Cat Killed A Rat

by ReGina Welling

  “Hey Gossip Girl, what’s the skinny?” EV accepted a proffered glass of wine and slid onto a barstool to watch Chloe cook.

  “Your pop culture references are a bit outdated,” Chloe chided.

  “Everything about me is outdated,” EV admitted. “I suppose Luther has already become a sainted figure. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but how that translates into extolling non-existent virtues is beyond me. He fell off a ladder. It’s not like he jumped in front of a bus to save a puppy.”

  “Rumor has it that it may have been more than a simple slip and fall.” Should she tell EV that her altercation with Luther during the meeting was getting a fair amount of play among the gossip mongers? Or did she already know?

  Chloe’s social media grapevine worked at about the same speed as EV’s old-fashioned one, much to their amusement. In fact, Chloe had proposed an experiment where each of them would start a rumor and then see which one spread the quickest. The results were almost too close to call, but the phone tree edged out the internet and EV gloated for a month.

  EV waggled her eyebrows in her best menacing manner. “And since we argued in a public place, I’m the most likely candidate for being the one to give him a shove.”

  “Yep,” Chloe said, taking a sip of her wine, “that is the current speculation—at least among a small subset of residents. Newcomers mostly. The old-timers are pretty much split between thinking Luther had an unfortunate accident or was too stupid to be up on that ladder in the first place. On one thing both those factions agree: that was a Nader ladder.”

  EV raised a brow. “Unsafe at any speed?”

  “Exactly. He’s well known for not taking care of his tools.”

  “Seems funny his wife didn’t miss him. You’d think she would notice he never came home.”

  Chloe flipped the burner off under the kebabs while saying over her shoulder, “Maybe the rhythm finally got her and she was out shaking it at The Yard again. I don’t know. But here’s a snippet of next week’s column for you: What pair of ornery sisters have been causing embarrassing scenes from The Mudbucket all the way to the chicken coop?”

  “Lottie and Talia? What’s the beef with them this time?”

  “Such is the question on everyone’s lips.”

  “You get all this off the ‘net?” As comfortable here as in her own home, EV moved into the kitchen to pull two place settings from Chloe’s ruthlessly organized cabinets while the younger woman put the finishing touches on their meal. This kind of thing happened so often the pair of them moved through the compact space with the precision of a water ballet.

  “Not this time. Totally old-school. I hit the farmer’s market intending to stock up on some fruits and veggies, and instead I got an earful.”

  Chapter Nine

  From where Chloe sat at her desk, which fit cozily into the large dormer window on the small second floor of her house, the view inspired her. Red and orange blazed across the sky as the sun set above the section of pond just visible in the distance, and the scent of Heliotropes wafted through the window to caress her face.

  The room was originally her mother’s master suite, but Chloe preferred it as an office and chose, instead, to reside in one of the smaller bedrooms downstairs. She spent much more time working than she did in her bedroom, and making changes offered her the opportunity to turn the house into her own home.

  She chewed on the end of a pen and gazed out the window while attempting to come up with a hook for her next column. Keeping things fresh was a big challenge in a small town, one Chloe handled with her usual gusto.

  The problem was, very little gossip was new gossip. Pine Cone readers were encouraged to utilize an automated telephone tip line if they had any dirt of the juicy variety. Though the tips occasionally netted a viable lead, more often than not, they merely sent Chloe searching for geese that had already flown south for the winter. In truth, the line provided more entertainment than anything else.

  So, in order to keep her column relevant and authoritative, Chloe relied heavily on social media and direct observation using her highly-honed investigative reporting skills. Community gatherings were always entertaining and informative, allowing her the opportunity to watch from afar without looking suspicious. In fact, she managed to blend so effectively that people often didn’t realize she was around, even though she had attended nearly every social function that had taken place in the last three years.

  In the interest of keeping her identity as gossip columnist a secret, Chloe steered clear of the Pine Cone’s official “office,” which was a re-purposed storage pod situated in the editor’s back yard. The weekly newsletter was a passion project for Wesley, and was compiled by a rotating staff of volunteers in true Ponderosa Pines fashion.

  Her position was close to unpaid, though as the only staff member with a recurring column, she received a minuscule salary. Combined with the small trust fund left to her by her grandparents and the fact that her bills were minimal (she owned her home, used solar and wind power, and got most of her food from communal gardens she helped tend) the salary was enough to keep her comfortable.

  Much of what made it into her column originated from the web, as people were more than willing to talk about themselves ad nauseam on Facebook, Twitter, and the myriad of other social networks that ruled the Internet. The tricky part was sifting through the bull for another angle. It didn’t pay to simply repeat what was readily available information in the first place.

  No, Chloe used what she learned as a jumping-off point, then meticulously checked out each lead online and in person. While people were often a bit too honest about their escapades, they also slanted the truth in their own favor. Cross-referencing allowed her to see both sides of the story and find the truth that usually lay somewhere in between.

  Chloe opened Facebook and combed the latest status updates for a few nuggets of useful information. She immediately dismissed the umpteen photographs of people’s dinner plates. One neighbor from down the street had made a delicious-looking seafood chowder, but another’s husband wasn’t going to be happy with a casserole that looked as though it had already been eaten once. For the love of puppies, nobody cares!

  Instead she clicked on Luther’s profile, which had turned into an outlet for grief after his untimely demise.

  It was clear that most of what was posted on the late Luther’s wall was perfunctory at best, which made Chloe once again feel sorry for the man. At least a little bit. You reap what you sow. Equivalent to the standard “Have a great summer” scrawled in the back of every high school yearbook ever made, each successive comment painted a picture of a man with very few close friends and even fewer admirers.

  Aside from his wife and brother, Luther had little family left. Neither of them had commented on his wall, which made sense to Chloe. She doubted the first thing she would do after losing a loved one was peruse Facebook.

  Her only choice was to dedicate this week’s column to Luther; it would be tacky and disrespectful to comment on the mundane when the community had lost a member in such a sudden, devastating way. She closed her eyes and conjured as many personal memories of the man as she could, then began to write as heartfelt a eulogy as she could muster.

  “…devoted husband to Natalia Plunkett…supporter of the Ponderosa Pines Unitarian Universalist Church…will be missed by many.” She knew it was trite but was at a loss, unable to produce more than a base level of sympathy for a man who had contributed so little to her beloved community.

  This edition would be clean of the snark she typically relied on, and when she finally hit “print,” Chloe let out a sigh of relief that the daunting task was over.

  Foreseeing a need for details, Chloe switched into research mode and began compiling a list of everyone’s whereabouts at the time of the murder. Community census results were tabulated frequently and considered public record, so she kept an updated file on her computer at all times.

  She printed several copie
s, tucked a few away in her field notebook, and started marking one up with notes. When her personal observances had been notated, she reopened several web browsers and began to search for status updates and location tags for the time frame surrounding the town meeting.

  Irritation aimed at herself colored Chloe’s face as she realized she had forgotten to check the tip line. Each week, her routine started out the same. She would listen to the voice mails left on the Pine Cone’s tip line and forward any legitimate news to Wesley, then check the newsletter’s email, Facebook, and Twitter accounts.

  Blaming preoccupation for causing her to skip her usual first step, she now pressed the speaker button on her desk phone and hit the number two key to speed-dial the tip line mailbox.

  “You have no new messages,” the electronic voice rang out.

  That’s a little odd. You’d think every amateur sleuth in town would be calling to lend a theory about old Luther’s unfortunate slip. Assuming the system was down again, Chloe vowed to call the answering service first thing in the morning and submit a help-desk ticket.

  Beep boop beep. Nate’s profile picture popped up on the edge of Chloe’s computer screen.

  “Burning the midnight oil again?” read his text message. Chloe looked up and realized the sky was now black and that she hadn’t eaten a thing since the veggie burrito she scarfed around noon.

  “Midnight? It’s only 9:30, Grandpa. Feel like grabbing a bite to eat? I know the 65-and-older menu at Mama Nancy’s only runs ’til 8:00, but I’ll chip in the extra 10 percent.”

  “I’m choosing to ignore that remark, though I won’t forget it. And I will eat you under the table. Be ready in 10 minutes.”

  * * *

  Chloe snapped her computer lid shut and ran downstairs to find a sweater. A quick glance in the mirror showed that all she needed was to tame a few flyaway hairs and apply a fresh coat of mascara. By the time she was finished, Nate was knocking on the door and leading her out to his car, a black 1967 Chevrolet Camaro with chrome rims he had affectionately dubbed Shannon after the song he heard on the radio the first time he drove it.

  The car was a near replica of the one from Better Off Dead, her favorite ’80s movie, and she loved to drive it. Nate knowingly held the ignition key in an outstretched hand as Chloe sailed past him and into the driver’s seat. Stealing a glance at his posture, she was happy to see that at least one person in town wasn’t scared to death by her driving style.

  By the time Chloe whipped into a parking space at Mama Nancy’s Diner, her blood was pumping from the exhilaration of having thousands of pounds of responsive machinery completely under her command. The car cornered like it was on rails. Nate walked around to meet her, hand held out for his keys; but, with a saucy grin, she pocketed them for the ride home.

  Inside the diner, a sign directed them to choose an empty seat so Nate led the way to one of the cozier corner booths where he ordered the heart-attack special; a platter piled high with deep fried appetizers. Chloe bit into a fat onion ring and closed her eyes for a moment to savor the crispy goodness before nudging Nate’s foot under the table and tilting her head toward the rest of the patrons.

  The gleam in her eye told him she was ready for a round of their favorite game of people watching. The diner was dimly lit at night with only a cone of golden light illuminating the center of each table, lending an air of mystery to the surrounding patrons. Chloe took a sip of her drink, gestured toward a booth across the room and challenged, “Game on, corner booth.”

  Nate surveyed the couple for a moment before commenting “Blind date. Has to be. She’s dressed to impress, sitting in a diner with a man who looks like an insurance salesman. Her knees are together, pointed away from him while his body language is urgent and definitely interested. He was hoping to score, but I don’t see that happening. See, she just checked the clock and is now searching for the bathroom.”

  “Good call; I believe you’re right. I just hope it wasn’t a good friend who set her up, because she’s never going to forgive for this one. How much you wanna bet she climbs out the window?”

  “You’re on. Now you, table by the door. What’s the story with this group?”

  “Church group or Amway meeting, could go either way. Definitely stopping over from some kind of convention. I bet their little minibus is full of briefcases and inspirational pamphlets.”

  Nate laughed out loud and turned his attention to another couple. As he debated over their situation, Chloe watched him chew thoughtfully on a piece of deep-fried pickle. His strong jaw was covered with a couple of days’ worth of stubble, and Chloe imagined that he had decided he didn’t need a clean shave to watch over the hippies at Ponderosa Pines. The scruff made him look a bit older than usual; and, for the first time Chloe could see him as something other than the childhood pal he had always been to her.

  Nate raked a hand through his tawny hair, making it stand up in all directions. She’d seen him do it more times than she could count. As she reached up automatically to smooth it back into place, he flashed a dimpled smile that would turn most women to butter.

  When he excused himself to go to the restroom, she noticed the way his hips moved and had to look away as her cheeks turned a rosy shade of pink. He didn’t seem to notice, so she assumed they had returned to their normal color by the time he returned to the table.

  “So are we going to talk about the elephant in the room, or what?” It was Nate who asked the question, even as Chloe was silently wondering the same thing.

  “What do you and your sidekick know about Luther that I don’t know?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow to suggest that it didn’t please him one bit to be fishing for information. His pride was taking a hit; and, as a man who was usually top dog, it felt a bit too much like failure for his liking.

  It was no secret that Nate didn’t feel exactly the same way as Chloe did about Ponderosa Pines. Of course he loved his childhood home, felt a feeling of camaraderie with many of his former neighbors, and agreed that he wouldn’t be happy if the town were to become less than what it always had been. But that didn’t mean he particularly wanted to live there full time. Not all his memories were warm and fuzzy, and he didn’t need a daily reminder.

  Chloe nibbled a mozzarella stick for a moment before answering, “Luther was a liar and a cheat when it came to his work. His brother controlled him, used him as a puppet to get ahead as long as it suited him. He’s been the voice of Evan’s campaign to merge with Gilmore, but you could tell it wasn’t his idea; he wasn’t smart enough for that. I don’t know why someone would kill him for that, though, or even over a shoddy construction job. It seems personal. Maybe he pissed his brother off; I don’t know. But I do know that people are speculating that EV had something to do with it, and that’s just preposterous.”

  “Because he was on opposing sides? There’s nothing EV Torrence likes more than a good argument, and if you know that Evan was pulling the strings, then she knows it too. There’s no real motive for EV to have killed him. But it still doesn’t look good that she got into a public argument with him right before he died. I’ll have to check out all viable leads, so don’t be surprised when she gets questioned.” Nate’s tone was authoritative, and Chloe sensed he was shifting into cranky-cop mode.

  The sight of EV being hauled out of the Pines in a squad car wouldn’t help her and Chloe’s plan to convince the townspeople to remain separate from Gilmore. Hopefully, Nate would be able to investigate quietly. A scandal would not help EV’s position. Nate was right; she and EV always did have an in on the goings on about town, and maybe it was about time to put that little talent to good use. If they could help him solve this murder that much faster, maybe EV could stay out of the limelight.

  “Hey, tell me a story about these three hot messes walking in right now.” Chloe changed the subject, deciding not to show any more of her cards until she could talk to EV and formulate a plan.

  * * *

  Chloe generously tipped the waitress
as Nate handled the dinner bill. Years ago, Chloe had bet Nate a lifetime of free dinners that she could beat him at darts. He had pompously accepted the wager before realizing he had been hustled. Having waited tables for room-and-board money during college, she understood how much each party’s gratuity contributed to a waitress’s nightly total, so when service was excellent, she made sure to tip accordingly.

  Waitress was just one of the job titles Chloe had held throughout the years. After completing high school via correspondence course while traveling with her mother, Chloe put her foot down and attended a brick-and-mortar college like a normal person.

  Six years, and almost as many majors later, she graduated with honors and a degree in journalism. Still feeling unfulfilled, Chloe worked her way through a succession of different jobs looking for something that felt like the right fit. For now, with the restlessness tamed, she was committed to maintaining her post as author of ‘Babble & Spin’ while submitting the occasional freelance article for extra cash. If the restlessness returned, she’d deal with it somehow.

  With a gentlemanly hand on Chloe’s back, Nate guided her toward the restaurant’s exit door. Stopping to grab the light sweater she had hung in the entryway, Chloe heard a loud crash and turned in the direction of the kitchen. Huddled in a booth around the corner from where she and Nate had dined sat Evan Plunkett. And he wasn’t alone. Seated across from him was a woman of average build, her hair bound in an updo and covered by a familiar floral print scarf.

  Chloe gestured to Nate. “Do you recognize that woman in the scarf? I saw Talia Plunckett wearing that exact same one the other night at The Barnyard!”

  “It’s just a scarf; anyone could have one like it. I can’t tell who it is for certain from this angle.”

  “Nate, it’s a vintage Pucci.” Chloe stated with a roll of her eyes.