Chapter 7
Eight hundred dollars later, Roscoe’s Toyota Corolla was held together on a wing and a prayer. The motor often backfired and the fumes from the tailpipe smelled of burnt rubber. He was not about to invest more money in a car when he was planning to abandon it once they crossed the border into Mexico.
He sat in the parking lot of the Central Savings Bank, peering out the foggy window. Almost time. Beverly McCarthy should be exiting the building any second. There she was.
One quick check in the mirror confirmed what he already knew. That slightly pudgy, thirty-something fool didn’t stand a chance against his immeasurable charm. He had combed his hair to the side and dressed in khaki pants and a solid pink button-down shirt. Brown loafers completed the boy-next-door look he was going for.
He got out of the car and strolled in her direction where she had taken her usual spot on a concrete bench. He would have to be quick before her two friends from Accounts Payable showed up.
The woman looked up as he approached. His smile erased any fear she might have had in the presence of a total stranger.
“My angel. My darling. Can I trouble you for a smoke? My boss says I have to quit, but I’m finding it nearly impossible.”
“Sure.” She fumbled for the pack and offered it to him.
He drew out a cigarette and lit it with a flourish of match and flame. “Ahhh. That’s heaven.” He looked around. “What’s a pretty lady like you doing sitting out here all alone? It’s not safe.”
She grinned, her face blushing. She tried to speak, but it came out as a jumble of sounds.
“I have a feeling you won’t be alone long. Especially if I have anything to do with it.” He took several more slow, sexy drags and blew the smoke up into the clouds. Then he looked at his watch. “Shoot. Got to get going.” He winked. “See you again soon.”
He walked back to his car just as her two companions were rounding the corner. As he reached for the door handle, he looked back over his shoulder to watch her excitedly relay the encounter to her friends.
“Hello, Roscoe.”
He nearly leaped out of his loafer. “Jeez! You scared me.”
“Get in. We need to talk.”
“Now?” He looked around as though hoping someone might come to his rescue.
“Yes. You can talk to me or to the police.”
Roscoe opened the door and got in. He really didn’t have a choice.
Chapter 8
A small town in Texas seemed like an unusual place for Ian Davis to live. He had gone to law school at Stanford in California and went straight to work for his father’s firm. Corporate law held no interest for young Mr. Davis, so he soon left the firm for a job with Legal Aid. It paid the bills and kept him busy. Too busy for much of a social life.
A holiday trip to see his grandparents in Maycroft changed everything. That’s when he met newly-divorced Sandra Berrie and fell in love with her big heart and playful spirit. When they talked of marriage, she dug her boot heels in and refused to leave her hometown. That’s how Ian ended up working for the biggest little law firm in northeast Texas. The partners loved the fact that he was willing to handle the pro-bono cases they were required to take.
Before long, he and Sandra and three dogs and two cats had made a nice life for themselves.
When Deena left the salon, she sat in her car and returned Ian’s call.
He answered on the first ring. “I’m glad you called. How have you been?”
“Fine.” She knew he hadn’t called to check on her health. “What is it, Ian? Is it Sandra?”
“Yes.”
Deena gasped, alarmed something had happened to her friend.
“Don’t worry. It’s nothing bad. I’m just a little worried about her.”
She let out her breath. “In what way?”
“I don’t know if she told you, but we’ve been going to a fertility specialist in Dallas.”
“I’m her best friend. Of course she told me.” She shook her head. Men were so clueless.
“I don’t know if it’s the pills she’s taking or what, but she’s been acting really strange lately.”
He must have noticed it, too. Deena hadn’t thought about the pills and hormones being the problem. “I bet that’s what it is, now that you say it. I’m actually relieved. I thought it might have something to do with her going to that new psychic.”
“Psychic?”
She could hear the alarm in his voice. Hopefully, she hadn’t given away a secret. “Um, didn’t she tell you?”
“No. But I’m definitely going to talk to her about it. You know how superstitious she is already. She doesn’t need some quack putting a bunch of mumbo jumbo in her head. Look, I need to go. Will you just keep an eye on her for me? Let me know if you notice anything wrong?”
“Will do.” She assured him that he had nothing to worry about and that she would be in touch. But after hanging up, a feeling of dread washed over her. Not only was she concerned about Sandra’s wellbeing, she was worried she might have broken a trust. Women don’t tattle on their girlfriends.
But for now, she had bigger fish to fry. The pawn shop owned by Councilman Fisk was about ten minutes away. She wanted to get there before noon in case he might leave for lunch.
As she put her car in reverse, a strange man drove by in a paneled van. He wore sunglasses and a ball cap pulled down low on his face. It was much too overcast to be wearing dark glasses. He might as well have had a sign on the side of his vehicle that said, Creepy Stalker. She waited for him to pass and then pulled out to catch up with him. She scribbled his license plate number on her notepad, unsure if the second number was a three or an eight. Before she could get a good look at it, he turned the corner and sped off down Butler Road.
She continued toward the pawn shop. Surely, someone would report that vehicle to the police. There’s usually at least one officer patrolling this area at all times. That thought made her check her speed. She tapped the brake pedal to slow down.
Several cars were parked in front of the pawn shop when she pulled up. Hopefully, Fisk would be there. She stepped around two riding lawn mowers on display in front of the door and walked in.
She had never been to a pawn shop before and expected it to be like the ones she saw on TV. The inside was bigger than she had imagined, rows of shelving filling much of the space. An attractive woman in her mid-forties sat on a stool behind a long glass case filled with handguns.
A young man held one of the pistols and examined it like a watchmaker valuing a fine timepiece. Another customer with a toddler in tow strolled down a row of small appliances. A door leading to an office area stood propped open. There was another salesman inside eating a sandwich and watching a small television. Fisk was nowhere in sight.
Deena walked to the counter and waited for the saleswoman to greet her. After waiting, she finally said, “Excuse me. I’m looking for Mr. Fisk. Is he here?”
The woman pushed her bright red hair back over her shoulder. “What do you want?”
Deena considered the question and the woman who asked it. By the looks of her low cut blouse, diamond bracelets, colorful tattoos, and bare ring finger, she wasn’t the kind of person Deena wanted to tangle with. “I’m Deena Sharpe. I’m a reporter for the Tribune, and I wanted to ask him some questions about his re-zoning plan.”
For some reason, the woman suddenly took interest in her. “It’s about time someone paid attention to his plan. I’m Georgia Parks.” She smiled and shot her hand out to shake. “Marty is usually here this time of day, but he left to run an errand. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. I can call him if you want.”
The man looking at firearms sneered at Deena. She had obviously interrupted the deal he was trying to make. She wondered if he were more interested in the gun or the girl. “I can come back later.” She reached into her purse. “Here’s my card. Just let him know I stopped by, will you?”
“You bet.” She slipped the card into her bra an
d nodded her head.
Deena walked out the door and to her car. She reached for the seatbelt and stared down at her average-sized chest. She was glad Gary worked in an office where everyone was fully clothed.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone drive past. Was it that same white van? Probably just her imagination. She pulled out of the parking lot and headed south toward the neighborhood she and Gary had driven through the night before. She wanted to talk to some of the residents to see what they knew about the re-zoning proposal. Maybe they had received offers on their property. Hard to believe anyone would be interested in the area for the houses themselves. As she got closer, she looked around, trying to determine why the area was of such interest to Fisk.
The first street was right off a small highway that headed south toward the interstate, the road most people in Maycroft took to Houston. Residents on that street were bound to hear a lot of traffic noise throughout the day and night. Deena turned onto the second street. She remembered seeing three houses in a row that seemed lit and occupied. She stopped in front of the middle one. It was as good a place to start as any.
The old wood-framed house likely had been built in the forties. It appeared to have had a second story added sometime later. Window boxes of petunias on the front gave it a well-kept look—compared to the surrounding homes, that is. She grabbed her tote and walked up the crumbling concrete path to the front porch.
She couldn’t help but think about Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird. Scout had stood on Boo Radley’s front porch and looked around the neighborhood in his shoes, through his eyes. She did the same thing on this stranger’s front porch. What must it have been like to live here back in the day?
She snapped out of her daydream when she heard the faint sound of a television inside. The front window was raised, and she could see Dr. Phil’s face on the screen. The doorbell button was missing, so she knocked on the screen door. It clamored back and forth as she struck it. She waited. Not hearing any footsteps, she knocked again. Harder.
Still nothing.
She peeked through the window and saw the top of a woman’s head sticking up above the back of a rocking chair. Her gray hair was in a bun. She had probably fallen asleep watching TV. Or maybe she was hard of hearing. Deena called through the half-open window. “Hello?”
The woman didn’t move, so Deena called again.
Nothing. She must be sleeping.
Deena turned to leave when something leaped off the chair, screeching and spitting. She stumbled backward as an orange cat jumped through the window and ran off the porch around the side of the house. With her hand on her chest, Deena tried to catch the breath that the scare had taken from her.
Surely, the woman couldn’t still be asleep. Deena looked back through the window. This time, she saw the woman’s pale arm swinging slowly over the side of the chair. Something was wrong.
She opened the screen door and turned the knob. It was unlocked. She crept toward the woman, each step creaking on the wooden floorboards. She moved around to the front of the chair and saw something she would not soon forget. The woman was dead. Strangled by a knitted scarf. The needles and ball of yarn lay resting in her lap.
The sound of someone screaming pulled out what little breath remained in Deena’s lungs. She spun around toward the front door in time to see a woman fall faint onto the front porch.
GARY ARRIVED A FEW minutes after the police and ambulance. Deena was relieved to see him race up the front steps to where she was talking to Officer Cassidy Nelson of the Maycroft Police Department. Deena knew the female officer from their previous encounters.
“Are you okay?” He grabbed Deena and wrapped his arms around her.
“I’m fine.” As soon as she said it, she felt her knees weaken. She leaned on Gary. “You remember Cassidy Nelson—I mean Officer Nelson.”
“Of course.” Gary reached out to shake her hand.
Deena looked over toward the front door. A paramedic attended to the elderly woman who had fainted. The medics had bandaged her head, but she was sitting up, yammering on about Barbara and crime and the city’s neglect of its tax-paying citizens. She had identified herself as Millie Canfield, the next-door neighbor. Another police officer was taking her statement. Millie had apparently come out to check on Barbara Wilde—the victim—after she saw Deena pull up in her car and go to the door.
“Sorry about this, Mrs. Sharpe, but I just have a few more questions.” Officer Nelson positioned herself between Deena and the front door.
“Certainly.”
She looked back at her notepad. “You said you were here to interview some of the residents for the newspaper. Is that right?”
“Yes.” Deena looked around as one of the paramedics came out of the house to go back to the ambulance.
“And if I check with Lloyd Pryor, he will verify that?”
Deena thought for a second. “Actually, no. I haven’t told him about it. I thought I would talk to a few people first to see if there was even a story here.” She squeezed Gary’s arm tighter.
“Is that usual? To work on a story without talking to the editor?”
Deena’s voice cracked as she spoke. “I—I don’t know if it’s usual or not.”
“Hmm.” Officer Nelson made a note.
Deena looked up at Gary, and then back at the officer. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m sure you realize we have to cover all our bases in a circumstance like this.”
Deena suddenly felt as if she were a character in a movie. How could this be happening? She was the one who called 9-1-1. She had nothing to hide. Then she realized the circumstances sounded like the start of hundreds of police dramas.
A silver sedan pulled up in front of the house.
“Here comes Detective Evans. He’ll be investigating the case, I’m sure. Just tell him what you told me, and you’ll be fine.” Officer Nelson took a few steps back. “Detective Evans, this is Deena Sharpe. She found the body.”
He nodded. “Ma’am.” He looked through the front door. “Would you give me a minute? I’d like to ask you a few questions before you leave. You can wait here, or Officer Nelson can take you down to the station where you might be more comfortable.”
Deena looked up at Gary.
He put his arm around her. “Why don’t we go to the station? There’s no reason to stay here.”
Deena nodded just as her cell phone barked loudly. It was Lloyd. She needed to talk to him about what was going on, but now was not a good time.
Officer Nelson closed her notepad. “I’ll need you to ride with me in the squad car. You can follow us, Mr. Sharpe.”
“Oh. Okay.” He glanced at the street.
By this time, there were two police cruisers, the detective’s unmarked car, a fire engine, and two ambulances parked in front. Deena’s SUV was blocked in. Gary had parked farther down the street in front of the neighbor’s house. He looked back at Deena. “We can come back to pick up your car later.”
They waited as two paramedics lifted the gurney carrying the neighbor, Mrs. Canfield, down the front steps. As they wheeled her toward one of the ambulances, she let out another scream.
“That’s it! That’s it! Stop!”
The officer who had been questioning her ran down the steps. “What is it, ma’am?”
“That’s the car I told you about! The one I saw last night.” She pointed a crooked finger in the direction of Gary’s red Mercedes.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes. That’s it!” She laid back and put her hands on her chest.
“Don’t worry. We’ll check it out.” He nodded for the paramedics to take her to the ambulance.
Gary and Deena both stared toward the street, their mouths open.
“Is that your car?” Officer Nelson asked.
Gary nodded. “Yes. But I can explain.”
“Okay, but let’s wait until we get to the station.” She motioned toward her vehicle. “I think both of you should
ride with me.”
Deena looked up at Gary. “Do we need a lawyer? Should I call Ian?”
“No,” he said. “Everything is fine. For now.”
As they followed Officer Nelson, an old Cadillac painted burnt orange and white with steer antlers tied to the front hood pulled up.
Deena recognized it. “You’re kidding me.”
Sure enough, it was Dan Carson, the Tribune’s crime reporter who just got assigned Deena’s political beat.
“Deena?” He seemed sincerely shocked to see her there. “You’re not trying to steal my story, are you?”
She dropped her head and waited as Officer Nelson opened the back door of the squad car.
He shook his head and whistled. “I see. You’re not stealing the story. You are the story.”
AFTER TALKING TO HIS secretary to reschedule his afternoon appointments, there was little for Gary to do but wait. His interview with Detective Evans lasted less than ten minutes. Besides repeating several times why and when he and Deena had driven by the neighborhood the night before and what he knew about Deena’s story, there was little else he could offer about the death of Mrs. Wilde.
It was all Gary could do to maintain his composure when the detective told him they were getting a warrant to impound his car for a few days to check it for evidence. Evans assured him it was for his own protection—to clear him from any wrongdoing.
Right. His car was his baby. It better not come back with scratches or that black powder they use for taking fingerprints. He might need Deena to pick up some more cloth diapers to use for polishing the exterior.
Deena.
As the clock ticked off the minutes, he fumbled through several magazines, not really even seeing the pages. All he could picture was Deena sitting across from Evans answering the same questions over and over. She was used to asking the questions, not answering them. Still, he knew she would be fine. She was innocent, after all.
The front door opened and Dan Carson sauntered into the station like he owned the place.
Sharpe Mind, Hanging by a Thread Page 4
