by Leona Fox
“Chief Woodstone”—she controlled her voice to the point of iciness—“you are not making any sense. I’m going home now and we can talk about my theories at some other time.” That was good, she had her control back. She took a step in the direction of home.
“Sadie, I would like to see you in my office right now.” He glowered at her. “I will arrest you if I have to.” He pulled his cuffs off his utility belt.
She turned back to him. “And what, exactly, would you charge me with? Arguing with the chief of police? I’m pretty sure that would be a violation of my civil liberties.”
“Withholding information in an ongoing murder investigation,” he said.
“Is that even a thing?” she asked.
“If you will come with me to my office you won’t have to find out,” he said, sweeping his arm wide in invitation to climb the stairs to the station house.
She hesitated. Two weeks ago she would have been up the stairs and in his office ages ago. Now? She wasn’t sure what was wrong with her.
“Sadie, please don’t make me have this conversation on the steps to the station where God, the public and all my employees can hear me grovel.” He held a hand out to her. “Please.”
He wasn’t begging, but there was something in his tone that struck her as genuine and respectful. She took his hand and Mr. B followed her up the steps.
The chief closed the office door when they got there, which surprised her. He only closed his door rarely for reasons of confidentiality. She sat nervously on the edge of a chair, and instead of jumping into the other wooden chair, as he usually did, Mr. B stuck close to her side.
“I’m only going to say this once, Sadie, and then I expect we will get back to our normal routine.” He leaned forward in his chair. “If I thought that going out to dinner with you was going to change how you felt about coming here, I wouldn’t have done it. It makes my day when you walk through that door. I feel fantastic after we’ve had an argument, and I value your opinion. I also want to continue having dinner with you whenever I can swing it. But in order for that to work you have to stay Sadie Barnett.”
“How could I not be Sadie Barnett?” she asked. She had been going for dripping with sarcasm, but she mostly sounded like a whining school girl. Yikes.
“The Sadie Barnett I know marches down the to the chief’s office whenever she damn well feels like it, gives the chief a piece of her mind, takes some grief, gives it back and goes home smiling. She doesn’t sit outside on the steps having conversations with her dog and worrying my officers.” He crossed his arms and nodded once, as if to say ‘so there.’
“Well excuse me for having an off day,” she said. “It’s not every morning I learn I’m the suspect in a murder. I can’t help it if it threw me off my game.” She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. “The Chief I know would have been a little more understanding.”
“And the Sadie I know would have brushed that concern away,” he said.
“Stalemate,” Sadie said.
“Exactly.” He grinned. “Now how about you tell me your theories about Victor Rumsfeld.”
“I don’t actually have theories about Victor Rumsfeld yet. I need to do some digging. But I have potato peeler theories if you want to hear them.”
“Certainly.” He rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. “Fire away.”
“I keep the keys to the drawers in the shop on my desk in the office,” she said and started ticking her points off on her fingers. “Lucy knows that. Betty knows that. I know that and Mr. B knows that.”
“You think Mr. B could have murdered Victor Rumsfeld?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Mr. B is as much of a suspect as Lucy, Betty or I,” Sadie said. “I’m making a point.”
“Go on.”
“Clearly I don’t think any of us did it. Lucy doesn’t even know who Victor Rumsfeld is. Betty couldn’t murder a person. Mr. B doesn’t have opposable thumbs. And I know I didn’t do it. So who?” Sadie raised her hands palms up.
“Unfortunately, Sadie, you have been known to leave your shop door unlocked when no one is there—a habit I hope you will change—and so anyone in the whole dang town could have waltzed in there and stolen any number of potential murder weapons.”
“So why the potato peeler?” she asked. “The only reason I can think of is that it’s easily concealed.”
“But you also have to get really close to your victim to use it, so it’s also very personal. You have to really hate someone to stab them in the neck.”
“So I’m looking for someone whom Rumsfeld harmed in some way. Or had threatened to harm,” she said.
“Something like that, yes,” the chief said. “But I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your involvement in police affairs. It’s dangerous. You could have been killed at town hall. On the other hand, people tell you things they don’t tell us because they don’t see you as a threat. I’m aware that letting you question people is incredibly self-interested of me, so I want you to be very careful.”
“I’m always careful,” Sadie said. “And like you said, people tell me things that they wouldn’t dream of telling you.”
He frowned at her.
“I can’t help it,” she said. “It’s true.”
“So what’s your plan?” he asked.
“To find out every detail of Victor Rumsfeld’s life that I can extract from this town, distill it and come discuss it with you,” she said, standing up.
“Excellent,” he said. “And no more waffling on the steps?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said.
“Excellent,” he said and got up to open the door for her.
She stopped next to him. “What about PDA?” she asked.
“PDA?” He shook his head.
“Public displays of affection,” she said and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.
“All for it,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned there should be more of it.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head.
She turned to leave but he stopped her.
“You do remember that you promised me you’d go to my brother’s wedding, don’t you? He asked.”
“Of course. Why?”
“Because it’s tomorrow and I was worried you might have forgotten.”
“I can’t believe you think I forgot your brother’s wedding,” she said, turning and stomping out of the room with Mr. B. by her side. But of course she had forgotten and she didn’t have a clue what to wear.
Chapter Two
Sadie went home happy. Of course Chief Zackery Woodstone liked her as she was. Who wouldn’t? She put down her momentary loss of confidence to a throwback to middle school and moved on. There was no point in worrying about it.
“Betty,” she said as she entered the shop through the main door, “what do you know about Victor Rumsfeld?”
“I know he’s dead,” Betty said, “and the chief came to question you about him this morning. What was that about?”
“Rumsfeld was killed with an antique potato peeler I brought back from Ireland. He wanted to know who had access,” Sadie said.
“The answer to that is everybody,” Betty said. “He should know that.”
“It was in a locked drawer,” Sadie said. “Someone would have had to find the key.”
“Not that difficult. Someone is going to rob you blind one of these days.” Betty stomped off into the back and came back with the keys to the drawers and cases in the shop. “We are finding a new place for these right now. In a dish on your desk is far too accessible.”
“We could just keep them in my desk drawer,” Sadie said. “They’d be out of sight.”
“Way too easy. I say we put them in the cash drawer. That way only you or I can open the till to get them.” Betty jangled the keys she had on the elastic coil around her wrist. “Mine are always on me. Now if we could get you to stop leaving yours on a shelf under the cash register we’d be safe.”
“Granted it will take you a few weeks to remember to keep it with you, but everything will be safer in the long run.” Betty put her hands on her hips. “You know I’m right.”
“Ugh. Okay, I’ll move my register key. But you know it’s going to cause me a lot of hassle.” She went behind the counter and pocketed the key off the shelf. She’d find a new place to keep it later when Betty wasn’t watching. It wasn’t like they had a lot of cash sales.
“So,” Sadie said when the drawer and case keys were in the till and the register key was safely in her pocket. “Do you know anything else about Victor?”
“There was some talk of him coming out of retirement to take up his old job again,” Betty said.
“Was his position vacant?” Sadie asked.
“Don’t think so,” Betty said. “I think he was trying to get the prof who has his job laid off.”
“Ouch. There’s a motive for murder,” Sadie said. “Do you know who it is?”
“Nope. Only that she or he fears for their job.” Betty reached under the counter and brought out a can of dusting spray and a cloth. “And now I have work to do. Someone has to dust all this junk.”
“That’s why you are paid the big bucks,” Sadie said.
Betty snorted and went to polish the brass in the picture window.
Sadie took Mr. Bradshaw and her car keys and went to visit Dean Crossgrove of the Ocean View Community College. He’d give her the skinny on Victor Rumsfeld.
She found Jonathan Crossgrove in an air-conditioned office in the admissions building, Carr Hall. He rose and shook her hand when she was ushered into his office by a smiling office assistant. His hand was warm and dry and he had a good grip. Sadie appreciated a good handshake.
“Hello, Sadie,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant, and reminiscent of James Earl Jones. Sadie felt soothed by that voice.
“What can you tell me about Victor Rumsfeld, Jonathan?” she asked.
“That he is a giant pain in my backside,” he said. “He wants to come out of retirement, but I don’t have a position open, and even if I did, I’d rather hire someone younger. He costs way more than he’s worth.”
“Did he say why he wanted to come out of retirement?” she asked.
“Not to me,” he said. “You’ll have to ask him that question.”
“Can’t do that,” she said. “He died yesterday.”
“Old Rumsfeld finally kicked the bucket, did he? Well he had a good life. Was it his heart?” Jonathan asked.
“Murder.” Sadie didn’t suspect the dean of murdering Rumsfeld, but she watched him closely all the same. She was pretty sure his surprise was genuine.
“He was murdered? But why?” He sounded bewildered. “I know he irritated people, but that’s no reason to kill him.”
“When we figure that out we’ll have the murderer,” Sadie said. “So tell me, whose job was he trying to take?”
“Justin Ives’s. That poor kid. His mother was over here giving me hell the other day, but to tell the truth I never intended to let him go. Given a year or four to mature, he’ll make a fine professor.”
“He’s not a professor now?” Sadie asked, confused. “But he has students and office hours.”
“He’s an assistant professor. After a few years he’ll become an associate professor, and after that a full professor. Somewhere in there, if he’s lucky, he’ll make tenure. That’s the track.”
“And why was his mother in here giving you grief? Did she think you’d change your mind?” Sadie asked.
“Oh you know, mothers get their panties in a twist when they think someone is treating their precious baby unfairly. She not the first mother I’ve had to hold off. Although usually it’s student’s moms I see in here.” He glanced at his watch. “I have another meeting. Can we finish this later? Maybe over dinner?”
“I think I have all I need,” Sadie said. “Maybe another time.”
Sadie and Mr. Bradshaw left Carr Hall and made their way to the humanities building and Justin Ives’s office. He smiled when he saw them in the doorway.
“Ms. Barnett, Mr. Bradshaw,” he said. “Please come in. Look, I even have a clean chair for you to sit in.”
“Very nice Professor Ives,” Sadie said. “You are coming right along.” She sat and Mr. Bradshaw jumped into her lap.
He grinned at her. “I invited my mother to sit the last time she was here. I thought she was going to faint. I owe you one.”
“For what? Teaching you some manners? You would have figured it out eventually,” she said.
“But it would have taken me a lot longer to figure it out.” He smiled. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Victor Rumsfeld,” she said. “What do you know?”
“Oh God. My mother was going on about him. She thought he was going to get me fired. I had to take her up to see the dean. He promised her he wouldn’t fire me to reinstate Rumsfeld, but I don’t think she believed him. Don’t mention his name in front of her, or you’ll get an earful.”
“But you weren’t afraid?” she asked, running her hand over Mr. B’s coat.
“Of losing my job? No way. Dean Crossgrove assured me that I was here for the duration. He’s never steered me wrong.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair.
Sadie thought he seemed relaxed enough, but she supposed he could be faking it. You never knew who was going to turn out to be an excellent actor.
“Rumsfeld is past his prime,” Justin said. “He might end up teaching a class or two, but even that’ll probably end up being too much for him.”
“Oh, you haven’t heard,” she said. “Professor Rumsfeld is dead.”
“Really? I thought he was in pretty good shape, but you never can tell with people his age. My mom will be relieved.” He thought for a minute, and Sadie thought he was trying figure out what the socially acceptable response would be.
“Do you know when the services will be?” he asked.
“He didn’t die of natural causes, so I’m not sure when they’ll release the body.” She watched him carefully for a reaction.
“He didn’t die of natural causes?” He looked confused. “But that means he was killed. Was it an accident?”
She shook her head.
“He was murdered?” He looked shocked.
She nodded slowly while watching him plunge into panic. All the blood faded from his face, and it looked for a moment like he stopped breathing. She jumped up, causing Mr. Bradshaw to vault from her lap.
“Put your head between your knees,” she said and gently pushed on the back of his neck until he was bent over. “And breathe.”
“No. I’m fine.” He pushed against her hand. “I’ve got a meeting I’ve got to go to. Really. I’m good.” He sat up and his color did seem to be better.
“You have to promise me that if you start to feel dizzy or like you might black out that you will stop what you are doing and put your head down again.” She gave him her sternest look.
“I will,” he said, getting up and grabbing his satchel. “I hope you will come by again soon.”
She watched him go and wondered if she should follow him. The answer was yes, she should, so she and Mr. B followed in his wake until they were out of the building. Then she dropped back and watched to see where he would go. Wherever his meeting was, it wasn’t on campus. He went straight to his car, not bothering to look right or left. He certainly didn’t turn around to see her following him. Her car was on the other side of the parking lot, so she couldn’t follow him farther. So she pulled out her cell phone and told the chief all about her encounter. He could worry about where Justin Ives had gone.
Sadie and Mr. B headed back across campus toward Carr Hall where her car was parked. As they passed the food court Sadie saw a group of gray-haired people sitting at a
n outside table. Something about them caught her attention and she headed their way. She approached the table where a group of distinguished older people were talking over coffee.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Do you know Victor Rumsfeld?”
“Why yes we do, young lady,” one of the men said, gesturing to an empty chair. “In fact we had been expecting him. He’s late as usual.”
Sadie smiled at being called young lady. She had her own gray hair. On the other hand, she knew something they did not. The question was if it was prudent or not to tell them. She decided to let Chief Woodstone break the news on his timeline. But it gave her a pang. What she was about to do was deceitful.
