Game of Tarts

by Wendy Meadows

  10

  Zack steps in front of me to block my way to the front door. “Where are you going now?”

  I smack my lips in exasperation. “I’m going out. Now get out of my way before I turn you over my knee and give you the spanking you deserve. You can’t keep intruding on my right to come and go, Zachary.”

  “You’re going out to investigate Scott Freeman’s death, aren’t you? You know Detective Graham doesn’t approve of that.”

  I spin around to face him. “Oh, so now you’re babysitting me for Detective Graham, are you? That’s just rich coming from someone who originally didn’t approve of me associating with him. Whether I’m going out to hook up with Detective Graham or investigate Scott Freeman’s death is none of your concern. I’m a grown woman. I can make my own decisions without answering to you.”

  I force my way past him and take hold of the door. “I’m just worried about you, Mom,” he calls after me. “You got hurt last time. I don’t want you winding up in the hospital again. That’s all.”

  I freeze, and my eyes drift to his face. That’s exactly what David said about me playing detective. When will I learn to listen to the men who care about me?

  I put out my hand to Zack. “I hear you, sweetie. I’m not going to do anything dangerous. I promise I’ll be extra careful.”

  “What are you going to do?” he demands.

  “I’m going to snoop around the Coffee Canteen. That’s all.”

  “Is that what I’m supposed to tell Detective Graham if he comes around here asking for you?” he inquires. “I sure hope you don’t expect me to lie to cover for you.”

  I wave my hand. “By all means, tell him.”

  I get out of there with what little dignity I still have intact. I press down the block with long, purposeful strides. What do I care if David finds out what I’m doing? He already knows I’m poking my nose into Scott’s case.

  I’ve had enough of these two trying to control my every move. Who are they to tell me what to do? If I want to find out who killed Scott, who are they to stop me? I’m not obstructing the police investigation, and I’ll be ripped if I let a twenty-year-old kid throw his weight around. I didn’t go through the torment and difficulty getting out of a two-decade-long controlling marriage to wind up in the same boat now.

  I roil in suppressed anger all the way to town and storm over to the Coffee Canteen. Yellow cordon tape blocks off the entrance, but the yard, the outdoor seating area, and the side alley remain open.

  I don’t see anything noteworthy in the front. All the tables and chairs still stand in their usual places, just waiting for the customers who will never come. What will happen to this building, now that Scott’s no longer here to run the business? The umbrellas still poke their poles to the sky with their folded sides strapped in place against the weather.

  Nothing to see here. I tiptoe around to the alley. Long before I get there, I smell the decomposing stink of rotting coffee grounds. Mr. Stewart was right. Scott turned the alley into his own personal garbage dump.

  I almost turn away from the offensive atmosphere, but when I catch sight of the backyard, I change my mind. The pallets of potting soil still gleam in their plastic-wrapped squares back there. What else was Scott up to back there?

  I hold my nose and dash down the alley as fast as I can. I skid to a halt next to the first pallet and almost fall over in shock when I see Detective Graham himself bending over to examine it. “David! What are you doing here?”

  He squares his shoulders and furrows his brow. “What are you doing here, Margaret?”

  I check behind me, but there’s nothing back there that will get me out of this mess. “I was just…. well, what are you doing here?”

  His shoulders slump, and he blows out a long breath. “You’re here investigating Scott Freeman’s death, aren’t you?”

  “Well, what the heck else am I going to do?” I fire back. “You know how I am. You can’t expect me to sit at home knitting socks when there’s a mystery to solve, now can you?”

  He hunches his back in defeat. “No, I guess I can’t. I might as well resign myself to the fact you’re going to get involved in this no matter what I do, so you might as well stick around.”

  I deflect his attention to the potting soil. “So did you find anything?”

  “I just showed up about thirty seconds before you.” He points to the palette with his ballpoint pen. “I was just reading the packing slip. Scott hadn’t even unwrapped the palette yet, but it looks like he was planning to landscape this backyard to create more seating.”

  I wander through the yard. A flat stretch of bare dirt extends from the café’s rear entrance to a plain wooden fence. Just beyond it, a patch of scrubby foliage separates the yard from an empty pasture.

  The fence itself looks brand new. The posts still bear the indelible hammer marks around the nail heads and discarded sand scatters around the fresh concrete anchoring the posts into place.

  David calls from behind me. “As long as you’re here, I might as well tell you before you ask that I already interviewed that Tanya Wilkins.”

  “Who’s Tanya Wilkins?”

  “She’s the college student who worked for Scott for a week before he was murdered,” he tells me. “She barely knew him, and she had no motive to kill him.”

  “I didn’t think she had one,” I return, “but thanks for telling me.”

  He goes back to inspecting the pallet of sacks while I take another turn around the yard. I don’t see anything that could give us a clue to the murder. I try the rear door to the café and find it locked fast. I can’t even see inside.

  I cross my arms and scan the area. This excursion turned out to be a disappointment. I thought I would find something to point me in the right direction, but at least David isn’t mad at me for sticking my oar in.

  “So who do you think killed him?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Anyone on the laundry list of suspects. He wasn’t the kind of guy who goes around making friends everywhere he goes.”

  “No, he was definitely more interested in making money. I hope you’ve ruled out his wife because of that.”

  He straightens up and frowns at me. “Why do you say that?”

  “She was hooked on his money. He was her cash cow.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” he counters. “He had a generous life insurance policy. She could have fallen for another guy. She could have seen knocking him off as a way to get his money and get free.”

  I whip around to stare at him. “I didn’t think of that.”

  He rolls his eyes to Heaven. “There are a lot of things you didn’t think of. I’m the professional detective on this case. I’m not a complete buffoon, you know.”

  He bends down to poke his pen into the dirt. I can’t think of one good reason for him to do that, but his words hit home. He’s right. I ought to trust him to do his job instead of questioning him all the time.

  I walk over to him, and this time, I lay my hand on his arm. “Listen, David. I really appreciate you letting me look into this murder. I know it’s an inconvenience to you, but I never meant to imply that you were a buffoon or that you couldn’t do your job. I know you’re great at what you do. It’s just my insatiable curiosity, you know.”

  He stands up and gazes down into my eyes. “I know that. Just give a guy credit once in a while, okay?”

  I smile up at him. “Okay.”

  “Let’s get out of here. There’s nothing here.”

  He bumps the palette with his toe and turns away. He gets two steps, but I’m not ready to leave yet, even though I can’t see anything useful here, either.

  I meander over to the fence one more time. I peer over it into the pasture. What am I doing here? I’m no detective. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I kick the fencepost, too, just for good measure.

  Kicking an inanimate object does nothing to soothe my bruised ego, and now I’ve got a bruised toe into the bargain. When I look down
, though, I see a waffle-patterned footprint in the sand. That’s odd.

  David calls from around the corner. “Come on, Margaret. You can help me inspect the victim’s car.”

  “Hey!” I yell. “Come here a sec. Look at this.”

  He comes back, and I show him the footprint. “Don’t you think this is odd? Remember how Scott always wore those gator-skin boots? This could belong to the killer.”

  “I doubt it. It probably came from one of the workmen who built the fence.”

  “Maybe,” I reply, “but look at it. It’s facing the café. Oh, look! There’s another one. They both face the café, and there are no other footprints anywhere else along the fence. If they came from the workmen, they should be everywhere.”

  David scowls down at it. He takes a step backward. “Hmm. You’re right. Here’s another one. They lead toward the café.” He scans the yard. “It looks like someone hopped over the fence.”

  “It wasn’t Scott. He would have no reason to sneak up to his own café.”

  “You’re right.” David squats down next to the first set of footprints I spotted, the ones closest to the fence. “These are definitely deeper than the others.” He takes out his phone and snaps a picture of the prints. Then he takes a video of the whole sequence of footprints leading from the fence to the café’s back door.

  He slips his phone back into his pocket. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  He strides around the café and out of sight. The next minute, he returns with a zippered nylon case and lays it on the ground. “What’s that?” I ask.

  “It’s my forensics kit.” He unzips it and takes out a test tube and a pair of tweezers.

  “I didn’t know you did forensics,” I remark. “Isn’t that the crime lab’s job?”

  “This is just for the odd times I need to take samples of something—like now, for instance. Watch and learn, young grasshopper.”

  He tweezes samples of the sand into the test tube and screws on the cap. He places it inside the case and takes out a Ziploc bag of what looks like flour. “What are you doing now?”

  “I’m taking a cast of the print. If it came from the killer, we can match it to the shoes that made the prints.”

  My eyes widen. “You can do that?”

  “I’m a man of many talents, Ms. Nichols. Now prepare to be amazed.”

  He takes a bottle of water out of his kit. He pours the contents into the plastic bag and slides the zip to seal it closed. He then shakes and kneads the bag until the water mixes with the flour. It forms a gelatinous goo that David pours into the footprint.

  He waits a few minutes for the plaster to set. When he touches it with his fingertip and finds it solid, he lifts out the cast and places it in a separate plastic bag. He peels off a length of orange tape emblazoned with the word Evidence. He sticks it to the bag and zips up everything in his case. “There you go.”

  “Wow,” I breathe. “That was so cool.”

  He snorts with laughter. “Only to an amateur like you. You did a good job spotting that print. Now come on. We’ll go look at his car.”

  I accompany David to the front of the café. He leads me to where he parked his cruiser around the corner, out of sight. That explains why I didn’t suspect he was here when I first showed up. Then again, I was so mad I probably wouldn’t have noticed if he jumped out and hit me in the face.

  He puts his case into his car and gets into the driver’s seat. I look around. “Where is his car?”

  “It’s at the station impound. Get in and I’ll drive you there.”

  I climb into the car with a beating heart. This is the first time I’ve driven anywhere with him on official police business. I’m really helping him investigate this case!

  11

  David drives out of town. A few miles down the highway, he veers off to a tiny building with a sign out front, Peterborough County Police. He parks the cruiser by the building and we both get out.

  He waves to one side. “This way.”

  I don’t see anything until we walk around the building to a parking lot surrounded by a chain-link fence. A single car sits behind it. I look around again. “Is this it?”

  David unlocks the gate. “Not much ever happens around here. In all the time I’ve worked for this department, I’ve never seen more than one car in the impound at a time.”

  We approach the car. “What are we looking for?”

  “Anything out of the ordinary. You found that print. Just take a look and see if you notice anything. I imagine Scott Freeman had a boring life.”

  “His wife says he worked around the clock,” I remind him. “You wouldn’t think a man like that could get into enough trouble to get himself killed.”

  “Not unless it was his business practices that got him killed,” David counters.

  I nod. Of course. Scott wasn’t a Boy Scout. We know that much already.

  I look at the car. It’s a gleaming black BMW X5, a regular gorilla that radiates power and domination to the world. I shield my eyes to look through the tinted window. A bunch of control buttons cover the steering wheel, and an onboard computer screen sticks out of the dashboard. I don’t understand half the stuff on the console around the gearshift.

  “You can get in,” David tells me. “It’s unlocked, and we already dusted it for prints.”

  “If you already went over it, what do you think you’ll find a second time?”

  “You never know.” He pops the passenger door and sits down in the seat.

  I don’t hardly dare touch a car like that, even if the rightful owner is dead. I drift to the back seat and open the door. I don’t want to just plop down like I own this car, though. I stick my head into the back and take a good look around.

  The car looks and smells brand new. Scott kept it immaculately clean—either that, or he let nobody ride in it. I’m used to the old jalopies I used to drive when Zack was a little boy. They always had Cheerios molding under the seat and broken toys all over the floor.

  This car gives me the impression Scott just drove it off the lot. Even when I bend close to the floor, I don’t see one tuft of lint on the carpet.

  I peer from right to left. When I turn my head, I see under the front seat to David’s shoes resting on the passenger compartment floor. A spring and a lever extend under the seat to slide it back and forth. There’s nothing unusual about that.

  Just then, I notice a piece of plastic dangling under the seat. I slide my hand into the space. When I touch it, a larger portion of plastic falls into view.

  David giggles from the front. “What are you doing to me, Ms. Nichols?”

  “There’s something under here.” I tug the plastic, and a wrapped package falls into my hand. “Someone stashed this under the seat.”

  He hops out and hurries around to my door. I stand up and hold it out to him, but he spreads his hands wide. “You found it. You open it.”

  Now that I’ve got a police detective’s invitation to snoop, I don’t think I have the courage to go through with it. David takes a pocket knife out of his pocket and flicks open the blade.

  I take it with trembling fingers and slit open the plastic. A stack of papers tumbles out. Uniform typed text covers every sheet in the same pattern.

  I read the first one out loud. “Don’t think you can get away with this. You’ll pay.”

  I look up in shock to find David returning my gaze. “Go on. Read them all.”

  I thumb to the next sheet. “You rotten traitor. I’m watching you. If you don’t back off, I’ll make you suffer for this.” The next one reads, “Everyone hates you, including your wife.” I flip over once more. “You’re a dead man.”

  I let my hand fall and shove the package toward David. “I can’t read anymore. You better take these.”

  He wraps the papers up in their plastic cover. He seals it with Evidence tape and puts it in his pocket. We turn our attention back to the car, but my heart’s not in it. A man is dead. I don’t want to be the one
to rifle his car for evidence that someone planned and executed his cold-blooded murder.

  I return to the back seat. Dust covers protect the seats. They drape over the headrests and disappear into the trunk. They all appear spotlessly new, too. I lift one out of the way, expecting to see perfect upholstery underneath. To my amazement, a brown stain slices across the seat.

  I put out my finger, but I hesitate to touch it. It looks strangely familiar. “Is this….is this chocolate?”

  David swivels around in the seat. “Is what chocolate?”

  “There’s a stain on the seat. The dust cover hid it from view, but it looks like….” My finger hovers over the mark before I let myself touch it. It feels greasy and smooth. I stick my finger in my mouth. “It is chocolate.”

  David pokes his head through the other rear door. “How did that get there?”

  “It was under the dust cover,” I repeat. “How could it get there without someone deliberately putting it there?”

  David straightens up. “Here’s what I want to know. How could a guy who keeps his car this clean not notice it and clean it off? Whatever happened in this car, he must have known about it, so he must have wanted to clean it up.”

  “Unless it happened around the time of the murder,” I point out. “Maybe he knew about it and didn’t have time to clean it off before he got killed.”

  David shakes his head. “I don’t see it happening. The guy was meticulous about his car.”

  I lean back to stretch my shoulders. “Are you going to take a sample of that for your forensics kit?”

  “You’re right. I should.” He goes back to the cruiser and scrapes some chocolate into another vial. He seals it and labels it and puts it away along with the sand.

  He zips the case shut. “I guess that’s about it. Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  I don’t want to deal with this car anymore, either. Just before I slam the door shut, I flip back the floor carpet, just once, just because. I don’t really expect to see anything, but when I do, I notice a bunch of dirt flecked across the floor.