Murder in the Milk Case
Page 5
I debated writing a letter to Russ at boot camp to ask him about the stop sign. That would clear things up right away, but I couldn’t. Boot camp was hard enough without the added pressure of this problem. If he wasn’t guilty, then he’d just sit there and worry. I glanced at the four- and five-year-old Sunday school curriculum laid out on the kitchen table. I was supposed to be preparing for Sunday’s lesson. The practical part of the lesson was about a little girl who lied to her parents. I ignored the niggling of my conscience that I hadn’t yet told Max about Jim Bob’s threat. But I did have to figure things out first. At least that’s what I kept telling myself.
Was my brother really guilty? And who had killed Jim Bob? What exactly had my mother said? I pulled a blank piece of paper from my notebook and began to doodle. Then I wrote down “Jim Bob and young wife.” I followed those words with “Motivation” written in large block letters. What exactly gave someone motivation to murder? Strong emotion, like love gone wrong, or hate, or fear. . .
“Hey, baby.” Max walked in the room behind me.
I shoved my notes under the Sunday school lesson. If Max knew what I was doing, he’d want to know why. He rubbed my shoulders. I leaned back and looked up at him.
“Can you take a break and come sit with me?” he asked. “We’re alone.”
I hadn’t even thought about that, which was unusual since alone time for us was so rare, and I love spending time with him. But now that Max mentioned it, the house was quiet. Sammie and Charlie wouldn’t be home for another hour. Karen was over at Julie’s house, and Tommy was working.
On the couch in the family room, I nestled against Max with my head on his shoulder, trying valiantly to clear my mind.
“Isn’t it nice to have all the kids in school now?” He stroked my hair. “That little kid thing is just about over.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I guess. But the issues we deal with are bigger. Like Karen and her moodiness, and Charlie. He sees dead people.”
Max laughed. “Charlie has an imagination that’s almost as big as yours.”
I pulled away from him. “Come on. Be serious. It worries me. I mean, we take him to Sunday school and church. He goes to Christian school. He knows there aren’t any such things as ghosts. What will his teachers think? We need to talk to him.”
“I don’t think he really sees things.” Max pulled me tight. “Now let’s enjoy being alone and not talk about the kids or anything important.”
I saw the gleam in his eye. “Just what did you have in mind?”
He leaned down and kissed me.
I willed myself to stop thinking. I almost succeeded, but the secret I held wouldn’t be still and wiggled in the back of my brain. After a very pleasant couple of minutes, I could no longer contain my thoughts. I pulled away from him.
He frowned at me. “What’s wrong?”
I glanced at his face. I’d memorized every inch of it, from his green eyes and the skin that crinkled around them when he smiled, to the scar on his cheek that he’d gotten when he was just a kid and fell off the swing set. I loved him so, and my heart ached keeping what I knew from him. I had to tell him.
“Max, I wanted to talk to you—”
He cupped his hand under my chin. “I don’t really feel like talking.”
“But—”
He kissed me again, successfully shutting me up, then the front door burst open, banging against the wall. We had barely separated lips when Karen whirled into the room.
“Dad.”
I brushed hair out of my eyes, and Max adjusted his collar.
“Oh—my—stars! I can’t believe you guys.” She put her hands on her hips. “What if I had company?”
She didn’t, but I decided not to point that out.
“What’s wrong?” Max asked.
Tears welled up in her eyes. “I had to leave Julie’s. Her mother kicked her father out. Julie can’t stop crying, and her mother is acting all weird. There’s this guy. . .” She heaved a sigh. “It’s horrible. I mean, I remember when Mommy. . .” Her voice broke.
My breath caught in my throat.
Max patted the sofa next to him. “Why don’t you come sit down and talk?”
Karen shook her head. “No. Especially not after what I just saw.” She whirled on her heel and left the room.
I was not going to survive this. If my brother were guilty in any way of Lindsey’s death, my relationship with my stepchildren—in particular, Karen—might be ruined forever. And I didn’t know how it would affect my marriage.
Max leaned back on the couch.
I felt sick but needed to encourage him. “She’s still insecure about losing her mother. That, on top of being a teenage girl.”
He took a deep breath and stared at his hands, then he twirled his wedding ring around and around. “Maybe.” He glanced at me. “Well, since we were interrupted anyway, what did you want to talk about?”
I wanted to tell him about Russ so badly, but the timing wasn’t right. Besides, even though I might feel better for the confession, all I had was supposition. An accusation that may or may not be true. I had to know for certain.
“It can wait.” I sat up straight. “You should go talk to Karen.”
He frowned. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“I guess you’re right.” He kissed my cheek. “I’m really sorry, Trish.”
“It’s okay.” I watched him leave the room, then I followed more slowly, heading to our bedroom. It wasn’t okay. I wondered if things would be okay ever again.
My mind whirled with the murder and accompanying complications. Detective Scott hadn’t given me any indication about the direction of the investigation, not that he would. I turned over all the possible suspects. Frank? His reaction at the scene didn’t appear to be that of a guilty person, but what would I know about how guilty people acted? Though I had gone to school with him, I really didn’t know Frank at all. His Dudley Do-It-All-Right reputation remained to this day. But that didn’t mean Frank was a murderer. To the contrary, one could assume the opposite was the case.
Much of the staff of the store was sick that morning, at least according to Daryl. Besides the people at the registers up front, I’d only seen Lee Ann, Daryl, Frank, and a few customers. Who had the most to gain from Jim Bob’s death? Besides me?
Chapter Five
On Wednesday morning, I rushed through the front door of Four Oaks Self-Storage fifteen minutes late.
I’d been sick that morning. I had to find out what was going on sooner rather than later so things could calm down, including my stomach.
Shirl peered over the high, gray Formica counter that surrounded her desk and held out some mail. “Hey, Mrs. C.”
“Hi.” I took the envelopes from her then went to my office where I fired up my computer and got to work. Max needed me to run through some figures for the new phase of construction across the street, as well as those forthe new facility.
I heard the hum of cars arriving and leaving and the front door opening and shutting as customers came in to rent units or take care of bills. I paid no attention to anything until I heard the rumbling of Max’s voice. He strolled into my office and shut the door. With his blue work shirt and jeans, he looked like every woman’s dream of a hunky construction worker, with muscles in all the right places.
“Hi, honey.” His gaze made me feel warm.
I leaned back in my chair. “Karen seemed okay this morning.”
“Last night she accused me of acting like a teenage boy when I’m around you.” He grinned, and his eyes sparkled, which made him look a lot like a teenager.
That could explain some of her hostile behavior. Not only was she jealous of me, she was also going through the stage where she didn’t want to acknowledge that her father was a normal, healthy male.
“You okay with that?” I asked.
He flashed me a wide smile. “What do you think?”
I motioned toward a chair. “You wanna sit?”
I smiled at the mention of George’s name. He’d introduced me to Max. “Tell him I said hi.”
“Okay,” Max said. “You remember the baseball game tonight, right?”
I nodded. The ball game might be a good place to look for clues.
He walked around the desk and kissed me, then he headed for the front office. “I’ll try to be home a bit early,” he said over his shoulder. “That way we have time to eat dinner.”
He left, banging the front door behind him. I went to the window to watch him cross the parking lot. The mention of George made me feel nostalgic. Even after six years, I still couldn’t believe that I’d landed Max Cunningham. I clamped my fists tightly at my side. I had to make sure nothing happened to ruin what we had.
Time to gather clues. I whispered a prayer for help, then I walked out to the front office and leaned against the counter. Shirl was thumbing through a catalog.
“Can I talk to you?” I asked.
“Sure.” She marked her place and faced me.
“What do you know about Jim Bob Jenkins?”
She crossed her arms. “Only that no one will miss the louse.”
Well, that was straightforward and not a nice thing to say about a dead man. “Why is that?”
She shook her head. “He always acted like he was everyone’s friend, but he was mean as a snake. Turned on a body faster than a rabid dog.”
I nodded, and that encouraged her to continue. “Then the old coot up and married that hussy. Nothin’ good could come from that, I’ll tell you what.”
Louse, snake, mean dog, old coot—not a very flattering picture of the dearly departed. As for his current wife, this was the second time I’d heard not-so-good things about her.
“Did you hear anything about suspects? Like Frank Gaines or Daryl Boyd?” I asked.
Shirl laughed. “Don’t know much about Frank, but Daryl? That big weenie? Only way he’d kill someone is if he ran over ’em trying to get away from his wife when she’s on a rampage.”
I knew Daryl’s wife and wouldn’t blame anyone for running away from her.
“That’s the thing, you know,” Shirl said. “He married the woman for her money. She makes him work, so there he is at Shopper’s Super Saver. He’s too afraid of her to do anything. At least in front of her face.” Shirl paused and tapped her finger on her forehead. “But you know what? Maybe Daryl is sneaky. You know how men can be when they want something.”
I could only imagine what she meant by that comment, but she brought up a really good point. Sneakiness was an interesting character trait. Maybe it was just a short slide from being sneaky to slaughtering someone.
When I arrived home at noon, I saw a strange car parked out front on the road. An equally strange man stood on the sidewalk, looking at our house. I pulled my SUV into the driveway, and he turned around to peer at me.
I didn’t get out, and I made sure I’d locked my doors. Finding Jim Bob’s body had made me wary, more conscious of possible danger. Though we live in the country suburbs, we’re near enough to larger towns to get the occasional roaming bad guy. The tall, skinny man, dressed in baggy chinos and a white knit shirt, ambled over to my car. I cracked the window and left my engine running, in case I had to make a quick getaway.
He said something to me, but I could barely hear him for staring at the massive gray and brown mop of hair that covered his head, and his upper lip that sported the largest mustache I’d seen outside of Civil War movies.
“Mrs. Cunningham?”
“Who wants to know?” I demanded.
He flashed a smarmy, big-toothed smile. “I’m a reporter from the Four Oaks Times Gazette. Can you tell me about the body you found in the dairy case?”
I didn’t want any more publicity over this whole thing. I didn’t think Max or his parents would be happy, either.
“Look, Mr. . . ”
“Call me Carey.” He paused. “Carey Snook.” He reached out a hand, but I didn’t roll down my window. He put his hand down. “Can you just tell me about the body you found in the dairy case?”
I shook my head. “No.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is there another time I could come back, then?”
“No.”
He stuck his face in my window. “You know, I want this story. Lots of people could be guilty of his murder. Everyone has secrets. That’s what I’m looking for.”
I couldn’t speak. Was he implying something? What did he already know? He smiled and then turned, walked to his car, and hopped inside. I waited until he was out of sight before I parked my vehicle in the garage.
My legs felt shaky. All I needed was a newspaper person hounding me, looking for secrets. One more good reason to find my answers—fast.
I walked into the kitchen and flung my purse on the table as the phone rang. I snatched the handset off the wall. “Hello?”
“Hello. Is Maxwell there?” A woman’s voice, dripping a honeyed southern accent, came from the receiver.
“Maxwell?” Only Max’s mother called him Maxwell. “Who’s calling?”
“This is the Cunningham residence, isn’t it?” For each syllable, she added another.
“Yes, but he’s not available,” I said. “Who is this?”
“He’s not at work. I can’t find him anywhere. Well, I guess I’ll call him later then. Thank you.”
She hung up without answering my question. I stood in the kitchen, holding my phone.
I’ll be the first to admit I suffer from jealousy. Not because of anything Max has done. The way women respond to him isn’t his fault. I just have a bit of a self-esteem problem. And right then, I felt even worse because I had this huge secret I was keeping from him.
So it was logical that I would wonder why a woman who wouldn’t leave a message was looking all over the place for my husband. I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t reach him. I tried his cell phone, but he’d turned it off, which he sometimes does when he’s in a meeting. Then I called the office only to have Shirl tell me that he was out and she didn’t know where.
What to do? I paced the ceramic-tile floor waiting for Sammie to get home and trying to decide on my course of action. Knowing that Detective Scott was on the case made me edgy. I suspected I didn’t have much time before he would discover that my altercation with Jim Bob was more than just what happened at the store. Now a hairy-faced reporter was sniffing around.
I had to think. Logically. This was no time to become unhinged. My first order of business was Russ. Had I really seen road signs in his closet? I took a deep breath and ticked off thoughts in my head. First, road signs. Second, find out who was talking to Jim Bob about Russ. One of Russ’s old friends perhaps? For that I needed a list of who he’d known, and I knew just where to find one.
While my mother was at work and my father was away, Sammie and I could make a foray to the old family homestead and see if I could find a stop sign.
“Mommy, what do you have to find here?” Sammie asked, as I pulled up to my parents’. The white Victorian farmhouse with its large, airy rooms and nooks and crannies had been my home from the time I was born until I moved into my own apartment.
“I’m just getting something Granny stored.” I parked my vehicle next to the back porch. I’d told my mother that I needed to look for an old book. Not technically a lie, since I was going to get my brother’s yearbooks, but I was disturbed that my half-truths were adding up. I undid Sammie’s seat belt and mine, and we climbed out. Two white chickens scurried past us. Sammie laughed and chased them.
“I’ll be right back out,” I yelled after her. “Stay in the yard.”
I went in the back door, passed through the mudroom, and rushed into the kitchen. The smell of floor polish, lemon wax, and baking enveloped me, reminding me of coming home after school when I
was little, grabbing a handful of cookies, and running outside to play. I felt a sense of longing for the simplicity of it all. My biggest problem back then had been escaping my mother’s tongue—something my father made up for by spoiling me behind her back. But now I was no longer a child. I was an adult with adult-sized problems.
I heard a dog bark and glanced out the window over the kitchen sink. Sammie was playing with Buddy, my father’s border collie. Good. The dog was like a third parent. I hurried through the kitchen, down the hall to the staircase. I ran my hands over the smooth walnut handrail, thinking of all the times I’d slid down its length. The stairs, polished and worn from age, creaked under my feet as I jogged up them.
Russ’s room was first on the right. Like all the other rooms, it was spacious, with dark wood trim and large, rectangular windows that reached almost from floor to ceiling. I went straight to his closet where I remembered seeing something covered with a sheet. Besides his clothes and shoes, there was very little. Russ was fanatically neat, a trait that would serve him well in the military. Had I imagined the sign?
I left his room and went down the hall to a door that led to the attic stairs. I scurried up those. At the top, I switched on a light and glanced around. Among my mother’s many traits, good and bad, was compulsive organization. She labeled everything. I would have no problem finding his yearbooks. Each of us had plastic bins containing years of school paraphernalia.
I performed a quick search of the whole room, checking for road signs, as well. I was beginning to feel a sense of relief. Perhaps I hadn’t seen a sign at all, and there was nothing to the threat. Maybe Jim Bob had made up the whole thing based on rumor, which I had to squelch.
“Mommy!” Sammie’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs. “Can I come up?”