A Deadly Inside Scoop

by Abby Collette

  “What guy?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, hunching my shoulders. I leaned in and whispered to her. “He’s dead. They had him in a body bag.”

  “Oh my,” she said, and held her palm up to her cheek.

  “Hel-lo.” Detective Beverly turned to face us, drawing out the word.

  “Hi,” my mother said, and stuck out her hand. “I’m Bronwyn’s mother. Ailbhe Crewse.”

  “You make ice cream, too?” he asked, shaking the hand she had offered.

  “I do,” she said.

  “Out of snow?”

  My mother gave me a crooked smile, then looked back at the detective, narrowing her eyes. “No,” she said.

  “Bronwyn—can I call you that?” he asked. “Or do you prefer Win?”

  “Bronwyn is fine,” I said. I didn’t feel like being friendly, and I’d already decided this was all official.

  “Was there anyone else out tonight?” he asked. “Anyone that may have seen you or the gentleman you found?”

  My mind and my eyes wandered back to Ms. Devereaux and her store. He got what he deserved . . . She had to know who he was, otherwise how would she know that he’d merited his fate?

  The store was set directly in front of Bell Street.

  Maybe she had seen something. But when I brought my eyes back to meet with the detective’s, I saw that scarf.

  The multicolored one.

  It was wrapped around the neck of a young boy. Probably the young boy I’d spotted under the streetlight as he’d scrambled back up the hill coming up from the falls. A woman stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders.

  “He may know something,” I said, and led the detective in the direction of the boy with my eyes.

  Detective Beverly looked over his shoulder, following my gaze, then turned back to me. “Who?” he asked.

  “That little boy,” I said. “I saw him down by the falls.”

  “You saw him?”

  “I think I did,” I said, and focused my gaze on him. “I saw his scarf.”

  “Hold on.” He turned to the officer and asked him to go and get the boy.

  I heard the detective say something to me, but my attention was on the boy and the woman. Through the sea of faces and movement, it seemed that briefly her eyes had locked with mine. It was as if she knew, somehow, that I had spoken about her—or the child—and she started to edge away.

  The officer must have radioed his intent, because before he got to her, another officer came up behind her. He leaned in and spoke to her. I saw her acknowledge the officer as he headed over.

  “Bronwyn.” Snap! Snap! Fingers were in front of my face making the noise. “Bronwyn!”

  “Yes,” I said, diverting my thoughts and refocusing my eyes on the detective.

  “You got lost there for a minute,” he said. “You alright?”

  “Yeah. I am,” I said. “Just cold and tired.”

  “Do you need another blanket?” He tugged on the one I still had wrapped around me.

  “Mm-mm.” I shook my head. “This one is fine.”

  “Detective Beverly.” It was the officer speaking. He had escorted the woman and boy over. She didn’t seem too happy about it. “Here’s the woman you wanted to speak with.”

  Her red lipstick was faded and dull. The mascara laid thick on her eyelashes had begun to run due to the dampness in the air. The curls in her blond hair—dyed, as evidenced by her dark brown roots—had flopped. She held her head up, her grip on the boy tight.

  “What do you want?” she said. Her voice was gravelly, like she’d been smoking ten packs of cigarettes a day for the past forty years. She didn’t look that old, though. “I have to get my son home. Out of the cold.”

  “Ms. Crewse here”—the detective pointed to me—“said she saw you down by the falls.”

  “Not her,” I corrected. “Her son.” I flapped an arm in his direction.

  “He wasn’t there,” she said, not even taking the time to consider my claim.

  The detective looked at me.

  “I saw that scarf around someone’s neck. A child’s neck,” I said. “That’s how I found the body. Chasing after it. Him. Then I saw the scarf again lying on the ground when I came back up to get help.”

  “She must’ve seen another scarf,” the woman said dryly.

  “Exactly like that one?” I asked, sarcasm threaded through my words.

  She shrugged. “It wasn’t my son’s. He wasn’t anywhere near the falls tonight. Or anytime today.”

  “Then why are you over here?” I asked, and before she gave an answer, I suggested one for her. “You come looking for that scarf?”

  She blew out a snort. “No. I came to see what was going on, just like everyone else.” She looked at the detective.

  “Where were you coming from?” I asked. “Did you go to the movies tonight?” I remembered the voices I’d heard earlier. I had heard a woman calling out something . . .

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Is she working for you?” She directed her question to the detective.

  “No.” He chortled at the woman’s words, his green eyes lighting up. “But do you have any more questions, Bronwyn?”

  I wasn’t amused. “It was his scarf,” I said. “And it was him.”

  “Is this why you asked me to come over here?” she said, slowly taking her eyes from mine and looking at the detective. “So she could accuse me—or my son—of something? I don’t know what this is about, but I can’t help you. And neither can he.”

  “What’s your name?” the detective asked the boy, but the woman spoke up.

  “Why?” she asked indignantly.

  “Because I’m an officer of the law, and you have to tell me if I ask,” Detective Beverly said, his voice calm but steady.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” she said.

  “We can take you in. Talk about whether it’s true or not down at the station,” he said. “That way your boy can stay warm.”

  She didn’t like that remark. “His name is—”

  “Jasper,” I said, suddenly remembering the earlier incident while I’d sat sulking on the bench. I remembered how she had called out the name as he ran from her.

  “Jasper,” she said at the same time I did.

  “Do you know him?” Detective Beverly asked me.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know him. I heard her call him that.”

  “When?” the detective asked.

  “Not long before I found the body.

  “And, Mom, what’s your name?”

  “Glynis Vale,” she said. “And my son, Jasper. Vale. Who is only ten years old.” She put her hand on top of his head. “He wouldn’t be out wandering off by himself.”

  “He was tonight,” I said.

  “He didn’t see anything,” she countered, seemingly daring me to contradict her again.

  “Is that true?” the detective asked the boy. “You didn’t see anything?”

  Jasper strained his neck to look up at his mother standing over him.

  “Of course it’s true,” Glynis said.

  “I’m asking him,” the detective said.

  Glynis Vale smacked her lips. “Answer him,” she told the boy.

  “I didn’t see anybody.”

  “Any body?” the detective asked, separating the word. “You didn’t see anyone or you didn’t see a body?”

  Jasper looked up at his mother again. She nodded. “Both,” he said. “I didn’t see no one, and I didn’t see no body.”

  “See,” she said, looking at me as she spoke. “There wouldn’t be anything to talk about if you took me in.”

  “How about this?” the detective said. “You give your information to this officer. Address. Phone number. How to contact you—if we need to—and you can be
on your way.”

  “Can my daughter be on her way, too?” my mother asked.

  Detective Beverly looked at her and then at me. “You have anything else to tell me?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Not here. Not even at your station.”

  I saw a grin curl up one side of his lips. “Okay. Then, yes. You can be on your way, too.” He pointed to our store. “I can find you there?”

  “Every day. Eleven to eleven.”

  He turned from me without saying anything else and walked away.

  I looked at my mother. I was sure she could see on my face that I was more than ready to go. Then, over her shoulder, I saw my father walking up. He had a look of concern, or determination, I couldn’t tell which—maybe both—on his face. Each long stride he took seemed measured with purpose as he walked over to us. He was dressed in gray sweats, Timberland boots and a jacket. His leather gloves were wet, and his usually mocha-colored cheeks were red from the cold.

  “What’s going on?”

  “A man died. Win found him,” my mother said.

  “You okay, Pumpkin?” he asked. I nodded. “Who was this guy?” My father looked around the scene.

  “We don’t know.” Mom reached over and rubbed my arm. “But he must’ve been someone from around here.”

  “We should go home,” my father said, putting his arm around me and giving me a squeeze. “You look cold.”

  “Where were you, Daddy?” I asked.

  “At work,” he said, and gave me a smile. He took his arm from around me and grabbed my mother’s hand. “C’mon. We should leave.” He looked down at my mother. “Did you drive? Where’s your car?”

  She pointed, and I watched as they walked toward it.

  My father hadn’t been dressed like that when he left for work this morning. I’d seen what he had on when he was making omelets. And I’d never known him to wear anything but a suit to work. Never a pair of sweatpants.

  I didn’t know why he said he’d been at the hospital, but I did know that Glynis Vale wasn’t the only person tonight not telling the truth.

  chapter

  NINE

  I rode in the back seat of my mother’s Volkswagen Passat on the drive home like I was an errant child. I didn’t know where my father’s car was, or how he’d gotten down to the shop.

  Over the course of the short ride, my parents spoke in hushed voices. Whether to keep what they were talking about secret from me or because it was late and everyone was tired, I didn’t know. Maybe no one had the energy to speak any louder.

  But my mind was far away from anything they said. All I could do was think about getting home and climbing into bed to sleep off the disappointment of the day. How was I going to get people into the store? The view from that full glass wall I was so proud of showed nothing but snow and the crime scene where a dead body had been found. By me.

  After my parents dropped me off, I dragged myself up the stairs to my apartment, still holding on to that aluminum bowl and scooper. I shrugged off my coat and shoes and got under the bedclothes, covering my head with the bedspread.

  Running my family’s business wasn’t what I had come back home to do. But I thought it must’ve been what I was meant to do.

  After college, I’d been recruited by an ad agency in New York City. I had been their rising star. Good at what I did. And my team were true go-getters. Together we tried to build brands that would catapult unknown businesses from side streets to Main Street. But then I got sick and panicked.

  Tossing and turning, I thought about what had brought me back home.

  My memory had been shot. I was forgetful. Sometimes even confused. And it seemed like I was always tired. By two o’clock in the afternoon, I was dragging. And then I almost blew a pitch my team had worked tirelessly on for weeks—thank goodness the operative word was “almost.” I had time to fix it, but not my frayed nerves.

  Little-girl memories of Grandma Kay’s illness came flooding into my mind as fast as the water rushed over the falls outside our family shop.

  At twelve I didn’t know what was really happening to her. At twenty-six, when I started feeling bad, I knew, without doing any research, that I probably didn’t have what she’d had. But I also knew—without doing any research—that what she had was hereditary and that maybe one day I could get it. That scared me. And that made me think of all the love and support my grandmother received from family being close.

  Then I realized I didn’t want to be in New York anymore. Whatever was wrong with me, I wanted to be at home. To deal with it with my family.

  Plus, my father was a doctor at a renowned hospital. He would make sure his little girl got the best care possible.

  So, I quit my job, although not without my employers trying everything they could to get me to stay and promising to always have a spot open for me. I gave up my apartment on the Lower East Side and came home. From the time I drove into the driveway on Carriage Hill Lane, I knew I’d made the right decision.

  My mother mollycoddled me and my father used his clout to push me to the front of the line in every testing queue at the hospital.

  It turned out to be nothing serious. My calcium was high—extremely high—and it mimicked symptoms of a heart problem. Easily taken care of by a good doctor friend of Dad’s—this one an endocrinologist—who removed my parathyroid gland. That took all of thirty minutes and an overnight stay with my mother asleep in the chair next to my bed in the observation ward to bring everything back to normal.

  But it didn’t make me want to go back to New York. Why should it? According to an article in Forbes, Cleveland was “hot,” ranked number two in emerging U.S. cities. I could easily find a job at home. My brothers had. I’d been the only one to venture out of the backyard of our little village.

  I didn’t know if I’d ever felt “homesick” while I was away, but it took my being sick to realize I needed to be home. Then PopPop gave me that Christmas gift and I took my résumé down from Monster.com, thinking all of it had happened because it was meant to be.

  But now what?

  Months of planning. Sleeping with my vision board. My notebook full of multicolored sticky notes covered with every idea that popped into my head. Now, after one day of snow and a dead body, I was in the bed with my head burrowed under the covers?

  My grandparents had built a little shop that had weathered all kinds of storms. The race riots of the turbulent sixties. The long stretch of recession in the eighties. And then there was 1994—Cleveland’s coldest winter ever—but PopPop said that was one of the shop’s best years ever, Crewse Creamery steadfastly holding on. Staying the course.

  So what was wrong with me?

  I peeked my head from under the covers and with one eye open looked at the clock on my bedside table and huffed. This wasn’t how I’d pictured me managing the shop. It certainly wasn’t how I ran my team back in New York.

  I couldn’t let snow slow me down. I jerked the covers from over my head with a thump and got out of bed. I looked down at myself—clothes still on. “What the heck?” I said. I put my shoes and coat back on and grabbed my car keys. I ran down the hallway toward the steps, but before my foot could hit the first step, I turned around, ran back and picked up my bowl and scooper, then headed back down the hallway, down the stairs and out the door.

  I threw everything in the car and started it, letting it run while I cleaned off the snow.

  The foot of snow.

  Ah, that pesky snow.

  I hummed all the way down the hill as I devised a plan to get people out in the cold to buy ice cream. I was a millennial. An entrepreneurial spirit. Social media savvy and technical prowess were encoded into my DNA!

  I turned the corner on North Main Street, drove past the store and did a U-turn to park in front of it. I got into the side door with all my stuff and turned on all the lights.

 
I set up my laptop at the little corner nook where I’d created an office area, made myself an ice cream cone—three scoops—and sat down and got to work.

  I got on the internet, and for the next four hours, I hovered over my keyboard and emailed, texted and posted about our ice cream. I sent an email to the plexiglass manufacturing people to give them a little push, and I made “Free Scoop” coupons to hand out to customers, printing fifteen, to use on subsequent visits.

  With melted ice cream all over my fingers—seemed like I got more on me than in my mouth—I washed my hands and let my eyes wander around the room. “Now what?” I said, clicking my nails.

  I could make ice cream. That’s what Grandma Kay did when she had worries.

  Hmmm . . .

  I trudged over to the walk-in freezer and swung it open. I had ice cream in the freezer, plenty of it, but I thought I could make something else . . .

  Something that would get people excited enough to put on their boots and a coat and come out of the house into the snow to get ice cream.

  But what?

  I closed the freezer door and went to the front of the store and over to the jukebox on the far wall. I’d installed it because music in the store always reminded me of Grandma Kay. No iPod speakers or Wi-Fi radio back then, she used to bring a portable turntable and play her albums all day long. She loved jazz and rhythm and blues by singers like Dinah Washington, Brook Benton and Ray Charles, and because of her, I did, too.

  The jukebox was red, silver and shiny. There were fake 45s that sat inside the glass front, and between songs, there was a clicking sound like the records were changing. They weren’t. Pre-programmed, it took just a push of the start button to listen to the smooth sway of music. There was no order to the songs it played.

  Brook Benton’s “This Time of Year” came on . . .

  Ha! I knew what to do. Themed ice cream!

  People around our parts loved Halloween and our Pumpkin Roll. Why not get the season started early?

  I snapped my fingers and smiled. I could make a pumpkin spice roll ice cream. And maybe something Halloweeny. “Maybe,” I said, nodding, “something with candy in it.” An early taste of trick or treat. Mmm . . . lots of candy. Candycopia!