“How did you know about Lois?” If her aura reading was that good I was going to ask her for lottery numbers.
“Oh, Mary Hazleton called me the minute Lois missed their breakfast meeting. Not like Lois to not be there for free donuts.”
“Amazing.”
“Never underestimate the power of the senior grapevine, dear. Besides, Ruth and I were working on a top secret article together. Ruth was supposed to check in with me and didn’t. I got worried and called.”
I put the van in gear and started backing out of the parking lot, until I spotted an empty Volkswagen van with California plates in the lot. “I knew you wouldn’t hitchhike.” I stopped in front of the van.
Phyllis laughed and unbuckled her seat belt. “Had you going for a moment there, didn’t I?” She winked at me. “I’ll follow you home.”
“You know where it is.” I leaned out my window and watched her unlock and open the creaky old door.
“But that would have spoiled the surprise, now wouldn’t it?” She hopped in and started the VW up. Its engines purred smoothly, even if the exterior looked as if it had gone through the ravishes of time. Phyllis had owned the van as long as I had known her, and it was an antique when she got it. But she had liked the look of it and the freedom of living inside its closet-like quarters.
I smiled as she followed me down the road. When I was a teen, spending a night in the van with Phyllis had been as cool as sipping pretend gin and tonics. She always made it all seem effortless—the easygoing lifestyle, the perfect clothes, the ability to come and go as she pleased. And always, always ensuring that everyone was okay before she left.
Having Phyllis around lifted my spirits. It made me think I could even battle my reemerging feelings for Brad. I simply had to make sure I didn’t spend any nights in the van. These days I preferred the comfort of my oversized queen bed.
CHAPTER 5
“Homer Everett Day, what a hoot!” Phyllis put on sparkly reading glasses to study the pictures of my float on my computer. “Only in Oiltop.”
“Homer wasn’t the saint they make him out to be, you know.” Grandma Ruth reached for a gluten-free cookie. She picked out a pecan and walnut scotchie. “I was working on an article that would have blown the doors off his untarnished reputation. That is, until Lois ended up dead.”
“What do you mean by that?” I passed her a small plate to put her cookie on. She took a bite and held the plate under her cookie to catch the crumbs.
We were gathered in the den of my house. It was a small room off the front parlor of the old Victorian my family had lived in since the turn of the century. My mother had remodeled it in the late seventies. Her goal had been to restore the room to its turn-of-the-century glory. Instead it was an overly decorated red and black room with accents of hunter green. There was a chandelier dripping in beads and a floor lamp with red tassels. I think it was because the wing-backed chairs were so comfortable and there was one wall filled with books that it was the family’s favorite room to gather. It certainly wasn’t for the décor.
“Well, one of the rumors that I could neither deny nor confirm was that it was gambling debt, not a bum knee, that ruined Homer’s football career.” Cookie crumbs toppled from Grandma’s lips, and she took a sip of coffee. “Couldn’t prove it, though . . . until . . .”
Grandma stopped with a strategic pause until she was sure we were all waiting on her next words.
“Until what?” Okay I bit. I mean, being a good journalist, Grandma Ruth wasn’t one to say something unless she had something, and even then she might not tell anyone until it was in the paper.
“I was going through old copies of newspapers and such.” Grandma licked her index finger and dabbed the crumbs off her considerable chest. “Did you know that when Homer died, he left all his papers to the local historical society? I guess he thought some historian might want to write a research paper on him or something.”
“Grandma . . .”
“What? I was thinking of archiving my memoirs. You know my parents were founding members of Haysville College. You should write yours as well, Toni. You never know who will want to research the area, and you have a story to tell, being a businesswoman and all . . .”
“Grandma Ruth!”
“I think she wants to know what all we were working on for our Homer Everett exposé.” Phyllis sank into one of the overstuffed wing chairs.
“No, really, I want to know what this has to do with Lois’s murder.”
“She had secrets to spill. I knew she knew something, but someone got to her before she could spill them.” Grandma reached for another cookie.
“Who knew about our investigation?” Phyllis asked. “It sounds as if whoever killed Lois knew about it and is framing you.”
Grandma shrugged and grabbed another cookie. “Only people who knew are in this room.”
“I didn’t know,” I muttered, and crossed my arms.
“That’s because you would have spoiled our fun with insisting we go to the cops with stuff.”
I was not surprised to see Bill and Phyllis nod in agreement. I turned to Brad. “Did you know about this?”
He held his hands up near his chest. “I’m hearing about it for the first time, too.”
“As her lawyer”—I raised my right eyebrow—“what would you have advised her to do should you have known?”
“Not tell me,” Brad quipped.
“What?”
“As long as she wasn’t breaking any laws with her investigation, I don’t need to know.” He turned to Grandma and gave her a stern look. “If she were breaking laws, I would have advised her to stop.”
“See—”
Grandma pooh-poohed us both with a wave of her hand. “A good journalist isn’t afraid of breaking a few rules as long as they get the story.”
“Unless someone dies,” I said pointedly. “Grandma, if you’re right in that this has to do with your story, then I’m glad Lois didn’t tell you anything. Whoever hurt her would most likely not hesitate to hurt you, too.”
“That’s why I got Phyllis involved,” Grandma said, cookie crumbs spraying about.
“If I knew what Ruth knew and Ruth came to harm I would go to the police with everything and the killer would be caught,” Phyllis said.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” I sat back, annoyed. Family—there’s just no talking to them.
“Now I’m curious,” Brad said. “What was it Lois knew, and was it truly the motive for her murder?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out,” Phyllis said. “Right, Ruth?”
“What makes you think you can find out anything now that Lois is dead?” Brad asked.
“We’ll put the clues together, right, Phyllis?” Grandma said and winked.
“Right.”
“What clues are you talking about?” I had to ask. I know I shouldn’t have bought into their craziness, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Lois worked for Homer back in the day.”
“Really? I don’t see Lois as the working-girl type.” It was hard to imagine Lois as anything but the talkative old woman with connections to the Chamber of Commerce. I’d never asked how she got into the Chamber or why she had so much influence. As a kid growing up I’d simply known her as an enemy of Grandma Ruth. Maybe it was time to look at the two of them in a different light. “That explains why she was treated as the queen of the Chamber of Commerce.”
“Yes, Homer was one of the founding fathers of the Chamber. Wherever Homer went, there went Lois. In fact, when I was a kid I thought they were married, because you rarely saw them apart.” Phyllis picked up her coffee cup. “She was always right there taking dictation. We even pretended to be them sometimes, remember? ‘Miss Striker, take a note . . .’”
“Exactly.” Grandma nodded. “They were always together, until the night Champ Rog
ers disappeared.”
Bill sat up straight. “I remember what a hullabaloo that was.”
I looked from Bill to Grandma to Phyllis. “Disappeared? As in vanished? Never to be seen again by anyone?”
“Oh, he was seen again,” Phyllis said. “Just not alive.”
“It was quite a mystery.” Grandma’s eyes lit up. “I was on the case, of course.”
“Of course,” Brad and I said simultaneously.
Grandma Ruth was quite the investigative journalist. Even though she spent her life working on a small-town paper, she’d been noticed by the likes of William Allen White. Now retired, Grandma wrote a blog that had over a thousand followers.
“Long story short, Champ Rogers was a northern Oklahoma bootlegger,” Grandma said. “He got himself caught in a crackdown in 1932 and went to Leavenworth for ten years. There he bragged he made more money bootlegging in jail than out.” Grandma sat back with a twinkle in her eye. “It was a different time back then.”
“By the time he got out of jail, we were into World War Two and Champ found himself in the army,” Bill said, continuing the story. “He was assigned into the same battalion as Homer Everett. In fact, it was Champ who officially witnessed Homer’s act of bravery and swore that Homer risked life and limb to save Champ and his squad from certain death.”
“Really.” I could not help but let my disbelief show in my tone. I mean, who today would believe an ex-convict?
“Oh, yes,” Grandma said. “We were losing support for the war and they were desperate for propaganda heroes. When Champ told the story of how Homer, a former football star, charged the enemy line, turning the battle, the army jumped on it.”
“Interesting,” Brad muttered, and crossed one long leg over the other so that his ankle rested on his knee.
“Indeed.” Bill nodded. “After that Homer and Champ toured the States for a full two years, telling their story to raise war bonds.”
“In fact I think the library archives have a recording of one of the live radio shows they did,” Grandma said.
“Wait.” I leaned forward. “So Champ’s story got him and Homer out of the war?”
“Oh, yes,” Phyllis said. “It was a very clever plan. Champ was a fantastically charismatic storyteller, and Homer was a clever, quiet man with the physique of an athlete. It was the perfect combination.”
“So, how is this tied to Lois’s death?” I asked again. Sometimes my family could go out on a tangent and never return.
Grandma brushed crumbs off her butterfly-patterned skirt. “Hold your horses, it’s coming. You have to hear the whole story.” She reached for another cookie and took a bite before she continued. “Once the war was over, Homer had his medal and his political connections. Champ favored booze and women. So Homer paid him to go away as quietly as a charismatic storyteller could go.”
“They say Champ went out west to Las Vegas and lived off what his story could buy,” Bill said. “Meanwhile, Homer was a local hero, a lifelong mayor with an eye on the governorship.”
“Hearing that his war buddy was climbing the political ladder, Champ arrived back in Oiltop with his pockets empty and his hand out,” Grandma said. “You see, Champ knew every one of Homer’s secrets.”
“And Lois?” I had to ask.
“Lois also knew Homer’s secrets. Champ’s arrival is when things got dicey. Right, Ruth?” Phyllis’s eyes sparkled in the low light of the fake-Victorian porcelain lamps Mom had installed. The small fire in the green-tiled fireplace warmed the room, taking the edge off the cold wind that whistled through the old bay window.
“I heard dicey and Ruth in the same sentence. What did Grandma get mixed up into now?” Tasha walked in, pulling off her gloves and scarf. Kansas in November was the perfect combination of warm days and cold nights.
“Hi, Grandma,” Kip, Tasha’s ten-year-old son said as he slumped down on the rug intent on his handheld game. Tasha and Kip had moved into the homestead when her bed-and-breakfast went under. Now they lived in the suite on the fourth floor and Tasha worked as weekend manager at the Red Tile Inn.
“Kip, take your coat off and hang it up,” Tasha scolded.
“Okay.” The boy didn’t move, his full focus on whatever game was in his hands.
“Kip, you know the rules—hang up your coat or I will take away the game.”
“You can’t take away my game,” Kip said. “I’m on level eight. If you take it away I’ll have to start all over.”
“Kip.” Tasha’s tone was stern but soft. The thing about my best friend was that, unlike in my family, the softer her voice became the angrier she was.
“Better do it, boy.” Bill leaned toward him. “She means it.”
“Fine.” Kip huffed and ripped off his coat. He was about to toss it into the corner when Tasha leaned down and lifted his game hand so his attention was level with her face. There was a long uncomfortable pause before Kip gave in. “I’ll hang it up.”
“Yes, you will.” Tasha straightened and watched her son go out into the hallway. I could hear the hall closet door open and then close.
“I’m going to my room,” Kip said.
“Tell everyone good night.” Tasha had her coat off and folded over her arm.
Kip popped his blond head into the room. “Good night, everyone.”
“Good night, Kip.”
“’Night, boy.”
“Good night, dear.”
“Don’t forget to hang your coat up,” Kip said to his mom right before he disappeared into the hall. Tasha rolled her eyes as the sound of her son charging up the stairs echoed through the hall.
She held up her hand. “Don’t say another thing until I get back.” Tasha was back before I could swallow the coffee I’d sipped. “Now, what did I miss? Besides the fact that Brad”—she sent me a look—“and Aunt Phyllis are here.” She walked over and gave Phyllis a kiss on the cheek, then poured herself a cup of coffee, snagged a chocolate chip cookie, and sat down on the floor at Phyllis’s feet. “Okay, speak. . . .”
“Ruth was interrogated at the police station this evening,” Phyllis said.
“What?!” Tasha turned her blue gaze on me. “What happened?”
“I’m a murder suspect,” Grandma Ruth said with a tad too much glee.
“Oh my god.” Tasha nearly spilled her coffee. It sloshed around the cup rim. “Why? Who? When? What?”
“Now, see, Tasha knows all the right questions to ask.” Grandma looked at me smugly. “She did not leap to the conclusion that I’d done anything wrong.”
“Grandma—”
“She didn’t,” Grandma huffed.
Tasha sat up on her heels. “Someone had better tell me what happened right now.”
“Lois Striker was murdered,” Brad said.
“And the police think Grandma did it?” Tasha was smart enough to see the problem. “Why?”
“Apparently there were incriminating scooter marks at the scene,” Bill added.
“But lots of people drive scooters,” Tasha pointed out. “Right?”
“Not with my all-terrain tires on them.” Grandma loved all the attention. “I could have done it, you know. I’m capable of a lot of things.”
“Ruth!”
“Grandma!” Brad, Tasha, and I said all at once.
“What?”
“Don’t say that,” I said, horrified.
“You don’t know who’s listening,” Brad said. “In the hands of the right prosecutor, it might be considered incriminating.”
“Well, poop.” Grandma pouted. “I didn’t say I did it. I simply pointed out that I could have done it.”
“Ruth.” Phyllis’s tone brooked no disobedience. “You were telling us about Lois’s connection to Homer and why you think she was killed.”
“Oiltop is a small town,” I pointed out.
“How many secrets can there be?” It certainly seemed like my life was constantly under scrutiny. Can you imagine if you were the town hero?
“Wait—Homer Everett was connected to Lois?” Tasha struggled to keep up with our conversation. “Wasn’t that like sixty-some years ago? What secrets could Lois possibly know that would get her killed now?”
“She knew something,” Grandma said thoughtfully. “I was this close to getting it out of her.” Grandma held up her hand and put her index finger and thumb together. “It had to be good, too.”
“What makes you say that?” I think my heart flopped over in my chest.
“Clearly someone didn’t want her to tell me what it was that she knew about Homer.”
“That’s entirely supposition on your part, Ruth,” Brad pointed out. “As of now we have no idea who wanted Lois dead, who killed her, or even how she was killed.” He steepled his hands.
“You might not know, but I do,” Grandma said with a certainty that made me nervous. “My investigation stirred up secrets. Secrets someone would kill to keep quiet.”
“What could she possibly know about Homer?” Tasha asked. “Why would it matter after all these years?”
“It seems that will go to her grave with her.” Grandma sighed and grabbed a lemon cookie. “I’d been working her for months trying to get her to spill her guts on Homer. When I gave her some details I’d dug up in old newspapers, she got nervous. Then today she suddenly called me and said she had made the decision to come clean.
“We were supposed to meet in front of the Statue of Homer near the courthouse. But she never showed.”
“Where did they find her body?” I asked.
“They didn’t say exactly.” Grandma shrugged. “Somewhere in the courthouse square.”
“They’re keeping the details of the investigation closed,” Brad said. He sent me a long look. “Chief Blaylock stressed that he did not want amateur investigators involved. He said, and I quote, ‘Too many innocent people get hurt when nonprofessionals try to do a policeman’s job.’”
I pinched my mouth in a partial frown. “I was not trying to do his job last time.”
Murder Gone A-Rye (A Baker's Treat Mystery) Page 4
