

  The woman patted her tangle of uncombed curls. "Maybe some other time when I've had a chance to fix up a bit."

  "May I ask a couple of questions?" Lacy repeated, trying not to be annoyed as the woman's gaze lingered on Mike.

  She reluctantly dragged her attention back to Lacy. "Sure. I guess so."

  "Do you live near the house under surveillance?"

  "Right next door," she said sourly. "And let me tell you, it's been hell on earth."

  "Your name?"

  The woman paused and narrowed her gaze. Then she said, "The guys in that house are not the kind you want to irritate. For your article, just say I'm a Concerned Citizen. You can call me Betty if you want."

  "All right, Betty. Do you have any ide
a what happened next door?"

  "Same thing that happens most every night. They party hard, drink a lot, play loud music until all hours in the morning, do drugs, drink some more, and generally make it impossible for decent citizens to get a good night's rest."

  "Have you tried calling the police when they disrupt the neighborhood?"

  "Not me, but the guy on the other side of them did, and his dog disappeared the next day."

  Lacy jotted some more notes, and then asked, "Who owns the house?"

  "As far as I know, these clowns still rent. Jasper Knowles was the owner. I think he still is." She snorted a laugh. "Maybe now he'll do what he should have done a long time ago and kick their sorry butts out before they blow up the neighborhood."

  "Blow up? Why would they do that?"

  "Because they're a bunch of tweakers."

  "Tweakers?"

  "Yeah, you know, meth-heads." Betty inched closer to Lacy. "Again, you didn't hear this from me, but they're always cooking something up over there, and I don't mean burgers on the grill."

  "How do you know this?"

  Betty thought about that a moment, then said, "Not that I know much about drugs and such or that I'd ever use them, but often times it smells like they've set fire to a truckload of plastic spoons. I think they're running a lab in that house. Course I can't prove it."

  Mike leaned over Lacy's shoulder then and whispered, "Isn't that Jeremy Hankins standing over by the curb?"

  She glanced in that direction. "Yes, I think it is."

  "Shouldn't he be in school or something?"

  Lacy shrugged. "Maybe it's a teacher's holiday or something."

  "Nah," Betty said. "School's on today, and I should know. Got twins in the seventh grade. That kid's playing hooky."

  "Nice to meet you, Betty," Mike said. Then quieter, and to Lacy he added, "I think I'll go on over and have a little talk with him, see what's up."

  Lacy gave him a short nod, and then went back to questioning her concerned, and slightly agitated citizen.

  * * *

  "Hey, Buddy," Mike said as he approached the boy. "How are you doing?"

  Jeremy looked up in surprise. "Oh. Hi."

  "Kind of hard to resist a standoff, huh?"

  The boy shrugged and looked away.

  "Shouldn't you be in school or something?"

  "Nah. I felt sick and got sent home."

  "Really? As I recall, you live on the other side of town. How'd you get all the way over here?"

  He lowered his eyes and sank down on the curb. "Walked."

  Mike sat down beside him. "What brought you over here?"

  The boy took a long time answering before he sighed and said, "I just started walking, didn't know where I was going. Then I heard the sirens, so I came over here."

  Mike patted Jeremy's shoulder. "You look and sound kind of sad. Anything you can talk about?"

  Another shrug. "I spent the weekend with my dad, just like always, but it was pretty bad. He just moped and cried the whole time I was there."

  "Don't be too hard on him," Mike counseled. "It's only been a week since Candee was found. It can take a really long time for your dad to get over losing the woman he loved."

  Jeremy shook his head. "Mom said he didn't really love Candee, and that going off and marrying her was a passing thing men sometimes do. She said he'd come back to us some day."

  Mike had to think about that a minute. He didn't want the kid thinking less of his mother, but then he wasn't content with the idea of leaving things the way they were.

  Stepping carefully, he suggested, "Sometimes divorced men and women convince themselves the ones they love will return, but it's not often true. I think in your dad's case, he really did love his new wife. That doesn't mean he loved you any less, though. You do understand that, don't you?"

  Again a shrug. "I just didn't know my dad loved Candee so much. He should have told me."

  "Maybe he thought he had."

  Jeremy hung his head, apparently thinking this over. For some reason, Mike's thoughts turned to the youth program that Brian ran for the church. He was always trying to get Mike interested in helping out. Maybe this kid could benefit from some of the activities there, get him away from his father's grief and his mother's anger for a while.

  "You know what, Jeremy?" he said. "At my church we have a really fun group of kids your age that get together every Sunday evening for music, refreshments, and just plain fun. Would you like to come by and check out the group this Sunday?"

  Jeremy shook his head. "I don't know if my mom will let me. She thinks church is for losers."

  "Do you think it will help if I give her a call and ask her?"

  "You can if you want."

  Nothing was settled, of course, but at least he had a foot in the door. In the meantime, the most pressing issue was truancy.

  "Tell you what, Jeremy," Mike said as he got to his feet. "You look like you're feeling a lot better now. Why don't you let me drive you back to school?"

  Chapter 10

  Lacy made contact with Candee Hankins' friend and former colleague, Cindy Love, and found her more than willing to be of help. They arranged for an interview on Thursday evening before Cindy's shift at the Satin and Silk Lounge in Mandan, sister city to Bismarck.

  When Lacy mentioned the arrangement to Mike during one of their nightly telephone calls, he immediately offered to accompany her. After all, it was the gentlemanly thing to do. Even though Lacy was quite used to conducting evening interviews on her own, she indulged him on this, knowing that he probably expected the meeting to take place at Cindy's place of business. Fat chance.

  When she directed Mike to pull into the parking lot of a diner a couple of blocks from the Satin and Silk Lounge, he was clearly surprised.

  "I thought you were interviewing a dancer from the lounge up the street."

  "I am," she said, trying not to laugh. "She requested that we meet here instead of the lounge. Better lighting and all."

  "Oh."

  While Mike didn't exactly sound disappointed, he'd lost some of his earlier enthusiasm.

  "Shall we?" Lacy said, opening the truck door.

  The diner was fashioned to resemble an old train car, its exterior painted to look as if it were wrapped in bright silver foil. Once inside the establishment, the train theme turned into a monument to the fifties and sixties. Posters of Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and other stars of the era covered the walls, and a brightly flashing jukebox lured nostalgic types to pop in a few quarters and play a couple of tunes.

  Lacy ignored the décor and searched the room for Miss Love, noted she'd said, for her long red hair and the eagle feather plaited into the lone braid on the left side of her face. She spotted the wad of crimson hair and tell-tale feather toward the back of the restaurant, and motioned for Mike to follow along.

  "Cindy?" Lacy asked as she approached the table.

  "That's me," she said, her voice a curious blend of too much air and not enough windpipe. She sounded like a five-year-old child. "And for the record, that's Sindy with an 'S'."

  Lacy slid into the booth across from Sindy with an 'S', and Mike settled in beside her. "I'm Lacy, and this is, um, my photographer, Mike."

  "Ohh, so nice to meet you," Sindy said with even more current. She fluffed her thick mane of hair and pushed back her shoulders. This, thanks to her black, scoop-neck sweater, gave Mike and anyone who cared to glance her way a mighty fine view of her large, partially revealed bosom.

  Sindy then batted impossibly long lashes, pursed her scarlet lips into a coy smile and said, "So, Mike—would you like to take my picture?"

  Mike kind of choked on something—Lacy was pretty sure it was his tongue—and then said, "Oh, sorry. I didn't bring my camera."

  Those pursed lips fell into a pout. "Maybe some other time."

  The waitress stopped by then, took their order for three chocolate malts and one order of French fries, and then Lacy worked at drawing Sindy's attention back to the
interview. And away from Mike.

  Angling her notebook just right, she said, "So is Sindy Love your real name?"

  "No," she said with a giggle. "That's my stage name. Don't print it or tell anyone else, but my real name is Martha."

  Lacy made a note of this and then asked, "Did Candee use a stage name, too?"

  "Yep. She went by Candee Cane at work, but her real name was Cathy."

  "Really?" This struck Lacy as odd. "But when I interviewed her husband, he referred to her as Candee, not Cathy."

  "That's because she really got to liking the new name, and insisted that everyone call her Candee whether she was working or not." She rolled her heavily made-up eyes Mike's way. "Aren't you going to ask me some questions?"

  Before he could get all tangled up in his tongue again, Lacy said, "I'm afraid Mike can't do any of the interviewing. It's against the rules."

  The pout back in place and her eyes still on Mike, Sindy said, "That's too bad. Did you know Candee?"

  "No, I'm afraid not."

  Sindy reached across the table and patted his hand. "You would have liked her. She was such a love."

  Her eyes teared-up and, stemming a mascara disaster, Sindy quickly dabbed a napkin against the heavily made-up rims. "This is all so awful," she whispered in a tiny voice. "Have they found out who did this to Candee yet?"

  Mike shook his head. "I don't think so."

  Retaking control of the interview, Lacy said, "I'm sorry, but so far the police don't have any new leads. They're working very hard on this case though."

  "Well," Sindy said, dabbing at her nose. "It's like I told the police. They ought to just concentrate on Dale Herman. I'll bet he's the one did it."

  Their food arrived then, putting a halt to the interview. Nobody really wanted to eat, so the single plate of French fries represented community hors de oeuvres.

  Lacy took a long, delicious gulp of her malt, and then got back to work. "Why do you think the police should concentrate on Mister Herman?"

  "Easy," Sindy said through a mouthful of French fries. "He was downright mean to her."