Mousse, Moscato & Murder

by Jamie Lee Scott

  “In this case, it means he had a nine-millimeter under the driver’s seat, a baggie of ecstasy in the center console, and failed his breath test at the cop shop.” Hattie wiped jam off her plate with a piece of bread as she casually informed me of what she knew.

  “Okay, what exactly did you do today?” I couldn’t figure out how she got the information.

  “I waited at the jail for John. I may have forgotten to tell him I was there. I sat there for a couple of hours and read a book and listened. Just as I was getting up to leave, Randy was brought in by Deputy Ballic and Chief Hicks. He was defiant all the way to the cell. And they talked like no one was sitting there. Not like it’s classified information or anything.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Hattie sat quietly for two hours? And the vocabulary: riding dirty, set of balls on you, etc.? This was a new Hattie sitting in front of me. Maybe this was what happened when you got a life and left the property to huddle with the masses.

  “And then I went to the newspaper, and Roman helped me go through the public records. I never did see John.” She picked up the loaf of bread and tore off a dozen or so more bite-size pieces.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask, did Tommy stay the night at your house last night?”

  “No, she and I talked for about an hour, then she said she had to get back to school.”

  I wondered why she didn’t call or text me to let me know. “Weird. She didn’t even stop by the house before she left.”

  “She said you and Peter were celebrating Valentine’s Day. She didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “Jacob sent her a text earlier today, but she didn’t respond to it. At least not while we were working,” I said.

  Hattie chewed and swallowed, holding her hand up to let me know she had something to say. “About them. I don’t think it’s going so well. Tommy said something about not needing the distraction.”

  This hurt my heart. I didn’t know if I was more hurt because I had to hear it from Hattie, or because I liked Jacob. “She hasn’t said anything to me.”

  “I didn’t figure she would. She doesn’t want you to fire Jacob. Not to mention Peter adores the boy.”

  Peter did adore Jacob. He’d taken him under his wing as a sort of apprentice. Jacob had learned a lot in the few short months he’d worked for Peter and me. He was smart, ambitious, and would make a great son-in-law. I would never mention that last part to Tommy. Ever.

  “I get that. We like Jacob. Better that she dumps him than he dumps her.”

  Hattie refilled our glasses, which emptied the bottle of Prosecco. I drank half of my glass in one sip. Watching my little girl become a woman was killing me. That wasn’t something I could tell Hattie. She’d ask me where my balls went. I cringed at the thought.

  Hattie downed the last of her wine in two gulps. She stood. “I need to head out. I just wanted to let you know what I found out.”

  “I thought Tommy was at the house last night to talk to you about dropping this crazy idea of solving this murder before the chief does?” It wasn’t my place to remind her and I stiffened as I waited for her retort.

  “We did talk, and she’s right. It could be dangerous. I told her I’d think about what she had to say, but I didn’t make any promises. When I woke up this morning, I realized I was being childish. If John wants to date the police chief, that shouldn’t bother me.” She stood up and started packing everything back into the cooler.

  “I really don’t think they are dating. Didn’t he stay with you a few nights ago?”

  “He did.”

  “Does he seem like the kind of guy to have a string of women?” I personally thought the answer was no, but she knew him better than I did.

  I drank the last drop out of my glass and handed it to Hattie to pack away.

  Hattie sat back down. “I’m scared. I’ve never liked anyone as much as I like John. I mean, not since Peter’s dad. And I’m too old to get my heart broken.”

  I wanted to reach across the table and put my hand on top of Hattie’s, but I knew better. “Have you talked to John about this?”

  She blew out a tipsy raspberry, which accounted for her loose lips. And it only took two glasses of wine. “Men don’t want to talk about these things. It would be a sure way to drive a wedge between us.”

  As if she hadn’t been doing that with her attitude and actions. But maybe that was a way for her to put up a wall between them, assuring she wouldn’t get too close and get hurt.

  “What about Ruth? She’s always been a confidant for you.”

  “Ruth is stupid. She doesn’t know anything about dating. She hasn’t dated since God was in diapers.” Hattie stood back up. “I’d better get back up to the house. John’s coming over later.”

  I smiled. The zinger for the end of the night.

  “Here’s your chance to make him forget Chief Hicks ever existed. Not that she ever did for John.”

  Hattie snarled at me and grabbed her cooler and left.

  I stared at the door as it closed, happy to be alone again with my thoughts.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It wasn’t long before my thoughts led me to my computer, looking up Ivy Roundhouse. I found a Facebook, Instagram and Twitter account for her. I tried to find a Snapchat account, but I kept coming up with “no results.” If she had Snapchat, she didn’t have it in her own name.

  She was the queen of the subtweet. She only had eighty-seven followers on Twitter, but she had almost twenty thousand tweets. I didn’t read all of them, but most were negative as hell, or a reply to some rock star or movie star that likely went unnoticed and definitely weren’t responded to. In several places, she had rants that went on for thirty to forty tweets in a row. I had to scroll down and read them backwards so they’d make sense.

  Ivy wasn’t a happy girl. She didn’t seem all that bright, either. If it occurred to her in her head, she tweeted about it, but in subtweets, never actually calling a person out. If you knew her, you knew who the tweet referred to, I’m sure. Heck, the girl even tweeted about how bogus her arrest for aggravated assault was. Nothing was off limits. But even with her prolific tweeting, I couldn’t find out much about her relationship with her sister, because I didn’t know who she was subtweeting about.

  Instagram was more of the same anger. She’d post a lovely photo, but the caption would be nasty. But one post caught my attention. It was the morning of the day we’d been by the house. It was a photo of a headstone. No name or date, just a generic photo. The caption read, “Well, this sucks.” She knew her sister was dead. That little brat was a very good actress. Give her an Oscar. I’d truly believed she didn’t know, and that I’d been the bearer of the horrible news.

  On Facebook, Ivy had a public profile, and while nothing was too personal for her to share, she didn’t share here as much. She had some pretty risqué photos of herself that she’d taken in some public bathroom. They were selfies, so it’s not like someone else had taken the photos and tagged her in them. She and Randy had been having an argument for all of Facebook to see.

  I was mesmerized by the thread. The original post had been a sub-post, which is like a subtweet. All in the subtext without calling someone out.

  “When you love someone more than life, but they love someone else. They pretend to be happy with you, but you know they are always thinking of the other person. I can’t live like this anymore.”

  The post had been dated six days earlier.

  There were a dozen comments from girls saying things like, “It will all be okay,” “He really does love you,” and “Dump the d-bag.”

  And then Randy commented. “What the hell is wrong with you? This is so stupid. And to post it on Facebook? You’re an idiot.”

  At which point the entire thread went downhill in a barrage of personal attacks, both from Ivy, Randy, and her friends. I didn’t see anyone sticking up for Randy. Probably because he didn’t deserve it.

  I wondered who Ivy was referring to in the part about the pers
on loving someone else. Maybe Ivy was smart enough to keep her enemies closer. She’d moved in with Becca to make sure Randy wasn’t trying to get back with her. But that didn’t explain Randy eventually moving in. Or did it?

  The next thing I saw really made me do a double take. Ivy and Austin were Facebook friends. This made me wonder how cozy those two might be. Or maybe Ivy had just friended him to keep an eye on her sister and make sure she didn’t still have eyes for Randy. My mind was reeling with the possibilities.

  I’d found out because Ivy had posted a picture with a single red rose. It was the day after the post about being in love. Austin had commented with just a smile emoji. What exactly did that mean?

  While I was contemplating how well Ivy and Austin might know each other, another thought popped into my head. Sam Thompson.

  I put that on hold long enough to check out Randy’s profile. He didn’t seem to have a Twitter or Instagram account, but he did have Snapchat. If only I could get in to see his stuff. Then again, it only had photos for twenty-four hours, and hadn’t Hattie said he’d been arrested earlier in the day?

  Randy didn’t post much on Facebook, and he was smart enough to have most of his posts for friends only. Or so it seemed by his posting only a couple of times a year for the last several years. I didn’t go back much further. In fact, he didn’t even have public photos. Not even his cover or profile photo were of him. I only knew it was his profile because it showed he was in a relationship with Ivy.

  I looked up Austin next. That boy was football obsessed. I mean crazy football obsessed. Every post was related to the sport in some way. His friends even shared posts on his profile about different news stories. He had his colleges picked out. He didn’t want anything else in this world other than football. His Instagram was private, and so was his Twitter account. Friends only. Interesting. You’d think he’d want a presence about his dedication to the sport. Twitter was the place for athletes.

  I finally got around to searching for Sam Thompson. It was a popular name. But I did find one locally, in Cloverdale. I clicked on the link and was shocked to learn that Sam had been telling me the truth. About his name, anyway. That was him in the profile picture. He didn’t have much else in the way of a profile. Just his hometown and current city. Cloverdale was a trek for someone to come to Pear for breakfast every morning. There was more to his story.

  I thought about sending a friend request, but that was too creepy. Instead, I looked through all of his photos. And a half hour into my search, my heart stopped.

  There was an old photo of Sam with a girl who looked to be a little younger than him. Not much, maybe a few years, but younger. And here’s the kicker, she looked just like Becca Roundhouse. I couldn’t believe it. Sam had his arm around the girl, like they were chummy, a couple even. I looked to see if the person with him was named or tagged, but no. It just read, “What a great summer.”

  I immediately pulled up another screen and did a White Pages check. Sam Thompson in Cloverdale, California. I was going to find his address and go have a chat with the man.

  The search didn’t turn out to be as easy as I’d hoped. White Pages didn’t have a listing. I wished I’d had a business listing, or employment from his Facebook profile. He was older than the kids, so I wondered if he was on Twitter or Instagram.

  I dumped the address search and went back to social media. It was amazing what a person could find out from stalking social media pages. I probably could have found out more if I’d wanted to take the time to start a fake profile and friend him and his buddies. I’d considered using Tommy’s profile and friending them, but they’d recognize the Friday name. And I didn’t want her involved in any way.

  Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have done anything with Tommy’s account without her permission. And since I didn’t want her involved, I scrapped the idea right away.

  I did find Sam on Twitter, but he hadn’t posted anything in three years or so. That was a dead end. No Instagram page to stalk, either.

  I did a Google search on how to search for an address. Dang it! Anything I wanted that would give me what I needed was going to cost me money. The cheapest one required me to give them my credit card number for a free thirty-day trial. I could do that.

  I pulled out my iPhone and opened the calendar app to remind myself to cancel the subscription a few days down the road. I may need another address, so I’d keep it a few days. Then I went back to the records website and entered all of my information. I had my credit card number and expiration date memorized, so there was no need to hunt down my wallet. Don’t judge me; I shop online a lot.

  Once I was in, it was easy to find Sam’s address, and even his employment history. I didn’t recognize the name of the company he worked for, but it was a moot point. I didn’t need anything but his address for now.

  Now, that was the key word. I couldn’t wait until the next day to talk to him. He could be in another town for work, or worse, he could have skipped town. I figured the police had already grilled him, but I needed to know for my own peace of mind. Who was he really?

  Before I talked myself out of it, I jumped up and grabbed my car key and purse from the hook by the door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cloverdale wasn’t a small town. It had every store a person could need for necessities, and some great coffee and donut places. I drove by a few of those places and considered stopping for donuts, but it was too late in the day and I’d be fighting off a headache later if I did. Instead, I stopped at a convenience store and bought a bottle of water and a bag of chips. Nighttime snack choice of champions.

  Sam lived in a nice neighborhood with houses that probably ran in the high $300,000 range. All of the neighbors had nice cars and well-maintained yards. When I got to Sam’s address, there was no mistaking it was his house. I spotted the Chevelle in the driveway. I also saw kid toys in the front yard. Sam was married and had kids?

  I didn’t let the possibility of family stop me. I parked at the curb and got out of my car. This was one of the more reckless things I’d done lately. I hadn’t even told anyone where I was going. But before I walked up to the door, I made sure my location services were turned on, and double checked how to make an emergency call. Just in case.

  I straightened my skirt and my shirt, walked up and knocked on the door.

  I could see Sam through the sheer curtains over the paned glass window in the door.

  He opened it and stared at me, then said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you, please.” I tried to sound urgent, but not crazy.

  “How did you get my address?” He looked behind him, then back at me.

  In the background, I heard a woman’s voice say, “Honey, who is it?”

  “It’s no one, babe. I’m going outside for a minute,” he called back.

  He stepped deliberately out of the door, nearly knocking me over. I had to step back just to be able to keep my balance. He stormed by me and around the corner to the front of the garage.

  I followed. “Look, I just need a minute. I have a question.”

  “I have a family. Who are you, and are you stark raving mad?” He stood with his hands on his hips, his fists balled up.

  “I’ve been searching for Becca’s killer. And I came across your name on Facebook,” I said.

  “Are you with the police?” He frowned, not understanding.

  “No, I’m just a friend. But I saw something in your face when I told you I knew Becca. You know she’s dead, don’t you?”

  He nodded sadly. “The police have already been here. Were you the one who gave them the book I was reading?”

  I nodded. “You were there every day, then Becca was gone and so were you. I had picked up the book, intending to give it back to you the next day.”

  His brows morphed into one. “Really? That’s why you picked it up?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t going to play all of my cards until he told me something. “I saw a photo of you with someo
ne on your Facebook profile. It looked like an older picture, but you posted it recently. It was of you and a young woman. The woman looked a lot like Becca Roundhouse.”

  In the light from the street lamp, I could see him go pale.

  “That was Marjorie Roundhouse,” he whispered.

  “Becca’s mom?” I asked, even though I knew instinctively it was.

  “Yes. We had a summer fling more than twenty years ago. It was one of those week at the lake things. I never saw her again.”

  “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

  He leaned against the garage door and slid down into a sitting position. “A few months ago, I was thinking about that summer. That’s when I posted the photo, though I may have posted it before. One of my friends responded. But in order to not piss off my wife, he sent me a private message. He said he remembered that summer and that chick. It was Marjorie Roundhouse. He even said he’d seen her recently.”

  “Did you know her name?” I asked.

  “I remembered her first name, but not her last. And when my friend messaged me, I looked her up on Facebook. And there she was, with photos of her and Becca from the time Becca was a baby up until recently. And all I could see in the photos was me. That girl was my daughter.” He ran his hands over his very short hair.

  “So that’s why you were eating at The Bent Fork every day?” This was what I expected to hear, only not that he’d just found out.

  “I didn’t dare contact Marjorie. She seemed like the type to ruin a marriage. And she had another kid, too. When we spent the week at the lake, she never mentioned having a kid already. I promise you, if I’d have known, I’d have done the right thing.” He sounded as if all of the air in his lungs had been deflated.

  “So you didn’t really have an emergency that day when Becca stormed out, did you?” I was just guessing now.

  He shook his head. “I saw the entire fight. I knew the girl was Becca’s sister. But she wasn’t my problem, because she wasn’t my kid. Becca was. By the time I got to the parking lot, Becca was already in her car. So I followed her.”