by Carol Durand
The duo exchanged a look of relief, and Rude Cop nodded. “We appreciate it, man, thanks. And good luck with the lady, she’s a feisty one.” When they got into the car and drove away, Chas mounted the porch steps two at a time and rang the doorbell, his face grim.
“They apparently have some sort of physical evidence linking you to the Clements murder,” Chas announced without preamble when Missy let him in.
Her eyes widened in shock. “But Chas, that’s impossible! I didn’t kill Elmer Clements, I’d never even met him. I only met his wife the day before.”
“I know that you didn’t kill him, Missy, but the sheriff doesn’t know that, and I have to find some way to figure out what evidence they have that makes it look like you did.”
“So what do I do now?” she worried.
“Finish your breakfast, take a deep breath, and do what you always do…tell the truth,” he advised. “I’ll be working overtime trying to find out who killed Elmer, and who wrote on the side of your house. I’m thinking there may be a connection between the two.”
“You mean, when it says NEXT, it might mean that I’m…”
“The next victim,” he finished soberly.
Her phone rang, startling her, and she saw Ben’s number pop up on her screen.
“What’s up Ben?” she answered more abruptly than she had intended.
“Ms. G., I’m at the store. I stopped by to make sure that we had enough strawberries because we’re featuring the Strawberry Cheesecake Muffins tomorrow, and…well, I think you should come by here,” he finished nervously.
Missy shook her head, disgusted. “Let me guess…the word NEXT spray-painted in red on the building?”
Ben was silent for a moment, stunned. “Yeah, on the back door…how did you know?”
“It’s a long story. Hey listen, can you hang out there for a bit? Detective Beckett will be coming in to check it out in an hour or so,” she looked at Chas for confirmation and he nodded. When her assistant said he’d stay, she told him to lock all the doors and not open them for anyone but the detective.
“Well, they found your other business,” Beckett observed with a sigh.
“Chas, what am I going to do?” she whispered, frightened.
“You’re going to stay strong, be careful, and go talk to the sheriff. I’m going to go solve a murder. Don’t worry, we’ll get you through this,” he promised, stroking her cheek. She nodded miserably.
Chapter 9
Chas Beckett followed Missy to the Sheriff’s office to make certain that she arrived without incident, then drove straight to her shop, where Ben was whipping up a batch of poppy seed muffins just to keep himself busy while he waited for the detective. Chas asked him if anything had been out of place when he came in, or if he’d noticed anything unusual, but aside from the bright red lettering on the back door, everything had been as it was supposed to be. He photographed the vandalism, scoped out the area for clues, and made sure that Ben got to his car and out of the area safely before heading back to his office to do some research.
“I’ve told you everything I know, Sheriff,” Missy said to Calvin Goins, Lausanne Parish Sheriff.
The white haired, round-bellied man sat back in his chair, peering at her with his hands folded on top of his ample, polyester-clad stomach. “You know, Ms. Gladstone, I was hoping to avoid this kind of nonsense in my parish. If someone local had bought ol’ Darryl’s place, I don’t think we’d be having so many issues. You get an outsider in here and all kinds of trouble follows,” he pursed his lips.
Missy’s hackles rose. “How dare you imply that I caused trouble by buying the donut shop? I was born and raised in Lausanne Parish, Sheriff, as you well know. I’m far from being an outsider, and I resent your implication,” she sat up straight in her chair, drilling him with a glare.
“You better just simmer down now, Ms. Gladstone. I will remind you that you’re here because you are a person of interest in a murder investigation. I’d hate to see things go badly for you because you had a bad attitude,” he raised an eyebrow in warning.
“Are you threatening me, Sheriff? Because I don’t take kindly to threats. I’m entirely innocent and I refuse to sit here and let you badger me any longer. Unless you have any further questions, I’m leaving.”
His eyes narrowed. “You do that Ms. Gladstone. We know where to find you.”
Chapter 10
“Have you spoken with Clara Clements?” Missy asked Detective Chas Beckett when they met for lunch at a local diner.
“She’s out of my jurisdiction, technically I can’t,” he took a bite of his spicy shrimp poboy. “But you could.”
Missy nodded. “I’ll do that tomorrow. What sorts of things should I ask?”
Chas washed the bite down with a substantial swallow of sweet tea. “Just have a conversation. Ask her about her husband – what he was like. Eventually you can talk to her about who might have had a big enough problem with him to kill him, what he had been doing the night before the murder, you know, anything that might give us some insight as to what happened and why.”
“Okay, I can do that, as long as Clara is up to it,” she nodded. “I planned on going out to the new shop to put the finishing touches up now that the flooring is in anyway, and she’s right across the street.”
“Since I put in the security cameras and alarms systems, you should be okay out there. Just remember to lock yourself in and don’t open the doors for anyone.”
“I won’t. I have to focus on getting everything done, I don’t have time for distractions from Thibedeaux’ henchmen,” Missy grimaced.
“Keep your cell phone on you, just in case,” Chas advised.
Missy pulled her car up in front of her new shop in Dellville, relieved to see that, at least from the outside, everything looked fine. She hurriedly unlocked the door after punching in her alarm code and slipped inside, locking the door behind her. The new flooring was absolutely beautiful, but it was hard for Missy to fully appreciate it. Her every thought was colored by the tragic and scary events of the last couple of weeks, and her heart went out to Clara Clements when she looked across the street. Tying her hair back and donning a pair of sturdy work gloves, Missy carried her newly painted tables and chairs from the storage room to the front of the store, and arranged the seating area. She hung pictures on the walls, arranged napkin holders, silverware containers and other miscellaneous serving items where they could be easily accessed, and set up an antique serving cart with cream and sugar pitchers, stirrers, a shaker of cinnamon, and other items for patrons to customize their coffee. The kitchen was outfitted and stocked, and Missy gazed around, satisfied that all was ready for her grand opening on the following Monday. She had scheduled interview to hire a new assistant for this location, and would be conducting them during the last half of this week. Knowing herself well enough to realize that if she continued to look around, she’d end up obsessing and changing everything several more times, she took off her gloves, took the elastic out of her ponytail and shook her hair free, and headed for Clara’s ice cream shop, after relocking the door and setting the alarm.
When Missy asked the young girl at the counter whether Clara was in, she led her back to the manager’s office in the back of the store, where the frail-seeming elderly woman was staring into space, and an invoice in her hand.
“Clara?” she startled the widow out of her reverie.
“Oh…hello Missy,” she responded with a sad smile. “I’ve been trying to get some work done, but I just don’t seem to have the heart for it these days.”
“I don’t want to intrude, I thought that you might want to talk,” Missy offered, feeling so sorry for her.
“I could use some company,” she nodded, indicating that Missy should sit in the chair across from her.
“How are you holding up?” she asked, noticing the sadness in Clara’s eyes.
“I make do,” she shrugged. “I feel like the rug has been yanked out from under me. I’ve been go
ing over and over in my mind what could have happened – who might have done this. I just can’t fathom such ugliness,” she shook her head sadly.
“Have the police found any clues?”
The elderly woman made a frustrated face. “I don’t think they’re even trying.”
“What makes you say that?” Missy frowned, concerned.
“It just seems like they’re not trying very hard. I don’t know, it’s just a feeling, but it seems to me like the sheriff doesn’t even care about Elmer’s passing.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sure they care. Maybe they just don’t have any new information yet,” she tried to comfort the old woman.
“Maybe. But they’re certainly not going to find any information unless they go out looking for it. I asked if they had interviewed the owner or staff of the restaurant where he was found, and they said that they could rule out the involvement of anyone at the restaurant because none of the people working there had a relationship with Elmer.”
“Maybe that was the problem,” Missy murmured, thinking it through.
“What was the problem?” Clara was confused.
“I didn’t tell you the other day, because you were so upset, but I was the one who found Elmer’s body in the bayou,” she admitted.
“You?” the widow was astonished. “What were you doing out there in the early morning?” she frowned, more confused than ever.
“I had gone out there because the guys who came to my shop threatened me. When I asked who their boss was, they told me to go to the Crawshack Redemption and speak to Thibedeaux, so I had gone out there to do just that, when I saw…Elmer,” Missy explained. “The reason that they were threatening me was because I refused to order my dry goods from them. Didn’t you say that Elmer also refused to order from them? Maybe that’s what got him killed.” She didn’t tell the woman that she had NEXT spray-painted in red on her house and her first shop, but the realization that Elmer’s principles may have gotten him killed, gave her goosebumps, and she wondered if she was now a target.
“Well that’s beyond silly,” Clara scoffed. “Who would kill a man simply because he refused to do business with them?”
“Someone who cared more about money than people’s lives,” Missy suggested. “I’m going back out there to meet Mr. Thibedeaux once and for all,” she decided.
“But, if you’re right, doesn’t that make things awfully dangerous for you?” the widow challenged, afraid.
“Maybe,” she agreed, “But I have to find out for myself.
“Well, let’s think about happier things for a bit, shall we?” Clara rose from her chair, beckoning Missy to follow. “Let me show you my ice cream shop, which until last week was just about the happiest place in my world.” Clara led Missy through the business, showing her the freezers and storage room, the colorful employee lounge, and the back rooms where the ice cream was actually made. As she shuffled around, showing Missy the machinery, she accidentally kicked something on the floor, crying out in pain. She looked down to see what object had made her stub her toe, and reached down to pick up the offending object. “Well, I’ll be darned,” she said breathlessly, holding the wicked-looking piece of metal up. The side of it was covered in a sticky brownish-red substance that smelled foul in a way that Missy recognized but couldn’t place.
“What is that?” she asked Clara as the old woman stood transfixed by the sight of the object.
“It’s a churning blade from one of the ice cream makers,” she answered, never taking her eyes from the blade.
“Oh. Looks like you were making chocolate ice cream,” Missy guessed.
“No, sweetie, that’s not chocolate,” Clara’s voice shook. “I think we may have just found the murder weapon.”
Missy was stunned and silent, finally summoning the ability to speak. “We should call the police then,” she suggested shakily.
Clara shook her head firmly. “No, absolutely not. I told you, I have a bad feeling about those folks. I think there’s something fishy going on with the sheriff’s office. Can’t you take this to your handsome detective and see what you can find out?” she pleaded.
“I don’t know if it’s illegal to remove a murder weapon without the police knowing about it,” Missy said, hesitant.
“But you’d be taking it to an officer of the law, so what difference would it make?” she asked.
Weighing the pros and cons, she decided that what Clara had said seemed to make sense, so without touching the blade, she found a plastic sack under the sink and let the widow carefully drop the gruesome item into it.
“I’ll take it to Chas and see what he can find out,” she promised. “I’ll let you know as soon I hear anything.”
“Thank you dear. I hate involving you in all of this, but I just don’t trust that sheriff,” the elderly woman shook her head. Missy didn’t say so, but she didn’t have much faith in the good ol’ boy either, and was hoping that Chas would know what to do.
Chapter 11
Chas Beckett raised his eyebrows in disbelief at the adorable but exasperating blonde sitting next to him on her couch. “You mean to tell me that you removed the murder weapon from the scene of the crime without telling the police?” he exclaimed. “I can’t begin to describe how procedurally wrong that is, not to mention the fact that it’s illegal.” Chas ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
“Do you really think that the ice cream shop was the scene of the crime?” Missy asked, bypassing his concerns.
“So it would seem,” the detective mused, examining the blade inside the bag without touching it.
“Well, isn’t there anything that you can do?” Missy widened her eyes, pleading.
Chas sighed. “I’ll take some photos, run some swabs, try to lift some fingerprints and see what turns up. After that, I’m going to show it to the Police Chief here in LaChance, as well as the District Attorney, so that there are witnesses to its existence. That way, when I turn it over to the Sheriff, if the evidence disappears, as is often the case in this Parish when the sheriff’s office is involved, we’ll have proof.”
“Good thinking,” Missy nodded. “I knew that you’d know what to do,” she smiled at him gratefully.
“I just want to know what the heck we’re dealing with,” he shook his head and stood to go. “I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
“Thanks Chas,” she said, standing on tiptoe to give him a kiss. “Can I make it up to you by cooking dinner for you tomorrow night?”
“That’d be a good start,” the handsome detective agreed, kissing her back.
After Chas left, Missy needed to unwind, so she took Toffee to the park and played fetch with a tennis ball until the sun started to set. She wanted to be home, behind locked doors before dark, so the pair jogged back, loving the summer breeze caressing their faces and the sun on their backs. Once inside, Missy emptied Toffee’s water bowl, running fresh water in for her, and gave her a chew treat to occupy the tired but happy canine while she fixed her dinner. She was boiling a pot of pasta, and had a homemade tomato sauce simmering alongside it when the power went out. Frustrated but not worried, summer black outs due to overuse of air-conditioners in the heat of a Louisiana summer were certainly not unheard of, Missy felt her way over to the drawer that held her emergency candles.
While she fumbled through the drawer, feeling about for her box of matches, Toffee began growling softly, making the hair on the back of her neck raise in alarm. Golden Retrievers in general, and Toffee in particular, were known for their happy, gregarious natures, and this type of behavior from her beloved pet could only be viewed as a warning. Something thumped against the side of the house, and Missy jumped, hugging Toffee close. She punched in the number for Chas’s phone with trembling fingers, when flashing blue and red lights shone through the windows, making dizzying patterns on the walls. She heard a violent pounding on her front door, and was relieved to see a uniformed police officer through the peephole.
“Ma�
��am, you need to evacuate all occupants from the premises please, the fire department is on its way,” the officer informed her urgently.
“Fire department? Why? What’s going on?” she asked, terrified.
“Please ma’am, you need to get out now,” he insisted, ignoring her questions.
Missy told him that she needed to go back in and get her dog, and he told her to do so immediately. When she and Toffee came trotting down the steps, the officer indicated that she should get as far away from the house as possible. When she reached her car at the curb, she asked again what was wrong.
“Are you Melissa Gladstone?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“Your store downtown is on fire. We were dispatched here to make sure that you were safe, and when we arrived, we saw a figure in your side yard. From the light of our headlights and sirens, we saw that someone with a jerry can was throwing some sort of liquid on the side of your house. Based upon what was happening downtown, we assumed that it was a flammable liquid and evacuated you and your dog. The perpetrator dropped the can and fled. We tried to follow, but they eluded us pretty quickly. My partner then confirmed that the jerry can that was left behind had contained gasoline, which is now all over the side of your house. The fire department is on the way to neutralize it. We also confirmed that the power lines to your home had been disabled,” he explained, as Missy’s eyes filled with tears. “Do you have somewhere safe to stay this evening, ma’am?”
Missy nodded, overwhelmed. “My store…is it…?” she couldn’t finish the thought.
“From what I understand, it’s most likely a total loss. The fire department is trying to save the buildings on either side of it at this point,” the officer answered gently.
