by Mary Frances
“Where to?” he asked as he started the car.
Margaret held the tape recorder up for him to see.
“The police, I guess,” she said. As they drove, Margaret rewound the tape and played it back for everyone to hear. As the tape ended, Dallas had the car parked in front of the police department.
She rewound the tape again and handed the device to Dallas.
“Do what you have to do, detective,” she said. “We’ll wait here for you.”
Dallas slid out of the car and opened the back. He pulled out the briefcase, and with the recorder in one hand and the case in the other, he went up the steps of the building. Sandy watched as the doors closed behind him.
“Easy come, easy go,” she said.
Epilogue
Wilma was asleep against the window, and when Dallas came back out to the car, Margaret and Sandy had changed places.
“Didn’t like my driving?” he asked as he winked at Margaret in the back seat.
“I need a nap, detective,” she said and winked back at him.
The drive took almost five hours and just before dark, they were back in St. Clair at the river. Margaret went straight to her room until dinner and Wilma went back to her routine in the kitchen. Dallas and Sandy unloaded the car and when everything was finished, they took coffee on the bench overlooking the river.
“It wasn’t much of a vacation,” Dallas finally said.
“It was wonderful,” Sandy said, her voice void of emotion.
“That bad, was it?” he asked. The lights across the river sparkled in the night.
“It really wasn’t,” she said. “I’ve never been to the woods before and I guess my expectations were different.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. I had these silly notions of camping under the stars and waking to a small fire and the smell of fresh coffee,” she said.
“You could have slept on the deck,” he reminded her.
Sandy sighed and carried her coffee back into the house. Dallas followed. As they entered the house, Margaret was just coming back out of her room and Wilma was calling for dinner. They took seats in the dining room and as they ate, no one spoke. Wilma had asked for an early night and left as soon as dinner was on the table. Tess would come in later and clear the table. The three sat quietly at the table and as they picked at their food, no one spoke. After another ten minutes of silence, Margaret couldn’t stand it anymore.
“So, what did they say, detective?” she asked.
“Who?”
She had taken him off guard.
Dallas set his fork down and smiled. Margaret waited.
“They said they knew the kid had something to do with it but didn’t have the proof. The money will go back to the insurance company and the kid will probably get time until his twenty-fifth birthday. They can’t hold him any longer than that,” Dallas said. Margaret leaned over the table as though she were waiting for more. He looked up at her and grinned.
“Now, Margaret. What are you thinking?” he asked.
Sandy was completely confused. Her head turned back and forth following the silent conversation.
Margaret was still grinning.
“I know things,” she said.
Dallas turned red and put his head down.
“What is going on?” Sandy asked.
Dallas excused himself from the table and went up the stairs. In minutes, he was back with an armload of bundled cash. He let it fall on the table. Sandy got up and went to the end of the table.
“What is this?” she asked as she lifted a bundle. It was the money from the lake.
“Margaret’s half,” he said as he took his seat again and lifted his fork. Sandy set the bundle down and took her seat again.
“But, I thought you took it in the police department today,” she said. “I saw you carry the briefcase in with you.”
Dallas looked at her and smiled. “I filled it with papers,” he said. “I was going to return it. Last night, I had the money all packed and ready to go, but I sat up and thought about it. If I listened to Margaret, she always says, ‘money talks’, then I should keep it, but if I listened to you, and you always say, ‘take it to the authorities’, I would have given it back and Wilma didn’t want any part of it, so I sat there thinking, ‘what would Dallas do?’ and I came up with my own little saying.”
“And what would that be, detective?” Margaret asked as she lifted her napkin. Dallas grinned and as he shoveled food into his mouth, he answered, “Finders, keepers.”
About The Author
Ms. Frances has been writing for many years and has always kept journals and photographs of places she has visited. Most of her work is from these places. From M. Cobilet's famous mansion, which can be found in St. Clair, Michigan, to the island home Det. Thrower spends his summers at, all are places she has been. While fiction is her niche, she uses experience and memory to weave her tales bringing characters into these places. From the desert southwest to Florida and up into the midwest, readers will often find themselves in the middle of one of her books. All they have to do is, look, and imagine.
