Walking to the front of the Sunbird, I saw the problem. I managed to stifle a groan. A kitten, not more than eight weeks old, lay flattened and bloody behind the driver’s side tire.
I then walked over to the weeping girl and her friends, using my practiced, pastor’s wife’s, soothing, it’s-going-to-be-okay voice. “Listen, honey, there’s no way you could have stopped in time. I’ll pick up the kitten. You get back in your car and pull into that driveway on the right so we can get out of the way of traffic. We’ll see if we can find the owners. I’ll be right behind you.”
The three girls were all in tears. I pegged them to be sixteen or seventeen. They were dressed in jeans, too small T-shirts, expensive tennis shoes, and all looked pretty much alike. The driver seemed inconsolable. The slogan on her T-shirt couldn’t have been more ironic: “If at first you don’t succeed”—written in bold, green letters across her chest and on the back—“Skydiving isn’t for you.” Really? Apparently driving isn’t for you either.
Streaks of black mascara and liner slithered down her cheeks. Her friends helped push her into the backseat of the vehicle though it proved difficult. She kept her hands over her face, sobbing in the dramatic fashion that only a teen girl can do. No doubt she was too stricken to drive any further.
I was happy that I’d only birthed boy children. I couldn’t remember ever being this fluttery, weepy, or hysterical in all my days as a girl. And neither had my boys.
Rachel had not left her seat in the Escape. Her head was down, probably in an effort to not be seen by anyone who could possibly recognize her. I realized that I wasn’t doing a very good job of protecting her from feeling exposed and vulnerable. But I didn’t know how I could’ve prevented this little mishap.
Walking back to the Volvo driver who was busy inspecting the damage to my rental, I asked, “Are you all right?”
The stylish woman was close to six feet tall and looked oddly familiar. She had blonde hair with streaks of gray, wore a pale-yellow pantsuit, yellow sling-back sandals, and yellow ear rings. She could’ve been the cover girl for AARP.
“I’m fine. Just a little shook up. The question is how are you?”
“I’m better than the young lady who ran over the kitten. I’m going to pull over into that driveway with her and get out of traffic. If you follow us we can exchange insurance information and numbers.”
“No problem. I’ll be right behind you.”
“You look familiar. Do I know you?” I asked.
Something quick, some emotion, some hint, flashed through her eyes, and then disappeared as quickly as it appeared. I almost didn’t see it. Volvo-lady shook her head no. “I’m not from around here. I must have one of those faces.” She seemed to choose her words with care.
“Okay, just follow me.”
I smiled and walked back to the Escape. I grabbed my sweater out of the back of the SUV and painstakingly picked up the dead kitten. Poor thing. The young driver let out a sound that was half-shriek, half-groan, and started crying again. Quickly covering the lifeless little body, I instructed the new driver, “Okay, let’s go.”
Rachel took the cat, holding it for me until we could get out of the street.
The teenage girl maneuvered the Sunbird into the residential driveway, with me following. The cat owner had to live around here somewhere. I would help the girls find whomever after I traded insurance information with the Volvo lady.
“She’s driving away. She’s not stopping,” yelled Rachel, twisting around in her seat.
“What?”
“The woman in the Volvo—the one who rear-ended us—she’s gone.”
I parked behind the Sunbird and got out in time to glimpse the beige Volvo weaving in and out of traffic at a frenzied pace. “Weird. I guess I should have gotten a name. She didn’t do much damage to my vehicle. On the other hand she’s missing some paint and has a broken headlight.”
“Her problem, I guess.” Rachel shrugged.
“You happen to see her plate?”
“No, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Very strange. Oh well, I have a cat owner to find,” I said.
It took about three houses before the still weepy teen and I found the owner of the kitten—a barrel-chested man in his mid-sixties with shaggy eyebrows and shoulder-length, gray hair held back with a rubber band. He was wearing bib overalls—the kind you associate with train conductors—a white T-shirt, and corduroy bedroom slippers.
I related the story as best I could with Miss Weepy hiccupping through her sobs.
He responded kindly. “Come on in. Set him down on the dining room table.”
The feline odor in his house nearly knocked me over. The couch, chairs, and windowsills were alive with the meowing species. There wasn’t a piece of furniture that wasn’t scratched, frayed, or badly stained. I guessed there had to be over fifty cats. It was obvious it would have taken days for him to notice one small cat was missing.
“I try to rescue these little guys, but occasionally one gets away. This is the first time I’ve lost a cat.”
“Can’t you take them to an animal shelter?”
He looked at me like I’d lost my marbles. “Have you ever been to an animal shelter? Shelter? These little guys wouldn’t last three days. If they don’t get adopted in a preordained time frame, they get juiced.”
“Juiced?”
“Killed. Put to sleep. Euthanized. I’d sooner see them get run over.” He grunted.
“Oh.” I could certainly turn a phrase in a pinch.
“I’ll have a service for Puddens tonight,” he said, stroking the dead kitten’s fur.
“Oh.” My second clever comeback in a row.
“We are very sorry,” I said. “Thank you for understanding. She really tried to stop in time.”
He nodded his head.
I grabbed Weepy’s hand. The other girls had opted to wait in the car, and we walked out the door after again apologizing profusely for Puddens’ demise. The smell of fresh air was intoxicating, and I took several deep breaths. I waved good-bye to the teary-eyed crew and climbed back in the Escape.
Looking at my watch, I sighed. “That little incident cost us a good bit of time. We’ll order takeout and eat at Todd’s.”
“I am so good with that,” Rachel said. “The less I have to be in public, the more I like it.”
Pulling up to the takeout window, I ordered beef with peapods, sesame chicken, and two egg rolls. “Put chopsticks in the bag too. Please.”
“Chopsticks? It’ll take us all night to eat.” Rachel groaned.
“Come on, Rache. Live a little. Don’t you ever watch TV? They eat with chopsticks on Law and Order shows all the time. Maybe it gives them special reasoning powers. I eat with chopsticks, therefore I solve crimes.” I winked at Rachel.
She shook her head and smiled. “You need serious help, Jamie.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Todd Davis lived on the farm he’d grown up tilling, cultivating, and planting. It was a sprawling 2,200 acres of rolling hills. His grandparents had started out with a modest 300 acres, but with good management, hard work, and long days, they were able to buy neighboring land.
Todd’s dad inherited the same work ethic and bought two more farms, the owners looking more for the quick buck than the uncertain future of government regulations, nature’s whim, or Wall Street futures. When his parents died, they willed the farm to Todd—huge by Indiana standards, but he loved every inch of it. He was determined to give his kids the lifestyle that city living could never afford.
He took pride in Indiana being the fifth largest producer of corn in the country. He was a part of that statistic, and it made him feel good. He also raised soybeans and wheat, but corn was his favorite. He loved the look of the straight rows and would always say, “Knee high by the Fourth of July! Gonna be a bumper crop, Jamie.” I must’ve heard that every summer since we were six. One summer a violent hailstorm destroyed every stalk within a hundred miles. He ca
lled it the Great Combine in the Sky.
He’d been offered millions for the acreage by a huge corporation based in St. Louis, looking to expand its brewery operations. He turned them down flat. He’d e-mailed me after the offer: “I can’t put a price on my kids’ safety or their happiness.”
We arrived at Todd’s at 6:55 p.m. Four vehicles were parked at the front of his house, including Scott’s customized police van. Nosed in next to it was a station wagon with the WNTV logo emblazoned on both sides and the top.
“Well, what do you know. Billy Fisher made it. I don’t recognize the brown truck, but guess who owns the blue Beemer?”
I didn’t give Rachel time to answer before I grabbed the bag of Chinese food and headed for the house. Rachel trudged behind me like she was headed for the gallows. She held her laptop to her chest like a shield. A mental image of Linus and his blanket flashed through my mind.
“Who? Who owns the BMW?” Rachel asked, a trace of fear lacing her question.
“Come on in, and I’ll introduce you to him.”
The door opened to the sounds of, “It’s been so long. How are you?” and “You haven’t changed a bit.” Once inside, there was hugging and high-fiving all around. Shawn Norman walked in, and the hugging resumed. When the greetings finally wound down, it was as if we’d just seen each other yesterday. No uncomfortable clearing of throats, no tension, no lack for conversation, at least not for me. I wasn’t sure about Rachel. Timid in high school . . . timid here.
Craig Haskell stood back, taking it all in, not joining the conversation. He had changed from a suit to well-worn Levi’s and a soft, lime-green Polo shirt. His Nikes were black and appeared to be right out of the box. But however casual his clothes, he looked ill at ease, like he had never seen a group of buddies hug. His face revealed a look that was somewhere between awe, amazement, and distaste.
Before I had a chance to introduce Craig, Billy confronted him.
“Hey, who are you?” Billy growled, noticing the stranger for the first time.
“Craig Haskell.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was invited. You?” Craig asked, not intimidated.
“I thought this was Cliffhangers only,” Billy grumbled.
I shot him what I hoped was a nasty glare and cleared my throat. “Okay guys, time to get this show on the road. I see everyone could make it but Tim. All of you know why. What most of you don’t know is that Tim left his considerable fortune to me, which makes me a prime suspect in his murder. I called you guys to this meeting because I thought you could help clear my name. I believe his death is somehow related to Dacia Stewart’s murder. For those of you who don’t know, the guy here on my right is Craig Haskell—Dacia’s fiancé at the time of her death. Tim had invited him to come to our reunion. I’ll let him tell the story from there.”
Craig nodded at the group.
Todd put his hands up in a time-out gesture. “I know I’m kind of slow, but I wonder if we could take five minutes to catch up on our lives and maybe tell Craig a bit about ourselves. I know it sounds all churchy-touchy-feely, but I need an icebreaker. I haven’t seen Rachel in thirty years, and it’s been almost that long since I’ve seen Shawn.”
Everyone agreed but me. Of course, none of their lives were on the line. Personally, I was ready to dispense with the niceties and get on with the murders, but that’s democracy for you. I was outvoted.
We all sat down at the kitchen table. “I’ll start,” I said. “Then we’ll go around the table from my left, and Craig can end it.”
I looked over at Craig. “First, I’ll give you some background on all of us. We all went to Highland High here in Anderson. We all graduated in 1985, we all had Dacia as a student teacher in our fourth year of English, and we all belonged to a mystery club called the Cliffhangers. For the last thirty years I’ve been a preacher’s wife and have moved around a bit. I live in Great Falls, Montana and have four boys—two sets of twins. My mother lives here, and my two youngest go to AU.
“I was baking pies without a care in the world when I got the news that Tim had been killed. In an instant my life was turned upside down. I suddenly became a suspect in a friend’s murder, complete with ten million reasons for killing him. I called this meeting because I need your help. We were going to meet sometime this weekend anyway during our class reunion. I just bumped up the time frame a bit. For me, finding Tim’s killer is very personal.”
“Tim told me about the club,” Craig said. “Some of the stories were, well, I will just say interesting.”
I pulled a box of rice out of our takeout bag. “Rache and I didn’t get a chance to eat before we came, so excuse me while I dig into the food.” I looked at her.
“I’m Rachel King. I live in Philadelphia. I do freelance research for large companies, anything from employee background checks to in-depth financial analysis of companies being bought out by conglomerates. I’ve never been married and never intend to be. I wouldn’t be here now if Jamie hadn’t dragged me here. I’m not very social.”
“Shawn Norman here.” Shawn stood and shook hands with Craig. “I was a confirmed bachelor until about ten years ago when I met a remarkable woman. Actually, I had met her once before years ago, but that’s another story. Anyway, we have a beautiful, nine-year-old daughter. My wife couldn’t get away from work, so they didn’t come with me. We live in Israel where I work at the US embassy. It worked out for me to be here for the reunion, but frankly I’m anxious to get back to my family and continue my work. I’m all yours, Jamie, as far as the investigation goes until Monday morning. Then it’s back to God’s country. Literally.”
Scott reached across Shawn and pulled a piece of sesame chicken out of Rachel’s takeout box. “This is good stuff.”
He had also changed out of the clothes he was wearing earlier. He had opted for jeans, a T-shirt with an Anderson Police Department logo on it, and running shoes. I wondered how adept he was at changing and whether Tanae helped, or if he did it on his own. I had no plans to ask him, but I was still curious.
Between chews he continued the introductions. “Scott Walters, Anderson Police Department, paraplegic, father of two, husband of one, hometown boy who still loves his hometown. I took the liberty of making copies of Dacia Stewart’s police file as well as Tim’s. If you each want to take a copy, it might help you with the discussion tonight. This is, of course, highly against police procedure, so keep your mouths shut and minds open. Hopefully the six . . .” he looked skeptically at Craig, “or seven of us can come up with more than my department did. Sometimes the untrained eye can see what the professionals miss. Also, on top of the Stewart file, you’ll notice green Post-it Notes. I took the liberty of making a list of the four suspects, or at least the four people of interest who were interviewed twice about her murder.”
“Icebreaking, icebreaking,” Todd interjected. “You and Jamie are all business. Give us a break for a minute. The rest of us want to catch up. Go ahead, Billy.”
Billy Fisher grinned. “I’m sure most of you know me from Channel 8 News. I do in-depth investigation pieces. I think my high school experience as a Cliffhanger poured ‘exposing secrets’ into my veins. I haven’t been so lucky personally. I’ve been divorced twice and am currently dating Shelly Andrews from Channel 6. My child support payments total about $1,500 a month. I need to keep finding the next big story. I don’t have much time to give this weekend. I’m working on a piece that’ll blow the lid off the homeless industry here in Indy. And yeah, I mean what I say when I say industry. You guys would not believe what’s happening. The next time we meet, I should be anchoring a national evening news program. Move over Couric, here comes Fisher.”
“Modest as always,” Todd said. “Hi, Craig, I’m Todd Davis from Anderson. I grew up in a farming family, still farm, and love every minute of it. The sunrises, rainfall, stars, fresh morning air, and my wife and kids are what prove to me that God exists. That He loves me, that getting up every day is w
orth it, and that I can look forward to an eternity with Him.”
“Hey, no preaching,” Billy said.
“I let you say what you wanted to say. Now you let me say what I want to say. I’m not much good at mysteries, but I know one thing. Jamie didn’t kill anyone, and Scott, I can’t believe you haven’t cleared her yet. This whole mess makes me sick except for one thing. The night before Tim died he drove out for supper. Sheila fixed her killer lasagna—no pun intended. Excellent meal, if I do say so myself. Anyway, Tim told us that he totally surrendered his life to God—that he’d been exploring the Bible and chosen to give Christ a try. Said he felt as if a weight lifted off his shoulders, like he had more freedom now than ever before. I just wanted you to know you don’t have to be sad for Tim. He’s in a much better place.”
I blinked to stop the tears that threatened to roll down my face. Billy rolled his eyes. Rachel stared intently at Todd, as if she was trying to decide if he was telling the truth. Scott and Shawn both looked down. Embarrassed, perhaps? And then Craig Haskell started talking.
“Well, I guess it’s my turn. The only reason I’m here is Tim. I’m the principal at Highland now. I moved here at Tim’s suggestion. He called me two years ago and said he wanted to look into Dacia’s disappearance. I wasn’t doing anything with my life at that time. Highland had a job opening, so here I am. Tim and I had become quite close in the last two years. I didn’t do the church thing with him, but we did lots of other stuff. I wasn’t even going to come here tonight, but I wanted to honor his memory one last time. He felt he was onto something—something he had to talk to me about. He was murdered before we got a chance. Maybe listening to you all tonight will remind me of something he said. Maybe I’ll remember something that doesn’t seem important to me but will be to some of you. I don’t know. I do know that I am sick of death. Maybe if I work with you guys, I can make sense of it all.”
Dry Bones Page 9
