Hometown Hero

by Libby Howard

  What was I doing? I needed to placate Peony and go back to work, because this wasn’t a murder and I wasn’t a private investigator.

  “Maury Baggs was another neighbor of ours.” Peony turned her coffee cup then took a quick drink. “He was a big kid when we were young. Like big. Fat. Bowl full of pudge, fat. Holt was…well, he wasn’t nice to him. And he wasn’t nice to him in high school either.”

  My pen paused and I looked up at the girl from under my eyebrows. “Not nice how?”

  She had the grace to blush. “Wedgies. Swirlies. Other…things.”

  It was unbelievable that she hadn’t said anything, or moved to defend a poor fat kid who’d been tormented for his entire life. If Holt had been murdered, and this Maury Biggs had done it, I was gonna turn a blind eye and consider it justice done.

  “I don’t think it’s Maury, though. He’s still fat and he’s more interested in his double-stack with cheese than getting off his sofa and killing someone. No, it’s Buck or Kendra.”

  My pen stopped. “Wait. Kendra, and not her jilted boyfriend?”

  “David Tripp.” Peony sipped the coffee. “Maybe, but he’s kinda whipped. He’s more likely to slink off with his tail between his legs and wait to come running when Kendra waves him back. Kendra was convinced she could get Holt to make their booty-call a whole lot more. She wasn’t the only one he was banging this weekend, you know. Not that she cared as long as she was the only one who got a call-back for a repeat performance.”

  I shook my head, completely shocked at all of this. “He’s sleeping his way through Locust Point, and Kendra seriously thinks she has a chance to be the one he sticks with?”

  “She was working it pretty hard. And Holt’s always screwed around. A girl’s gotta be willing to turn a blind eye to stuff if she wants to bag a hot dude with money. That’s the way it goes.”

  No, that’s most certainly not the way it goes. And I couldn’t believe that this fifteen-year-old girl thought so.

  “And you liked this guy? This cheating, philandering, bullying, swirly-giving philanderer?”

  Peony laughed. “Yeah, of course I like him. Holt grew up in Trenslertown and you learn to do what you gotta do when you live in Trenslertown. Anyway, you can’t blame a guy for keeping his options open. Not like he was needing to settle down or anything at his age. Plus, Kendra didn’t care one bit what Holt was doing as long as she thought she had a chance of being some athlete’s millionaire, Botox wife.”

  It was a long shot. Why bother to kill a guy when you knew going into it that your chances of him marrying you were probably the same as winning the state lottery, or at the very least the same as winning that Bakery Madness Basket at bingo? But some people had a bit of a screw loose, and who knew what promises Holt had made to her when they were alone and intimate.

  What was I thinking? Holt hadn’t been murdered. It was an accident, but here I was diving into the investigation. I guess you could never take the reporter out of the reporter, no matter how many years it had been since I’d investigated something beyond debtors or the former owner of my antique sideboard.

  “And the millions of girls that Holt said ‘no’ to? Although from what you’re saying, ‘no’ didn’t seem to be a word he used often when it came to women.”

  Peony ran her fingers through the ends of her long hair. “Not millions. A few girls felt a bit stung that they didn’t get to cut a notch on their bedpost with Holt. But if they did something, they probably just meant to hurt him and teach him a lesson. I don’t think any of them wanted to actually kill him. Ashley’s dad, Kendra, and Buck or maybe his father might have wanted to kill him.”

  This was ridiculous. Holt Dupree hadn’t been murdered. But for some strange reason, I wrote all this down in my notes and handed her my card when I stood, telling her to call me if she had any further information. Should I tell her the rates? That might scare her off pursuing this crazy theory of hers.

  Although I didn’t even know our rates. J.T. handled all of that, and I just did the research. Besides, I was pretty sure Peony didn’t have any money. Hopefully she’d go home, have a good cry, grieve like so many others, and forget about all this in a day or two.

  She reached out to grip my fingers with her non-injured hand, crumpling the business card between us. “Thank you. I know I’m just some kid. I know I shouldn’t care about Holt, but he was like a brother to me growing up, and I was in that truck too. I could have been killed. And he should have never been killed. It wasn’t right. I might not be Locust Point’s next valedictorian, or some rich woman, but I know wrong when I see it, and somebody wanted Holt dead. Somebody killed him, and I want that person to go to jail.”

  Chapter 15

  I went back to the office and worked on the two bail cases, gratefully calling it a day and heading home promptly at five. I arrived to an empty house. The kids were with their mom this week. Judge Beck was, no doubt, working late. Taco was practically comatose on the window seat cushion. My mind was whirring with facts and suspicions and crazy thoughts of murder where there was yet to be any proof of such.

  I couldn’t help thinking of Holt Dupree. I wasn’t surprised when a shadow materialized the moment I’d strolled through my front door. I was so used to Eli’s ghostly presence in the house that I passed by it and went into the kitchen, doing a quick inventory and throwing myself into cooking before I realized the ghost at my door wasn’t what—or who— I’d thought.

  It wasn’t Eli. I pulled the veggies out of the fridge and put a pot on to boil as the shadow slunk into my kitchen to lurk near the pantry. This ghost felt different. Male, but not that comforting presence that I got around the spirit I’d come to associate with my husband. This one felt younger and annoyed.

  It felt like the ghost at the accident scene the other night. In fact, I was sure it was the same ghost I’d seen there.

  I didn’t personally know Holt Dupree, but since the other ghosts appeared after I’d seen a dead body, or a beloved piece of furniture that they’d owned, I assumed this new specter was our local football star. When I’d seen the shadowy form at the scene of the accident, I’d assumed it was some sort of temporary manifestation, and that it would remain an hour or so after death until the soul moved toward the light or whatever happened when someone died.

  Why had this spirit lingered? And why was it in my house? Was Peony right? Had the accident that took Holt’s life really been murder? All the other ghosts were either murdered or associated with a murder. Maybe Holt had killed someone or he knew about a murder and his soul wouldn’t rest until I’d uncovered it. If so, he’d be waiting a long time. It had been difficult enough to dig up Mabel’s family secrets. I’m sure Holt’s would take me the rest of my life to untangle.

  I put a container of frozen beef broth into the pot with the water, and started chopping veggies. “I’d like you to get out of my house,” I told the ghost. “You’re not welcome here. Go haunt someone else, like whoever threw that party and served you too much alcohol.”

  The ghost moved close enough that I shivered from the chill. I refused to look at him, instead concentrating on my carrots. That’s when I noticed the potato rocking side to side, then rolling forward off my counter and onto the floor.

  My knife froze mid-chop. The spirits I’d seen in the past didn’t speak, and they didn’t move stuff around. I told the ghost of Holt to cut it out, picked up the potato and washed it before continuing my chopping.

  The potato rolled off the counter again.

  “Fine.” I slapped the knife on the counter and jammed my hands on my hips. “You want my attention? You’ve got it. What do you want?”

  Nothing. Well, nothing beyond that shadowy blur and the unusual cold spot. And the strange sensation that the ghost was irritated. I didn’t blame him. He was dead at twenty-two. He’d never play for the Falcons, get the Nike contract, marry that supermodel. I’d be angry too.

  “Were you killed, or are you just mad because you’re dead?” I a
sked, knowing full well that the ghost wasn’t going to respond. “Because if it’s the first, then the police will handle it. If it’s the second, well I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  Anger. Frustration. Yeah, I was frustrated too. This would be the third time I’d washed this potato. I stopped down to pick it up, deciding to wait until I was ready to chop it before washing it yet again. Good thing too as once more it took a dive for the floor, this time rolling around a can of lima beans and a package of frozen corn on its way off the counter. I scooped my chopped carrots into the stock pot, picked up the potato and washed it, gripping it firmly as I diced it to make sure it didn’t leap from my hands to the floor.

  A can wobbled, tipping onto its side. I reached out and grabbed it. “Cut it out. One more thing hits the floor and I’m calling Olive to have her banish you. She’s a medium. She does that kind of thing.”

  I wasn’t sure she did. I knew she did séances. I also knew that she was the Accounting Manager for Smoky Hollow Land Development Corp, that she preferred her wines on the sweet side, that she dragged a canvas and easel out in the middle of fields one weekend each month to do plein air paintings, and that her dream vacation was a riverboat cruise down the Rhine, but I didn’t know if she could banish ghosts. Olive had become one of our Friday happy-hour-on-the-porch gang, and I really liked her. Even if she couldn’t get rid of this pesky poltergeist, I knew she’d come help me out if I asked. And I knew that nobody, living or not, stood a chance against Olive when she got that determined set to her jaw.

  To express the serious nature of my threat, I waved my knife menacingly at the shadow. I don’t know if was Olive or my cutlery, but the ghost vanished, leaving my kitchen warm and sunny as before. I sighed, grateful that he was gone, and returned to my soup.

  I tossed in the potatoes, canned lima beans, green beans, and peas along with the frozen corn and a bottle of tomato juice. A dash of Worcestershire and some black pepper, and there was nothing to do but wait for the carrots and potatoes to cook. I eyed a new knitted scarf pattern I wanted to try, but decided to make some cornbread instead.

  Sweet cornbread, moist to the point that it was almost a cake, or a spicy, southwestern variety? Hmm. I eyed the stock pot and decided to compromise and do a more traditional style with a hint of gritty cornmeal and actual bits of corn. Within twenty minutes, I had the cornbread in the oven and was once more eyeing my knitting.

  Might as well give it a try. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t have to tear it all out. I was about to gather up my yarn and needles, when Taco came meandering into the kitchen, yawning with a feigned casualness. Sneaky boy. I put the lid on the soup just to make sure I didn’t return to find my cat face-down in the stock pot, and gave the counter a quick swipe. The cat sat at my feet and meowed at me, waving an adorable paw at his food bowl.

  “Not yet, sweetie,” I told him. He gave me the most pitiful, starving kitty look. I swear that cat was A-list when it came to acting ability.

  And I was a sucker. I dug a couple of kitty treats from the jar, scooped up my knitting, and headed into the parlor with a chirping cat dancing at my feet. Taco snatched the treats as if he hadn’t been fed in weeks, then curled up at my side, rubbing his head along my thigh as I concentrated on the deceptively simple scarf pattern. Worried that I’d mess up the eyelet pattern, I carefully counted stitches each row and was thrilled to have added nearly two inches to the project by the time my timer beeped for the cornbread.

  The yarn went on a shelf, safe from a very interested Taco. The cornbread went into the pie safe, away from the cat’s clutches. Then I tested my carrots and potatoes and found them to be done.

  One more step. I pulled a small head of cabbage out of the fridge and shredded a few cups, stirring them into the soup before replacing the lid. Five minutes. Just enough to wilt the cabbage, and dinner would be ready. It didn’t give me enough time to do any further knitting, but I did manage to slice the cornbread and put the steaming hot pieces onto a plate.

  I was just ladling the soup into a bowl when I heard the front door open. I sat the bowl aside and pulled another one from the cupboard hearing heavy footsteps on my creaky, old wooden floors. Judge Beck poked his head in and sniffed. He was holding a plastic grocery-store bag in one hand and a DVD in another.

  “Dinner is served,” I told him. “Hope you like vegetable soup and cornbread.”

  “I do.” He pulled a quart of cookie-dough ice cream from the bag and stuck it into the freezer. “This is for later. As is the movie. How are you doing?”

  I almost told him about the ghost that had been taking out his temper on my potato— the ghost that had returned to hover over his shoulder, the one that wasn’t Eli, but then I saw the movie he’d brought home. “Blazing Saddles?”

  “A good comedy cures all evils. Besides, it’s one of my favorites.”

  It was one of Eli’s favorites as well. He’d loved Mel Brooks movies. A couple times a year we would sit through marathons of them, pausing the movies only to go pee or microwave some popcorn. Then we’d debate which was the best. I’d always been partial to Young Frankenstein, where Eli was a fan of Spaceballs.

  Ice cream and a movie? I handed Judge Beck his bowl of soup and a small plate with a piece of cornbread on it and wondered if this was what all tenants did when their landlord had witnessed a fatal car accident. Although Judge Beck and I were kind of beyond the tenant/landlord relationship. He’d been living here less than six months and I saw him as family, as much of a best friend as Daisy was.

  “I’m still a bit shaken,” I told him as I followed him into the dining room with my bowl and plate in hand. “I purposely drove by the accident site tonight even though I swore I’d never go that way again. I just wanted to see it in the daylight and try to disconnect the tragedy of what happened last night from Eli’s accident ten years ago.”

  The judge arched an eyebrow at me. “You don’t wait around, do you? Just rub that salt right into the open wound.”

  I shrugged. “Not salt, antiseptic. Clean it out so it can heal.” I wasn’t sure how to explain to him that I needed to break the cycle of grief the accident had plunged me into. I’d been spiraling downward, churning up all the memories and pain that I’d thought I’d buried long ago. It was one thing to mourn a young life lost, but I just couldn’t go through all that pain over Eli’s accident again. I couldn’t relive that horrible morning, those weeks of agony beside his bed in the hospital, the months when I slowly began to realize that the Eli I loved was never coming back.

  I hadn’t dealt with it then, and I wasn’t ready to deal with it now. So I stuffed it all down and thought about Holt Dupree, about his ghost that had trailed behind us from the kitchen to drift around the dining room table.

  Leave it to Holt Dupree to follow me home, toss a potato around my kitchen, and intrude on my dinner like this. Why couldn’t he just stay at the scene of the accident or haunt his childhood house? It was beyond rude to be hanging around my house.

  “Did it help?”

  It took me a second to realize what Judge Beck was referring to. Oh. The site of the accident.

  “A bit. Eli’s wreck was in the same spot, so I can’t say I was able to separate the two as easily as I’d hoped. What did help was going back to work today. It’s my routine. And it’s comforting.”

  His smile was warm, with little creases at the corners of his eyes. “Good. Lots of debtors to track down? A few bail jumpers and repossessions to keep things lively?”

  “Just the bad debt research today.” I chuckled, remembering that my day had more than the usual Creditcorp files. “Oh, there was one unusual request. I’m not just a skip tracer now, I’ll have you know. I received a phone call this afternoon from someone. Evidently I have a new client who has requested me to personally investigate a case for her.”

  This time both of the judge’s eyebrows rose. “Should I get your autograph now? Maybe steal your shopping lists so I can sell them on eBay when
you’re famous? Gator is going to get jealous when your YouTube videos surpass his in terms of views.”

  “Oh, I’m not Gator Pierson, but I am now hired by Peony Smith to investigate the accident that injured her and caused Holt Dupree’s death. I doubt she has any money to pay me with, though. Which is just as well since I’m not a licensed private investigator anyway.”

  The spoonful of soup paused halfway to his mouth. “Peony Smith? She’s a high school kid.”

  “Even high school kids deserve justice,” I told him solemnly.

  He ate a few bites of soup, then shook his head. “So does she think she’s going to sue Holt’s estate for damages if it turns up he was drunk? The guy just signed his contract. I doubt if he’s got more than a few thousand in his checking account. He was just starting practice next week.”

  “No, I don’t think she’s trying to get any money out of the deal. She thinks someone killed him, that the wreck wasn’t an accident.”

  The judge stared at me in disbelief. “You’re joking. He was a local hero. He didn’t have any money, or even any real fame yet. Does she think someone forced a pint of vodka down his throat and stuck him behind the wheel because they were jealous?”

  “Maybe. No, actually she’s convinced either someone sabotaged the truck, or a sniper shot out their tire from the woods.”

  He shook his head. “And who are the main suspects in this crazy set of theories?”

  “One is Ashley Chen’s father, Robert.”

  “After five years he snaps and kills Holt Dupree by messing with his car? Or by buying him a few rounds and putting him behind the wheel?”

  Yeah, it didn’t sound very believable. “How about Buck Stanford? He got into an altercation with Holt at the concert. Or that Kendra Witt who was his weekend squeeze and hoped to be more, only to be dumped after the fireworks? Or Maury the swirly kid.”

  “Who in the world is Maury Swirly?” Judge Beck shook his head. “Not that it matters. Kay, please tell me you don’t seriously believe any of these people killed Holt Dupree. It was an accident, whether or not alcohol was involved.”