Lois Lane Tells All

by Karen Hawkins

  “Surely they gave you records and—”

  “No. No, they didn’t. And let me tell you, I complained long and hard about that, too. My grandmother’s been a member of this church for over fifty years. She and I have always been close and when she asked me to do this, I agreed.” Jessica sighed. “I’ve regretted it ever since. There are no—”

  “Jessica! What do you think you’re doing?” Lucy Carpenter’s clipped tone broke into their conversation.

  Mark instantly recognized the small woman, her blond hair piled on top of her head in the most improbable set of ringlets off-setting an almost wizened face, stood glaring at Jessica. The older woman’s face clearly showed irritation and suspicion, her tiny frame almost aquiver with indignation.

  Jessica lifted her chin. “I’m talking to some friends.”

  Lucy’s gaze narrowed. “You were told not to speak to the press.”

  “For heaven’s sake, it’s a—”

  “Perhaps I should call your grandmother. It would upset her greatly to know you’re not doing your duty.”

  “That’s low, Lucy, and it would be a lie. Besides, Gram is over ninety and she doesn’t need the excitement.”

  “Neither do we.” Lucy cast a hard gaze on Susan, then Mark. “Come, Jessica. Since you’re in town, you might as well stop by the church and go through the program.”

  For a moment, Mark thought Jessica might refuse, but with a sigh, she collected her things and stood. “I suppose I had better go. It was nice meeting you. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  “Help? Help with what?” Lucy asked sharply.

  “Let’s go.” Without looking to see if the older woman followed, Jessica swept out of the diner. After a tense moment, Lucy followed.

  Susan closed her notebook. “That was interesting. We have enough to do a preliminary article now, and that’s all I was shooting for.”

  Mark paid the bill, leaving a generous tip.

  Susan looked at the clock over the service window and began to grab her things. “If I hurry, I can get it ready for tomorrow’s paper. Are you going back to the office?”

  “I still have some tax entries to make.”

  She nodded and hurried out of the diner, Mark following.

  His gaze dropped to Susan’s ass as she strode down the sidewalk to the Examiner building. Who’d have thought that being the Chief Financial Officer for a small-town newspaper could have so many fringe benefits?

  But so far, the best one had been seeing Susan work her magic. Whatever was happening with the Bake-Off, Susan would figure it out.

  Chapter 14

  Susan turned her face to the blissfully warm water and let it cascade over her body. It was later than usual for her, but Krypton had awoken her at six, begging to go out, and when she’d returned to bed, it had taken her an hour to fall back asleep. Still tired, she’d then slept through her alarm.

  She’d dreamed about Mark. Again. It was becoming a habit and she didn’t like it one bit. This time he’d been here in her house. They’d been laughing and talking and then she’d led him up the stairs, one kiss at a time.

  She grabbed the shampoo and vigorously scrubbed her hair. “You need to grab that man by the collar and get this out of your system,” she announced.

  Krypton came to see what all of the commotion was about, sticking his head into the shower and licking one of her legs.

  She giggled. “Stop that!” She shooed him away and rinsed her hair, then turned off the water. Today, she would do just that: grab Mark by the collar and—

  Her phone rang.

  Her hair wrapped in a towel freed an ear and she grabbed the phone.

  “Susan?” Mark’s husky voice warmed her head to toe. “You need to get down here.”

  “To the office?”

  “To the town square. I think I found a story for the paper.”

  “Wh—”

  “Just get here. I’ll be waiting.” He hung up.

  She tossed her phone on the bed and raced to dress.

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  Mark heard Susan’s murmured comment as he walked up beside her. She stood in front of City Hall where two long tables had been set up, a number of people milling around them. The tables were covered in bright yellow plastic, and someone had hand-lettered a large sign that read lemonade only $1 a cup, tax deductible. He recognized Tundy Spillers’s unnaturally red hair as she unpacked several large coolers and ordered anyone who happened to stop by the table to help her set out some napkins. “The Murder Mystery Club is up to something.”

  Susan’s eyes gleamed. “They always are. Whatever they’re doing, they’ve already drawn a crowd. I see Deloris from the library, the mayor, and old Pastor MacMillan.” She rubbed her hands together. “C’mon, Treymayne. Let’s see what Tundy and her gang are up to.”

  He followed her, just as curious as she was. The Murder Mystery Club had come into being at the Pine Hills Assisted Living Center when the new activities director had required all members of the center to be a part of a weekly activity or organization. Clara, C.J., and Rose had created the Murder Mystery Club. Rabid CSI fans, Rose and Clara spent most of their time watching TV and lusting after Gil Grissom. When they weren’t doing that, they were out searching for a mystery to solve.

  Mark followed Susan toward the tables, noting that the usual suspects had collected around the two tables. Clara was sitting in her wheelchair wearing a powder blue dress, a pink shawl around her shoulders.

  Nearby, Rose Tibbons was dressed in her usual Lady Bird Johnson–style red wig, her bright white tennis shoes planted firmly on the ground. Tall, bony, and dressed in a bright flowered muumuu, she cut an imposing figure as she towered over her companions.

  C.J. stood by, smiling vacantly. The old man tended to drift in and out of awareness of where he was and with whom, so Mark was never sure if he was an active part of the Murder Mystery Club or if he just tagged along for the fun of it. Roxie, who visited with the group once or twice a week, said that C.J. was showing signs of improvement now that he was a part of the club.

  Tundy was dressed in her trademark pink velour jogging suit, busily pouring lemonade from a pitcher into an array of glasses, splashing as she went.

  “Looks to me like a normal old lemonade stand. Maybe they’re trying to raise money for something,” Mark suggested.

  “I don’t know.” Susan flashed a grin his way. “Let me buy you a glass of lemonade.”

  They approached the tables, Pastor MacMillan breaking off in midsentence to hurry away. The guy looked exactly the way every Hollywood casting director thought a preacher should—he was tall, gray-haired, with a kindly expression.

  As Mark watched, the preacher hopped into the church van and left. “Sheesh. He is serious about avoiding you, isn’t he?”

  Susan shrugged. “I’ll just have to figure out what’s going on without his help.” She ordered two lemonades for them, C.J. collecting their dollars.

  Mark drank his lemonade. “That’s pretty good. It even—”

  “Thanks!” Clara held out a rubber gloved hand. “I’ll take that!” She almost yanked the empty glass out of Mark’s hand, settled it on a tray that rested in her lap, then wheeled her chair to a stack of boxes. She dropped the glass into a slot, tugged a notepad from her pocket, scribbled something on it, ripped the paper off the pad, and then dropped it into the glass.

  Susan’s eyes widened and she whispered to Mark, “What was that all about?”

  Mark shrugged. “Who knows? This morning Ray caught them hiding behind the big sign at Micki & Maud’s Diner, taking pictures of everyone who came and went.”

  “What for?”

  “I think the word ‘dossiers’ was mentioned. Ray was rather upset about it, too.”

  “One of the club members mentioned dossiers when you accosted them after they followed us to Widow Rawlings’s house.” She mulled this over. “Wait a minute. Who are they making dossiers of?”

  “Ray asked that
and they got all secretive and then changed their story.”

  “To what?”

  “Tundy said they were really just scoping out ‘victims’ for their annual candy drive.”

  Susan chuckled. “They’re a lively group.”

  “Miserably so. I don’t think Tundy’s been a calming influence, either. In fact, I think she keeps them stirred up.”

  Susan sipped her lemonade, watching as C.J. helped Deloris Fishbine with some change. “I hope someone will take the time to stir me up when I’m older.”

  Mark’s eyes crinkled behind his glasses. “I think you’re more the stirring type than the stirree.”

  “Could be.” Susan grimaced at her glass of lemonade. “A bit sour.”

  “You expected sweet? From this gang?”

  “You have a point.”

  Susan leaned against the table and waited until Rose wandered near. “So, what’s the purpose of this lemonade sale?”

  Rose brightened. “We’re going to open our very own CSI lab in my bathroom,” Tundy called out, and Rose left.

  Clara wheeled up to add, “Rose is going to use mine when she wants to shower.”

  Susan turned to Mark. “This could be a great story.”

  “Especially when the EPA shuts them down.”

  “Screw the EPA,” Clara said stoutly. “I refuse to register my guns!”

  “That’s the ATF, not the EPA.” Susan frowned. “When did you get a gun?”

  Clara sniffed. “Well, I did have one, but Mr. Fostwith—he’s the director of the center—said he wasn’t comfortable with residents having them, as some are likely to use them when there’s no banana pudding or the hot water’s not as piping as they like it.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  Clara nodded. “I’d never use a piece to demand banana pudding, but there’ve been times when the hot water wasn’t so hot and I felt like popping a cap in someone’s ass, so I suppose he has a point.”

  Susan caught Mark’s incredulous stare. “Clara, I’m glad you gave it up quietly.”

  “I tried to hide it, but that darn Nurse Becky is a smart one. She found my stash, and that was that.”

  Mark seemed fascinated. “I know I shouldn’t ask, but where did you hide your gun?”

  “Why, in my underwear drawer, of course! It might not deter an experienced man like you, but it would give pause to some of the pimply faced kids they hire at the center.” She cackled. “I put a few thongs in there just to keep ’em guessing!”

  Susan chuckled. “I bet you do.”

  “And they’re not going to mess with our lab, either. We need it to solve crimes, like figuring out who tried to kill you, Miz Susan.”

  Susan sighed. “Clara, no one tried to kill me. It was pure and simple vandalism.”

  Clara looked disappointed. After a moment, she said, “You know, I’ve never heard of a vandal doing damage you can’t see. Vandals like to break windows and such. That would be vandalism.”

  Mark frowned. He’d never thought of it that way, but … “Susan, she might have a point.”

  Clara beamed. “I’d make a crack investigator, wouldn’t I?”

  Rose came to stand beside her. Since Clara was fairy-sized, even when she wasn’t confined to a wheelchair, Rose’s tall, bony height was exaggerated and she looked like some sort of large, gangly bird. “What do these two want?” she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

  “They just came for some lemonade, like the others,” Clara said in a placid tone. “I told them about our CSI lab.”

  The hint of a smile softened Rose’s face. “That’ll be the cat’s meow. We’ll really be able to solve us some cases, then!”

  “We’ll have fingerprint powders and a microscope and chemicals for telling what brand of lipstick a murderess might be wearing. All sorts of things!”

  “Clara,” Susan said gently, “Nurse Becky might be mad if you and Rose store chemicals in your bathroom.”

  “Wait until we get us a dead body to process!”

  “I’m pretty sure that would be illegal,” Mark said.

  Rose scowled. “That’s government for you. Always taking this away and making that hard to do.”

  C.J. roamed nearby, counting the glasses. “There are only twelve clean glasses left.”

  Clara’s face fell. “Only twelve? We could sell twice that much just in the next hour.”

  Mark shrugged. “You can wash your glasses at the newspaper office if you’d like—”

  “Hold it!” Tundy was suddenly there, glaring at Susan and Mark. “Are you botherin’ my gang?” She leaned down to Clara and said loudly, “Remember who they are!”

  “Who they—” Clara blinked. “Oh, right! The media.”

  Mark couldn’t have looked more confused if they’d accused him of being an Eskimo. “What’s wrong with being the media?”

  Susan had to smile. “Don’t you know? We’re evil.” She looked at Tundy. “Speaking of evil, how’d that personal ad work for you?”

  Tundy brightened. “Not as good as your ‘Dear Bob’ mention. Once’t that ran, I got six answers! Two were from perverts and one was a Russian guy wanting his green card, but the other three look promising. I’m meetin’ one of them tonight for coffee at Micki & Maud’s.”

  “Excellent!”

  Mark held up a hand. “Wait a minute. Why is being a part of the media considered ‘evil’?”

  Susan glanced at Tundy. “Mind if I answer that?”

  “No! Go right ahead. I need to count our funds.”

  Susan turned to Mark. “We, the media, are always trying to trip people up. We investigate and force people to tell the truth and—” She turned to Tundy. “Wait a minute. We do exactly what your Murder Mystery Club does.”

  “Yeah, and no one likes us, either,” Tundy agreed.

  “Nope,” Rose said, looking rather pleased. “Why, the mayor bought his glass of lemonade and talked to everyone at the table, but he wouldn’t even look at us.”

  “That’s OK.” Clara grinned, her false teeth blazingly white. “I short-changed him two bucks on his twenty.”

  “And I spit in his glass when no one was looking!” C.J. added with evident glee.

  “That’s my man!” Tundy said, patting C.J. on the back.

  Mark laughed. “If you all want to wash the glasses in our break room, feel free.”

  “No,” Tundy said firmly, holding her hand up and yanking on a rubber glove. For a moment, she looked like an evil doctor from a cheesy B movie. She plucked Susan’s empty glass and placed it on the tray in Clara’s lap. “If we wash the glasses, how will we keep track of how many we’ve sold? We don’t want to do no harm to the IRS by cheatin’ them out of their money.”

  Rose harrumphed. “I don’t believe we should give money to the U.S. government. What have they done for us?”

  “Yeah.” Clara nodded so hard her glasses flopped on her nose. “What’s the government done for us?”

  Susan was pretty sure all three of the residents from the Pine Hills Assisted Living Center were living off their Social Security checks and were heavily dependent on Medicare, but she wisely held her tongue. “If you run out of glasses, there are some Styrofoam cups in our break room. You’re welcome to them.”

  There was an odd silence as Clara, Rose, and Tundy looked at one another.

  Finally, Clara shook her head. “No can do. Our glasses are uhm—” She looked appealingly at Tundy.

  Tundy looked at the few glasses left on the table. “They’re prettier than Styrofoam ones!”

  “But you’re running out—”

  Tundy waved her hands. “OK, you’ve both had your lemonade. Move aside so other people can have some.”

  Susan looked around. No one else was waiting in line, but with a droll look at Mark, she said good-bye and promised to come take a picture of the group for the newspaper, which made them all happy.

  Mark crossed the town square toward the newspaper building.

  “What in the
heck was that all about?” Mark asked.

  “I don’t know, but they’re up to something. Did you notice they were all wearing gloves?”

  “They probably got them from the lunchroom ladies at the assisted-living center. Seriously, Tundy and the Murder Mystery Club have about as much chance of getting involved in a real crime as Micki & Maud’s has of getting a Michelin rating.”

  “They uncovered Doyle’s blackmail scheme.”

  “By accident, not through their superior sleuthing skills, no matter how Clara and Rose tell it.”

  Susan couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something odd going on. “I don’t know. They’re up to something and I can’t imagine what they’re doing with a lemonade stand. It has to be more than a mere fund-raiser.” Susan frowned. “Do you think they’re trying to collect fingerprints?”

  “What?”

  “With the glasses. They were wearing gloves, and they refused our offer for Styrofoam cups.”

  “It’s possible, but … what good would that do? You’d have to match the fingerprints for them to be of value, and they don’t have the resources for that.”

  “Maybe they don’t know that. Whatever they’re doing, I’m going to find out.”

  She shot a sidelong glance at Mark and decided he didn’t need to be included in her every move. Soon she’d be the sole editor of the Examiner, and it behooved her to hone all of her skills, especially those that could detect a story. Besides, she was beginning to enjoy Mark’s company a bit too much. It was endearing that he’d been so excited when he’d called this morning, and even more so when he’d joined her at the lemonade table and actively participated in digging for information.

  She wasn’t used to this feeling of partnership that was slowly forming. For now, at least, they had the same goals—but once those were gone, nothing would tie Mark here.

  Her chest felt hollow and she had to force a smile when Mark opened the door of the office building. I need to focus on my job and not on him.

  With renewed determination, she decided to discover what it was that Tundy and her Murder Mystery Club were up to—even if she had to buy lemonade every day for a month.