The Consequence of Murder

by Nene Adams

  “Even unto the New York strip steak and eggs,” he said solemnly.

  “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes,” she replied.

  Ending the call and returning to her bedroom, Mackenzie ditched the shirts and chose more fitting, business-type attire: a sleeveless white cotton blouse with coconut shell buttons, worn with cream linen pants and lipstick-red wedge sandals.

  Five minutes later, she rushed out the front door with her key ring and several bobby pins clenched between her teeth, using both hands to twist and pin her fuzzy, frizzy, frightful mop of hair into a loose knot as she navigated the cement steps.

  Halfway down, the overhead fluorescent light flickered out. She felt her way to the bottom and hesitated, her eyes straining to see anything in the absolute darkness. More of Annabel’s handiwork? When nothing else happened, she went outside, squinting at the bright golden sunlight pouring through the air like honey.

  She dashed inside the bakery long enough to let her landlord—Sam with the unpronounceable last name whom everyone called Bakery Sam—know about the fluorescent bulb and hurried across the street to the central parking zone and her car.

  Mr. B’s Cafeteria on Clovis Street was already full when Mackenzie arrived. She walked inside, scanning the crowded tables. Larkin raised a hand to attract her attention. Dodging the hostess, she went over to him.

  “Good grief,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite him. “Is it usually like this?”

  Larkin handed her a menu, his brown eyes filled with good humor. “Like a stirred anthill, you mean? Most days. The cook makes sourdough pancakes better than your mother’s. Try the banana nut. It’s almost a religious experience.”

  Accepting a cup of coffee from the waiter, Mackenzie placed her order. As soon as they were alone, she focused on Larkin. “Did you find out anything?”

  “Some.” He raised his coffee cup to his lips and paused, staring at her over the rim. “Quid pro quo, agreed?”

  “Agreed. Now gimme,” she said, making grabby motions.

  “In nineteen seventy-five, William Wakefield, Sr., a Korean War veteran, shot and killed his family members in the only murder-suicide ever to occur in Emorysville,” Larkin told her between sips of coffee. “The victims included his wife, Aurora Wakefield née Stokes, his youngest daughter, Caroline, his other daughter, Betsy, and himself. His son, William Jr., known as Billy, was serving time for armed robbery in the Central State Prison in Macon at the time. He’d been in and out of jail since ’fifty-eight on various charges.”

  Mackenzie listened as Larkin painted a picture of William Wakefield, Sr., a decent husband and father. Working as a drywall hanger and plasterer for the Young Construction Company and getting fired for drunkenness on the job, he’d apparently snapped, taken a hunting rifle, and shot his wife and daughters before committing suicide. A neighbor had heard the shots and called the police.

  “Is that it?” she asked when he gave her printouts of the Bee’s coverage.

  “That’s everything.” He pointed at the pages in her hand. “If you’re looking for a coroner’s report or a complete police report, you’ll have to go to the sheriff’s office.”

  “No, this is good. Thanks.” She skimmed the articles until the waiter returned with plates of banana nut sourdough pancakes served with sausage patties on the side.

  She put the printouts away to enjoy her breakfast. As Larkin had promised, the pancakes were delicious slathered in butter and maple syrup. The coffee was good, too, with just a hint of chicory to give it bite.

  Almost as soon as Mackenzie finished and wiped her mouth with a napkin, Larkin pointed his fork at her, a deep frown creasing his brow. “Give it up, Kenzie. Why are you asking me about the Wakefield murders?”

  “You know some construction workers found a woman’s body behind the wall in my office, right?” she asked.

  He nodded. “The official statement the sheriff’s office put out said the victim’s name is Annabel Coffin and she died in the late fifties. No word yet on cause of death.”

  “That’s right,” Mackenzie said. “Turns out Annabel Coffin was in high school with my mother. They weren’t best friends or anything like that, but you know how it is.”

  “Antioch was a much smaller town back then. Less than half the current population if memory serves. Everybody knew everybody else.”

  “Mama told me Annabel was going with a boy named Billy Wakefield and later she mentioned the murders in Emorysville.”

  “And you wondered if Annabel Coffin’s murder and the Wakefield murders were connected,” he murmured, looking disappointed. “Kenzie, I can’t see how. Billy was in a prison cell in Macon when his father committed murder-suicide and that happened long after Annabel died.”

  She patted his hand. “You can’t win ’em all, Jack. No scoop today.”

  “At least I can do a background piece on Annabel Coffin.” Larkin brightened slightly.

  “Oh, hey, when you were looking up the Wakefields, did you happen to find out anything else about Billy?”

  Larkin stuck a forkful of pancake in his mouth and reached into his shirt pocket for a small, spiral-bound notebook. He laid it on the table and flipped to a page. “Bill Wakefield was a bad ’un,” he said after studying the handwritten lines. “Arrested and convicted of assault with a deadly weapon in nineteen fifty-eight, got out of prison after serving eight years, and promptly picked up a new charge for operating a still and for federal tax evasion. Armed robbery later. Another assault. Looks like he spent most of his adult life in one jail or another. I couldn’t find anything after ’eighty-five when he was released from Macon the last time. He just disappeared. A career criminal like that probably got himself killed.”

  “Good to know, thank you. Um…you know, I was hoping for another favor,” Mackenzie said, wincing when he scowled. “I just need access to the newspaper’s archives one day real soon. That’s it. I’ll do my own dirty work.”

  “You won’t find more about the Wakefields and nothing else about the Coffins except a story about the car accident that killed the parents. I know. I already checked.”

  “This is something else. I need to know about Dr. Isaac Rush.”

  “Why?” He waved the question away before she could make up an excuse. “No, never mind. I don’t want to know. You can come in anytime during business hours. I’ll get Melinda to show you how to work the microfilm reader.”

  “Thank you, Jack. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  “And thanks for breakfast. I didn’t know Mr. B’s served such great food.”

  “Ah, that’d be my brother-in-law’s doing,” Larkin said, rising from his seat. “Owen bought the place last year, hired a new cook and improved the menu. I hope you didn’t mind driving out here, Kenzie. It’s just that family eats for free.”

  “I should’ve known you weren’t treating me to breakfast out of your own pocket. Tell Owen those pancakes are to die for,” Mackenzie said, following him outside.

  She left the restaurant with her appetite satisfied, but no gratification otherwise. The murder-suicide in Emorysville seemed unrelated to Annabel Coffin’s death.

  Annabel had been killed in the dilapidated house in the woods off the Lie-Lowe, most likely on the same night she disappeared. The murderer remained unknown, as did the motive for her death. A possible connection to Dr. Isaac Rush needed to be explored further.

  She still had a lot of work to do.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mackenzie used the rest of the morning to work on her own projects for Finders & Keepers, Inc. The toy tractor was discovered in an antique store in Maine and at the right price for her client. Her London contact got in touch with her, but he had no news to share about the ’31 Bugatti Kellner. He put her onto a wealthy art dealer in Hong Kong who was rumored to have bid on the car the last time it came up for auction.

  Despite the lack of concrete leads, she was pleased. Once interested enough to bid on a one-of-a-kind it
em, men like Richard Chen usually kept tabs on it if they failed to win. He might lead her right to the Bugatti if she asked the right way.

  Her email brought two more clients: a doll collector seeking an early Jumeau Bébé and someone in Utah asking her to locate vintage bowling pins. Those requests took her less than an hour to research and arrange. She wouldn’t deliver the information for a few days, however. If she made her work seem too easy, customers wouldn’t want to pay her fees.

  Her chores complete, she drove to the Burton Lemoyne High School to talk to Kelly Collier. While she parked her car, she recognized Kelly’s white Corvette in one of the reserved student’s spaces. She knew Paul Collier wasn’t church-mouse poor—he lived pretty well and owned a few properties around town—but a fifty grand car seemed way over the top. On the other hand, she’d bet Collier had a hard time refusing his spoiled daughter anything.

  When she checked with the principal’s office, the secretary let her know Kelly was on the football field practicing with the rest of the cheerleading squad.

  Mackenzie walked to the field, avoiding a knot of teenagers huddled beside the bleachers and smoking cigarettes—at least she hoped they were tobacco cigarettes—and texting on their cell phones. Scattered groups of other students sat at the top of the bleachers.

  Coach Wilcox “Fighting Cock” Sumter sat on a bench at the sidelines, alternately bellowing instructions and abuse at the football players running up and down the field, or snarling at the gangly, pimply, teenage assistant who sat beside him, clutching a tablet PC.

  “Coach,” Mackenzie said, giving him a more polite nod than he deserved. She’d considered the Fighting Cock a loud, bullying, arrogant, self-righteous prick when she’d been in high school and her opinion hadn’t changed one iota.

  Sumter ignored her. She mouthed, “asshole” at his back and moved on to the spot where the cheerleading squad was doing drills.

  Kelly appeared even more angelic, not to mention athletic, in a pink T-shirt cropped to bare her midriff and white shorts that showed off her tan. Her blond ponytail bobbed at each movement as she leaped high into the air, her legs spread in a split, and touched her toes. A diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist had joined the engagement ring.

  “Very impressive,” Mackenzie said when Kelly landed with a surprisingly heavy thump on the grass. The girl was built like a dancer—slender, but muscular and solid. She eyed the bracelet. A gift from Tucker, she supposed. The Dearborns had money to spare.

  “What are you doing here?” Kelly asked sharply, going to take a towel from a pile on a nearby bench. She patted her face. “Did you talk to Rev. Wyland?”

  “I did and he promised not to bother Mr. Dearborn anymore,” Mackenzie replied. “I’d still like to know what set him off, though. What if it was something y’all did—totally innocent, like a hug between future daughter-in-law and future father-in-law—that Rev. Wyland misinterpreted? He might make other trouble if it happens again.”

  “Why don’t you ask him? He’s the one who acted like a dick.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Kelly tossed her head. “Forget it. As long as he’s doesn’t make a fuss, I don’t care.”

  “On your head be it.” Mackenzie started to go. She stopped when Kelly spoke.

  “If he bothers me or Mr. Dearborn again, I’ll let you know,” the young woman said.

  Mackenzie turned around. “No, you will not,” she said, losing friendliness in favor of firmness. “I’m not your employee. I did you a favor. If Wyland threatens you or Mr. Dearborn again, y’all are on your own. I have more important things to do than run your errands.”

  “You’d better not talk to me like that,” Kelly spat. Her chin went up, her expression turning ugly. “When I tell my daddy on you—”

  Amazing how quickly an angel turns into a devil, Mackenzie thought, recalling the glimpse of nastiness she’d seen under Kelly’s façade during their meeting in the diner. “Tell your daddy what, exactly? That Rev. Wyland saw you and Mr. Dearborn in the park doing something he believed he ought to stop?”

  To Mackenzie’s surprise, Kelly blanched, her blue eyes blazing with panicked fear in her colorless face. Through stiffened lips she said, “Go away. Leave me alone.”

  “Are you okay, hon?” asked another cheerleader, giving Mackenzie a suspicious glare. She put an arm around Kelly’s shoulders. “Maybe you should sit down.”

  Kelly jerked away from her friend, her gaze fixed on Mackenzie. “I mean it,” she cried. “You stay the hell away from me.”

  “Did she do something to you?” the cheerleader asked Kelly, who didn’t answer.

  A perky redhead—from her air of authority, likely the squad’s captain—ceased her tumbling run and joined the others. “Is there a problem here?” she asked, watching Mackenzie as if sizing her up for potential felony charges.

  Becoming uncomfortably aware that the commotion had attracted Coach Sumter’s attention, Mackenzie decided to retreat rather than add to the drama. “No problem. My business is done. And Kelly, you’re welcome,” she said as she headed off the field.

  In the car on the way home, Mackenzie went over what had happened.

  Kelly had been downright terrified when she’d said doing something he believed he ought to stop in reference to Wyland and the mysterious event in Stubbs Park. In her opinion, the reaction implied that whatever Kelly and Dearborn had been caught doing, it wasn’t an activity the young woman wanted to become general knowledge.

  From there, her imagination went wild. She reined in her more evil-minded thoughts. Vicious rumors were started by people taking an event that could be interpreted in many different ways and putting the foulest spin possible on it.

  Better get the truth from the other horse’s mouth, she decided, turning the Datsun around and driving to the United Methodist Church on Apple Street.

  The church was locked, the rear office closed. Spotting Dearborn’s Pontiac in the parking lot, she walked next door to the pastor’s home, a modest two-story house without much of a front yard, just a patch of tended grass and a flowerbed filled with colorful annuals on either side of a short stone walkway that led from the sidewalk to the front porch steps.

  When she reached the top of the steps, she saw the front door was open and the screen door closed. She rapped her knuckles on the screen door’s aluminum frame, calling loudly, “Anybody home? Hey, Mr. Dearborn, you there? It’s Kenzie Cross.”

  Jacob Dearborn appeared after several seconds, glowering at her through the screen door’s wire mesh panel. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. Bits of grass peppered his slacks. He’d been mowing the backyard, she guessed. His usual immaculate coif of iron gray hair was windblown, hanging in disheveled strands around his flushed face.

  “How may I help you, Ms. Cross?” he asked in a clipped tone.

  The chilly reception made her wonder who’d peed in his Cheerios. “I’d like to ask you about Kelly Collier and—” she began.

  He cut her off, his jaw set, his face like granite. “I just got off the phone with Kelly. That poor girl says you’re harassing her, even showing up to persecute her at school in front of her friends. This must stop. It must stop right now.”

  Dumbstruck by the unfair accusation, Mackenzie could only gape at him.

  Dearborn went on. “I’d rather not involve the authorities, Ms. Cross, but I will if you don’t stay away from Kelly. She and my son are to be married soon and I will not allow you to disturb or upset her. If necessary, I’ll alert Kelly’s father and advise him to apply for a restraining order on his daughter’s behalf. Am I understood? Do not speak to Kelly. Do not call her on the telephone. Do not approach her in any way.”

  While he’d been speaking, Mackenzie regained her composure. A wave of cold fury swept over her. “Let me be clear, sir,” she said, biting off each word as if her teeth snapped at his throat. “Kelly Collier asked me to speak to Rev. Wyland on your behalf. It seems Wyland was blackmailing you into resigning your positio
n in the church because he believed he’d seen you and Kelly misbehaving in the park.”

  “Nonsense,” Dearborn scoffed, but he didn’t sound confident. “Baseless allegations.”

  “I’ll be more than happy to give the police permission to dump my phone records, which will clearly show that she called me, not the other way around,” Mackenzie said. “And I’m sure Rev. Wyland will be happy to testify that I did speak to him about the issue.”

  He stared at her a moment longer and dropped his gaze. His manner became almost conciliatory. “Kelly must have been mistaken,” he said. “I apologize.”

  Mackenzie kept her mouth closed.

  “Will you please leave the matter be?” he asked quietly. “It’s no one’s business but our own and I’d think it a Christian act if you were to forgive our offenses.”

  To push or not to push? Mackenzie asked herself. Clearly, she’d get nothing substantial or even true from Dearborn, who seemed to understand he’d overreacted and gone on the offensive with far more force than the situation warranted.

  “I don’t bear either of you ill will,” she said, “except for the tomfoolery you tried to pull. Frankly, I don’t care what the two of you are doing that’s so goddamned secret. But so help me God, if I’m pushed to it, if y’all lay false charges against me, everything I know or think I know will come out in court.” She leaned closer to the screen to repeat in a low, controlled whisper, “Everything.” To her satisfaction, he flinched.

  “Then this sorry business is forgotten on both our sides,” he said.

  “If you like to think so,” Mackenzie snapped, still angry. “Goodbye.”

  She took the porch steps two at a time and made a beeline for her car, her eyes burning with rage-induced tears. Once inside the Datsun, she let out the breath she’d been holding, wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel and let herself shake.

  Screw Kelly Collier and Jacob Dearborn, she thought, reaching for a tissue to mop her sweaty face. Attempting to intimidate her acted like a red flag to the bull of her stubbornness. Mark the pastor down as strike two. I’ll have to talk to Rev. Wyland again. He might be willing to let a little more information slip if I play my cards right.