by Vicki Batman
He set down the bowl, placing his palms on the tabletop and leaning in. “You sound like a broken record, Hattie. If Tracey didn’t do it, she’d have to explain where she was, who she was with, what she was doing, etc. We do know she talked to Jonson.”
“Fine.” Standing, I snatched the bowl and carried it to the trash. The unpopped kernels fell into the can. When I released my foot off the lid lever, the lid snapped sharply shut. “I’ll get Mom and Dad to hire a lawyer, and we’ll find the best solution.”
He barely lifted one shoulder. “Your prerogative.”
After setting the bowl in the kitchen sink, I turned to face him. “What about any witnesses?”
“I said, so far, only one was identified. The security video—”
“Ack so.” I smacked my hand against the countertop. “You admit knowing about videos.”
“You’re killing me, Hattie,” Allan said. “Super Saver Grocery’s video. Tracey is seen standing by Jonson’s car window. She rested her hands on the door frame. Just like I told you.”
“She told me the same thing.”
Allan nodded.
“Let me think for a minute,” I said. “If Tracey’s prints are only on the outside, not the inside, how did she hit him on the right side of his head?”
Allan’s eyes bugged like he hadn’t considered the scenario. Surely, he was a better detective than me. “If you keep studying the footage longer,” I said, “you might see more, maybe someone else.”
“Like what?” He gave a squint, then drank deeply.
“Just a suggestion.”
“If you know something, you should say so.”
I laid my hands on my hips. “I. Know. Not-a-thing.”
“The video is grainy at best. You'd think Super Saver would utilize better technology.”
“Here’s what I think”—I rubbed the tip of my nose. The Sommerville police had weak evidence against Tracey, which gave me some hope—“you can’t positively ID my sister from the video.”
“I’m not admitting anything,” Allan said. “An expert is working on clarifying the footage, and we’ll be asking nearby businesses for their videos.”
“Good move.”
He stroked his chin. “We rounded up several Super Saver employees to interview, but most likely, some already left without knowing what took place. Only one reported seeing an older woman in the vicinity, which doesn’t mean Tracey was with Jonson. Super Saver’s a huge grocery store with a large parking lot. Many people are in and out all day long.”
“Okay.” I ran my finger across the tabletop. All his statements about Super Saver were true. “No one can specifically identify Tracey. And she can’t be ID’d from the video?”
I swear to God the man had mastered the policeman stance—hands on hips, a narrow look off to the distance—primarily used when frustrated.
“Not yet.”
More hope blossomed in my heart. “And you don’t have a weapon?”
“I think I’ve said enough,” Allan said.
I pointed. “Here’s what I think. If you found the weapon, you’d test it for fingerprints and find Tracey’s aren’t on it.”
“Like I said—”
“Right. Like you said.”
Each of us was lost in our respective theories, hopefully figuring out a way to help Tracey out of her mess.
I said, “I’ll get her to talk to you.”
“You do that”—Allan chugged the rest of his drink, crumpling the now-empty can with his left hand—“and I want to know as soon as possible what you find out, or better yet, convince her to come to the station and tell me. Get it?”
After dropping the can in the recycling bin, he walked over to my side, and skimmed his right index finger over my cheek, off my chin, and along the column of my throat to the valley between my breasts.
I went hot. Red, hot coal, bonfire-flaming hot.
A little mysterious smile shaped his mouth as his finger traced my lower lip.
“You looked cute all messy in the tub.”
Snorting, I did the “whatever” expression, combining it with the rolling of my eyes, but didn’t knock away his hand. Women all over the world beat themselves silly, trying to look their best for their man, and this one liked me wet and messy. The truth? If Allan and I were meant to be together, he would have to take me with all my pimples and scars. I shuffled closer.
“I liked the bubbles,” he said. “One pert little nipple peeked out.”
Golly. “Thanks for informing me.”
He slanted forward.
I had a great deal of experience with him and “leaning in.” “Leaning in” suggested a whole lot more than leaning. Like boy-slash-girl things.
His nose nearly Eskimo-kissed mine. “Glad to be of service. I could do delicious things with it. Do you taste as good as you look?”
Overcoming my embarrassment, I met his gaze. “Better.”
In one fast move, he pulled me to his chest and captured my mouth in body-numbing kisses.
“Oh God,” I moaned and traveled my lips over to the soft spot below his ear, where a faint scent of pine bloomed. A vibration began in my girl parts and moved to my chest, where it quickened into lust between my legs. His left hand inched under my shirt, tracking a course along my ribs, toward my breast when—
Buzz, buzz.
Allan stopped kissing. “Sorry.” He stuck his hand in his inside coat pocket for his phone and checked the screen. “Not me.”
I rubbed my cheek over his jaw. “Has to be. Your phone’s the personification of bad timing.”
Again, he studied his device. “Sorry. Still not me.”
“Must be mine. Whoever it is can leave a message.”
Allan took in lip action.
His mouth sluiced across mine in a sloppy, hungry mode—God, what a red-blooded male. I wanted more and nearly scaled his body to get it, too.
But my phone didn’t roll to messages. Somehow, in our grasping and grappling, we smashed the Accept button.
What I heard would never be music to anyone’s ears.
“Harriet Lee Cooks, where are you? Why aren’t you answering your phone? Pick up. Pick up. PICK UP.”
My body altered into freeze mode. Mother. My mother. She would be the one calling right in the middle of hanky panky with Allan Wellborn.
I dropped my arms. I looked at Allan through my lashes and repeated the line he said way too many times, which I despised as much as I despised cold, canned green peas, “Gotta go.”
Chapter Sixteen
The next day, I zipped through traffic to Wedding Wonderland, cornering the turns. I hated being late, like super late, for work. Wipers swished across the windshield, giving a shoo-shoo, shoo-shoo sound, clearing the light mist. Driving like a maniac could cause an accident with all the rushing and hurrying. I swerved to miss a small, white sedan about to play bumper cars with a monster-sized, red, four-by-four pickup.
Last evening, Mom left a second message on my phone. I didn’t listen because I believed it might be about Tracey, and Allan didn’t need to hear anything right now. I wanted to keep anything related to Tracey private. After Allan exited my place with an unsatisfied look on his face—no first base—I proceeded to my room to return Mom’s call, except little would be said on my side. She didn’t answer. I left a message, saying I would speak with her later.
The hour grew late. I’d bundled myself to bed. However, sleep eluded me. The idea of making love with Allan swirled through my brain.
I rolled to my back, sticking my hands under the back of my head. My ruminations turned to Tracey and how she and my family depended on me to get information for her exoneration. Then flipped back to Allan. When forty winks finally subdued my overactive mind, I missed the alarm.
’Nuff said.
I turned into the retail lot and slotted my car in a spot a few rows away from the store, leaving ample space for customers to park closer to the entry so the rain wouldn’t soak them. Wonderland probably w
ouldn’t see many patrons today. Nasty weather had a way of discouraging shopping, except for the “bored-out-of-my-gourd,” hardcore shoppers. Rainwater—good for the landscape. Bad for retail business.
Running to the front sidewalk, I splashed through the few puddles from the morning shower, praying I wouldn’t ruin my shoes. A wiser plan would have involved bare feet. I pulled on the store’s door handle and found it unlocked. Miss A. is always on time.
I stamped my feet on the mat and stepped inside. “Miss A.? Miss AAAAA?”
“Back here, dearie.”
I tracked her voice to the office. The door stood open.
“I’m putting away the supplies I bought at the home improvement store the other day,” she said.
“So glad you got the chance to go.”
Miss A. shook her head. “I can’t believe how disorganized I am.”
“You aren’t. We’ll get there eventually. You’ve been running like a madwoman.” I slid my arms in the store jacket. “Did you get a hammer or find the one you lost?”
“I never did find it, but I did purchase a new one.”
She rummaged through a plastic bag and fished out the tool, displaying it for my inspection.
“Nice.” I adjusted my lapels. “I’ll head over to reception and get to work.”
I left Miss A. to her organizing. At the desk, I set my handbag inside a drawer in the credenza, then locked it. “I’ll boot the computer, too.”
“Thank you, dearie.”
I heard a loud clang of something heavy hitting the floor.
“Oops. I’m okay. I’m oookay. I dropped the hammer. Missed my foot.”
I smiled. Miss A. can be funny.
She and I immersed ourselves in our respective duties for a while. I lost track of time. Once I completed the data entry, I took a dusting cloth and brushed it over the tabletops and chairs. Satisfied, I straightened, humming the last tune playing on the oldie station—a sweet love song composed by my mom’s favorite seventies rock band.
I polished the windows and the leaded glass door.
Miss A. joined me. She crooked her head to peer at the dark cumulonimbus clouds threatening to dump buckets of water.
After a long stare, she turned to me.
“Hattie, a reminder. I have a bride scheduled for one this afternoon. Her mother will be with her. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they canceled with the rain and all.”
She tipped her head and looked again at the clouds in various shades of gray.
“As much as we need rain, sometimes, it hinders business.”
I placed my hand on her shoulder. “I understand. Though, we never want drought again.”
“No, indeed. Where I come from, drought isn’t a problem. Lots of fog and mist.”
“Lucky you.” So, maybe Miss A. hailed from a rainy climate. “In some places, a shower falls nearly every day, like Mexico. Puerto Rico. Hawaii. Seattle. And England.”
Miss A. shrugged. “Yes. Carrying an umbrella is a must.”
I didn’t probe for additional information. She always spoke carefully when divulging personal details. Some people kept their mouths closed until they became more comfortable with whom they were sharing. Most likely, she would tell me her story in her way.
“Oh well,” Miss A. said, “we can mega clean the store.”
I lifted my cloth. “Can do.” Then I remembered what I vowed to accomplish today to help Tracey. “Miss A., since we're having a lull, would you mind me taking my lunch now?”
She blinked. “Lunch…now?”
I tapped my wristwatch. “It’s almost noon. We’ve been busy.”
She checked her phone. “Why it is almost noon. Surprising. They say ‘time flies when you’re having fun.’ ”
“I need to run an errand. I wouldn't ask to go now unless very, very important.”
Miss A. flapped her hands in a fluttery manner. “Oh, go on, dearie. Just be back to help with the customers we're expecting in an hour.”
I flew to the desk, unlocked the credenza drawer, and snatched my handbag. I jogged out the front door and dodged raindrops to my car. I started the Jeep and steered my vehicle in the direction of Super Saver Grocery store. Checking the scene of the crime seemed like a numero-uno idea. Cops weren’t perfect, although someone might say they were.
At least, Mr. Perfect Policeman Allan Wellborn would.
****
I turned my car into the Super Saver lot and slotted in a space a few rows from where Jonson had left his vehicle. From Allan’s interpretation of the video provided by the grocery store, Jonson parked next to a light pole. Because I knew Super Saver almost as well as my mother’s little lectures, I knew exactly where to go.
With a glance out the window, I confirmed the rain continued to fall. Opening the car door, I stuck my umbrella through the crack, unfurled it, and exited. I picked my way around puddles in the asphalt until I came upon the spot where Jonson’s car had been located. The crime scene investigators towed away his luxury SUV; however, the tattered tails of the yellow plastic tape emblazoned with Crime Scene in black lettering remained. The colored bits flapped in the cool breeze.
I pictured Jonson’s window rolled down, and the silhouette of the left side of his head down to his shoulder visible.
I pictured my sister walking alongside his car, intent on going inside Super Saver for Stuart’s ice cream, completely oblivious she passed Jonson’s vehicle.
I pictured Jonson’s arm shooting out the open window and yanking Tracey closer, the front of her white suit coat brushing the door panel, her hands resting on the door frame, trying to push away from him.
I pictured the startled look on Tracey’s face when he grabbed her. His dimply grin, which captivated many but raised suspicion in others. His perfectly coiffed hair held in place by hairspray. The starched shirt sleeve monogrammed with Jonson’s initials on the cuff.
My imaginings seemed so vivid, I could virtually feel Tracey’s heart beat faster.
After Jonson propositioned her, Tracey’s disgust morphed into terror. Recollecting his oily words, I shuddered when fury gripped my insides. My hands fisted tightly. Even dead, the creep gave me the willies.
I only wished I’d been with Tracey. Likely, Jonson wouldn’t have touched her. His intimidation tactics didn’t work on me, and I would have defended her. Nothing he said or did could shake me up. And he knew I knew.
Carefully, I dodged puddles as I walked along the driver’s side of the pretend car. I dropped my gaze to the asphalt, looking for any clue the police might have overlooked. After hearing a bump, rattle, and clatter, I diverted my stare to a runaway grocery cart, headed without a care in the world toward the great beyond. I shifted the umbrella to my right hand and held out my left to stop the orange plastic buggy’s great escape.
Dressed in a yellow slicker and resembling a duckling, an employee held his cap’s bill low over his forehead as he ran after it.
He grabbed the handlebar. “Hey, thanks.”
I released my hold. “No problem.”
The Super Saver employee pointed at the parking spot. “Lots of spectators came by.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Maybe because nothing ever happens in Sommerville”—I looked at his nametag—“Elmer.”
Elmer stroked his chin. “Could be.”
I side-stepped a small wet spot. “Anything found?”
“Don’t think so.” He shook his head. “The police canvassed the area.”
Canvassed? Sounded like lousy television terminology.
“You seem way nice,” he said. “The murdered guy wasn’t.”
The kid saw Jonson? I wondered had he seen Tracey, too. “Thank you. I hope I am, at least, my friends say I am. Did you know the man who parked here?”
“Know him? Sure. Saw Mr. Leggett all the time.” The cart retriever pulled the basket toward his hip with his toe. “Didn’t miss the pretty blonde lady in a white coat sock him.”
/> I gulped. Wow. Elmer might have seen Tracey. Great news. “You saw her?”
He nodded. “I sure did.”
“Blonde nearly white spikey hair?”
“That’s her. I was like ‘you go, girl.’ ” He punched his fist skyward.
Relief hit my body. I felt like screaming and dancing. “How well did you know the man in the car?”
“I helped with Mr. Leggett’s groceries many times. He rarely tipped and griped about how I stacked the bags in the rear. He didn’t like stuff rolling around. I wanted to tell him, ‘Well, why don’t you buy plastic crates to stick your bags in?’ ”
I didn’t use crates either; maybe I should start. “Nice tip.”
Elmer shook his head. “I dunno. People like him would rather complain. Act…superior.”
“I know the kind you mean.”
He shielded his mouth with his cupped hand and checked over each of his shoulders. “None of us liked him, just tolerated his sass. Kinda loud.”
I knew the Super Saver kid was bang on—Jonson always spoke loudly. Deafeningly.
Elmer rolled the cart back and forth.
The wheels squeaked like nails on a chalkboard, and the right front one wobbled. I suppressed the urge to cover my ears. I couldn’t while holding my umbrella anyway.
“You know, whatcha call obnoxious. The manager said the ‘customer is always right,’ but the boss was all show. He didn’t like the, uh, dead guy either.”
Elmer glanced at me.
“Sorry,” he said.
When a gust lifted one side of the umbrella’s canopy, I regripped the handle.
He tightened his grasp on the cart’s handlebar, the blast weaving the rain poncho he wore around his thighs.
I tilted my head. “Did he stay in the car?”
Elmer wiped the water from his face. “No, ma’am, I’m pretty sure he went inside. And I’m pretty sure he bought an ice pack, you know, the kind for a cooler.”
“Okay.” I considered why Jonson needed an ice pack. Maybe because of Tracey’s punch. “But a cold pack is important because…”
“When I rolled a cart by his car a little bit later, he was holdin’ it…”
Elmer demonstrated how Jonson pressed the cold pack above his eye.
