Killer Words

by V. M. Burns

  “Whew.” He wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead. “I think I got it, at least for the next five minutes. I’m going to make the other corrections and type it up.” He tilted his head, and his eyes pleaded. “Would you have time to look it over one more time before I turn it in?”

  “Of course.”

  He hugged me. “Great. I’m going to get busy typing.”

  I went downstairs and helped Nana Jo with the store, primarily to give Dawson some quiet time. The morning traffic in the store was certainly not going to be overwhelming.

  Nana Jo and I worked together well. She handled customers while I stocked shelves and managed inventory. I was contemplating where to put a box of children’s mysteries when I heard Nana Jo say, “It’s great to see you. How are you doing?”

  “Good . . . I mean, fine. Not bad. I just thought I’d stop by and . . . see how things were going. I mean, you know.”

  I recognized the voice and peeked around a bookshelf. “Detective Pitt, it’s good to see you.”

  “Good to see . . . good to be here.” He rocked awkwardly on the balls of his feet, his hands shoved down into his pockets. His glance moved around the store.

  “Are you looking for a book, or do you have time to sit and have some coffee?” I said. “Dawson made oatmeal cookies that are delicious.”

  “I guess I have time to sit for just a minute.” He moved to the back and plopped down at one of the bistro tables.

  I went behind the counter and placed a half-dozen cookies on a small plate. “Would you like tea or coffee?”

  Detective Pitt had shoved a cookie into his mouth, so I waited while he chewed and swallowed. “Coffee.”

  I used the single-cup coffee brewer to make coffee for both of us. I placed his mug on the table and sat across from the detective. We sat in awkward silence for several moments while Detective Pitt munched on cookies and washed them down with steaming coffee. I tried to ignore the crumbs that tumbled out of his mouth onto his chin, shirt, and lap.

  “Your sister tells me that you and your nosy seniors have been doing some investigating,” he said.

  Despite the word choice, his tone was more inquisitive than harsh.

  “We have,” I said. “It turns out you aren’t the only person with a motive to kill John Cloverton.”

  “Motive? What motive would I have for wanting to kill him?”

  “Jealousy. After all, he did have an affair with your wife, which ended your marriage and—”

  He snorted. “That’s not a motive for murder. If anything, I was grateful to the poor clod for taking her off my hands.”

  “You weren’t angry because he took Mildred away?”

  “Hardly. Mildred was nuts. I was happy to see the back of her, and if John Cloverton was crazy enough to want her, then all I could say was good luck and thank heaven.”

  I stared in his eyes to see if his cavalier attitude was merely male bravado in an attempt to save face or whether he truly meant what he said. I wasn’t a personality expert, but he looked sincere. “Are you telling me you didn’t harbor any bad feelings toward John Cloverton?”

  He shook his head. “Absolutely none.”

  “Then why’d you punch him?”

  He colored. “I already told you. He insulted my . . . manhood, and I lost my temper. That’s all. I haven’t spent the last years of my life pining after my ex-wife. At the time, sure, I was upset. I’ll admit it. Who wouldn’t be? If you found out your spouse had been cheating, you’d be upset too. But after she left, and the divorce was final . . . I realized it was all for the best. Millie always did have a problem with jealousy and anger. She was ambitious. She wanted me to rise to the top of the force and then run for some public office.” He shook his head. “I’m a cop, not a politician. She wanted more than I was able or willing to give. She found another sap who she could push, and that was fine with me. Like I said, she was obsessed and cuckoo.” He circled his finger on the side of his head. “It’s been worth every dime I had to pay in alimony to get free.”

  “Alimony? I didn’t realize you had children, and considering she was the one who cheated, I would have thought you wouldn’t have had to pay alimony.”

  He shook his head. “Nah, no kids. Alimony was the price of freedom, and it was money well spent.”

  “Where’d you go after John Cloverton left the police station?”

  “I left the station and drove home. There’s a bar about two doors down from my house, so I walked there and had a couple of drinks.” He looked in my direction as though checking to see if I was judging. “I walked home and went upstairs. I got into bed . . . alone and went to sleep. I stayed there until the next morning, when I was awakened by a telephone call telling me that Cloverton was dead.” He rubbed his neck. “I’ve gone over this a hundred times in my head, so I could recite it in my sleep.”

  “When’s the last time you remember seeing that gun?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t open that drawer often. I just know it’s there. Maybe a couple of weeks ago.”

  I was working through how to phrase my next question in a manner that wouldn’t be offensive when Detective Pitt surprised me. “If you’re trying to find politically correct words, don’t waste your time. Just spit it out.”

  “Who would have access to the murder weapon?”

  “No one.”

  Chapter 19

  “That’s impossible. If you didn’t kill him, then somebody else did. Somebody had to have been able to—”

  He shook his head. “No one. Nobody connected to this case had access to that gun.”

  “How much of a pain was John Cloverton to the North Harbor police and the mayor, really?”

  He scratched his head and held my gaze as though he was deciding whether to trust me. He must have made up his mind, because he looked around to make sure no one was listening and then whispered, “This stays between us, right?”

  “As long as Jenna doesn’t need it for your defense.”

  “No. This is just between you and me.”

  Eventually, I nodded. “Okay.”

  He leaned forward, and I could smell the oatmeal raisin cookie, coffee-flavored breath as it hit my face. “Most of the officers in the department suspected there was something not quite on the up-and-up with Chief Davis’s accounting. Cops don’t make enough money to afford expensive suits, silk ties, and handmade shirts.” He pointed to his polyester shirt. “Schoolteachers in this town make more than cops.”

  “They can’t make that little and survive.”

  “Barely more than minimum wage. That’s why most of us work a part-time job doing security at churches or for college football games, or we sign up for as much overtime as possible. Yet Chief Davis drives a brand-new Italian sports car. Me? I drive a thirty-year-old rust bucket with bald tires and no heat. Where is he getting that kind of money?”

  “Maybe his family has money?”

  He was shaking his head before the words were out of my mouth. “Nope. He’s got one brother who barely has a pot to . . . well, you-know-what in. His wife’s family was okay, but they weren’t Italian sports car wealthy. Mostly just working-class folks. His wife was a waitress before she married the chief. They have two kids, both in expensive private schools.” He gave me a knowing look and then named the most expensive private school in the area. “Tuition for that school costs more than I make in a year.”

  “Maybe they got scholarships.”

  “Are you kidding? Junior is dumber than a bag of hammers, and the girl . . . well, she’s got her mother’s looks, but I’m not sure her elevator goes all the way to the top floor, if you know what I mean.”

  “If you think he has been stealing money, then why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you say something?”

  He stared at me as though I’d suddenly lost all my marbles. “I never said he stole money. I don’t have any proof that he’s stolen anything. All I said was that it seems suspicious to me. That’s all.” He held up his hands inn
ocently. Then he leaned forward. “Inquiring minds want to know, where did the money come from? If John Cloverton had some evidence or . . . forget evidence. Cloverton implied out loud that something was going on. He was making a lot of noise with all those articles in the paper. Sooner or later, the public was going to want an investigation.” He glared. “If you wanna know who set me up, who would know when I left the station? Who would have the guts to come into my home and take my gun? Who would use it to murder Cloverton and then replace it? Davis has hated me ever since he became chief of police.”

  “Why?”

  “He resents the fact that I made detective. He thinks I only got promoted because the previous chief was my cousin, but that’s not true. I earned my rank.” He bit into the last cookie but started talking before he finished chewing. “I should have known he was setting me up when he ordered me to that hotel on Sunday. He must have known Cloverton was coming. He knew Cloverton would say something that would get me riled up. Heck, he may have even arranged for Cloverton to be there.” He shoved the rest of the cookie in his mouth. “If you wanna know who murdered John Cloverton, then twenty bucks says it’s Chief Zachary Davis. You mark my words.”

  Chapter 20

  After finishing off the cookies and his coffee, Detective Pitt left me sitting at the bistro table, pondering this dilemma. I’d promised to keep what he told me confidential, but did that mean I couldn’t share it with anyone? Or could I use the information but not divulge where it came from? Surely, he wouldn’t exclude his attorney from this information.

  “Sam, wake up.”

  I looked up, and Jenna was standing in front of me. I nearly fell out of my chair. Was this a sign from God?

  “Look, I don’t have much time. The twins want to throw Mom and Harold a bon voyage party. What do you think?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. With everything going on, I forgot they’re leaving for Australia in just a few short days.”

  “I think Mom would like a send-off, but I don’t have the time to do anything elaborate. Do you think Frank would let us use his upstairs?”

  “I’m pretty sure he will . . . if it’s free. I can ask. We’re going out to dinner tonight, but I’ll send him a text.” I pulled out my phone and sent the message while it was at the front of my mind.

  “Great. Maybe Dawson can provide some dessert, or we can buy the food from Frank. I don’t know or care, but I know Dawson has finals.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to bake something. He’s so grateful for the money that Harold put in trust for him and the twins. Plus, he baked their wedding cake, and I think it would be nice to have something reminding them of that time.”

  She looked at the empty plate of cookies. “What’s this?”

  “It was a plate of oatmeal cookies, but Stinky Pitt finished them off.”

  She must have noticed something in my face, because she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re my sister and I know you. Plus, you’re a terrible liar.” She made herself a cup of tea and then sat down. “You might as well tell me.”

  I used the time she spent getting her tea to make up my mind. I shared the information that Detective Pitt had told me, emphasizing that he had told me in confidence.

  She sipped her tea. “I think it’ll be easy enough to check. Now that I have a trust fund, I can afford to hire an investigator to look into Chief Davis’s finances. I can also ask around to see if anyone has heard rumors about the chief’s accounting. Plus, there’s Ruby Mae’s cousin Abigail. She might be able to help us. I think we can confirm his suspicions without involving Detective Pitt.” She squinted and shook her head. “Although I’ll never understand why he would confide in you. I’m his attorney and the only one required to keep his conversations confidential.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t confident that the pit bull would be able to stop herself from using any information she found, regardless of her client’s wishes.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugged and finished her tea.

  My phone dinged, and it was from Frank. “He said yes.” There was more to the message, but it was personal. However, I could feel the heat rise up my neck as I read it.

  “Great.” Jenna stood. “I’ll confirm the date and time with the twins and send it to you.” She walked out, mumbling that not only was I a poor liar, but I also had a horrible poker face.

  Nana Jo had kept the bookstore running all morning, practically single-handed. So, I took over for the afternoon so she could get a break.

  The traffic was relatively light and nothing that I couldn’t handle. By late afternoon, Dawson came down, and I read through his paper. It was much better. I suggested a minor change, but it looked good.

  He was insulted that we would even consider anyone else to make Mom and Harold’s cake and promised it would not interfere with his exams. He only had one left, and he felt well prepared.

  By the end of the day, I was tired, but it was a good tired. I loved talking to the regulars who came in looking for new books and new authors—such a great feeling. I was excited that one day these same people might even purchase my book.

  I watched Snickers and Oreo as they unfurled themselves and stretched after their naps. I took them outside. I couldn’t help but notice that Snickers was moving a lot slower and her muzzle was lighter and full of gray hair. When I first brought her home, she’d been classified as a “chocolate” poodle. Her coat had been the color of an espresso. Now, with all of the gray sprinkled in, her coat looked more café au lait. I picked her up and gave her a squeeze. She gave my nose a lick and yawned. I made a mental note to pick up more dental-cleaning treats. Because of her age and heart condition, the vet no longer did dental cleanings for her. At fourteen, she wouldn’t have a lot more time, and I couldn’t contemplate my life without her. So, I held my breath and squeezed her tight. When I put her down, I called for Oreo. He was playing fetch by tossing a stick in the yard and then running to get it. Part of me felt slightly guilty, but experience had taught me if I threw the stick for him he’d get it and then run away, expecting me to chase him. That wasn’t going to happen. He bounded toward the house. I tried to remember if I’d seen him potty but was glad when he stopped and hiked his leg before running inside. We went upstairs.

  I decided to put forth a little more effort in getting ready for my date with Frank, and I showered and changed into one of my favorite dresses. It was a blue and white A-line dress that reminded me of a blue willow china set Nana Jo inherited from her mom. Something about that dress sparked something in my memory. However, before I could focus on what it was, it was gone. I tried for a few moments to retrigger the memory like the bonus games on a slot machine, but time was wasting and Frank would be here soon.

  I gave myself one last glance in the mirror and then headed out.

  Nana Jo and Dawson were in the dining room making plans for Mom’s party when I heard the doorbell. Dawson offered to go and open the door, but I told him not to worry about it and I went downstairs.

  When I got to the door, Frank’s reaction was all that I could have wished. He helped me into his car, and we were off.

  Frank drove a black Porsche Cayenne. It was as luxurious as the name implied. The leather seats were as soft as a baby’s bottom. As a foodie, Frank loved trying new restaurants, and a new one had recently opened in the nearby town of Coloma, Michigan. We pulled up to the Blackbird Waterhouse, a historic resort building built in 1931. Over the years, it had been home to everything from an inn to various restaurants and pubs. Its location on a busy road, well, busy for a town of about twelve hundred people, and its proximity to Lake Michigan meant that during the tourist season it received a good number of visitors.

  Inside, the sprawling building had a large pub area where locals liked to hang out, drink beer, and watch sports. The low ceiling made the room feel like part of the original building, but it was just one of many additions made over the years. We passed through the bar
to the host station, which was part of the original building and was highlighted by a massive stone fireplace. Frank had made reservations, so we were shown to our table and seated.

  I looked around. “I remember this place from years ago, but it didn’t look anything like this.”

  “It has new owners who’ve invested quite a bit of money into improving the restaurant, and they’ve hired a first-rate chef. I’ve been anxious to try this place for months, but just never made it up here.”

  We ordered a cocktail, and Frank asked for the wine list. I wasn’t much of a wine drinker, despite his best efforts.

  The menu was a combination of high-end pub food and fine dining, which seemed smart to me, something for everyone. I was tempted to order the Blackbird burger but decided on the teriyaki-glazed Scottish Salmon instead, while Frank chose the Seafood Paella.

  “You look beautiful tonight.”

  I smiled. “You’re looking rather snazzy yourself.”

  Our conversation felt comfortable. I enjoyed spending time with Frank. He was thoughtful and easy to talk to. I found myself sharing the things I’d learned over the past twenty-four hours, including everything I’d heard from Detective Pitt.

  “Do you think he’s right?”

  I thought about it. “I hadn’t really noticed the quality of Chief Davis’s clothes until Stinky—I mean, Detective Pitt mentioned it.”

  Frank laughed. “I noticed you’ve been trying not to call him Stinky Pitt.”

  “It’s hard to break old habits, but I’m determined to stop. Nana Jo never did it around other policemen, but it slipped out when he came to MISU to arrest John Cloverton. Of course Cloverton heard it and probably taunted him all the way back to the station.”