by Diaz, AJ
Jeff followed her finger. The man was wearing a zipped up light brown jacket. He was also wearing a black beanie. Other than the beanie, he looked nice. Probably in his twenties like Brad Ringer. “Why him?” Jeff asked.
“Because he liked me. He asked me out like five times.”
“And?”
The waitress just stared at Jeff in confusion. Then asked, “You’re a lieutenant?”
Jeff just looked at her funny. “Yes. Of course. I became a lieutenant in just two months, faster than anyone in the history of the police department of Formstaw. I solved some crimes and caught some bad guys, the captain saw my potential, and here I am.”
The waitress could care less. “Well, aren’t you going to talk to Aaron? He has motive.”
“Yeah. But I need to get your name while I’m here.” Jeff flipped open a notepad.
“Chelsea Sie—”
“That’s all I need,” Jeff interjected. Under her name, he scribbled “black hair.”
Then Jeff started out the kitchen door. Stopped. Back pedaled. “Chelsea, why do you think Aaron did it?”
“Because Brad Ringer was my boyfriend. Aaron Cadell was jealous of Brad.”
“Ahh! Motive!” Satisfied, Jeff stepped back into the serenely lit café and traversed to Aaron. Took a seat across from him. “I heard you have motive.”
“Maybe.”
“Listen buddy, you’re going to talk if it’s the last thing I do.” Clenching a fist, Jeff reiterated, “You’re going to talk.”
Aaron smiled. “I’m talking. And I think you need to choose your words better. You said that ‘I’m going to talk if it’s the last thing you do.’ That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Whatever.” Then Jeff got quieter and looked around. Most everyone was chatting amongst each other now. “I’m going to be straight. Aaron Cadell, did you kill Brad Ringer?”
“No.”
“Did you go in the bathroom since you got here?”
“Yes. About twenty to twenty-five minutes ago. Is that a problem?”
Jeff softly laughed. “For you it is.” Then, noticing something, Jeff poked the man’s jacket. “What’s that?” Poking it some more, Jeff ventured, “Do you have something in your inside jacket pocket?”
Aaron’s face contorted. “Not that I know of.” He zipped down his jacket, reached into his inside pocket, and pulled out a pocketknife. It was bloody.
Lieutenant Jeff Arterman didn’t waste any time. He forcefully pushed Aaron out of his chair, whipped out handcuffs, and cuffed the man while he was on the floor. The café fell silent. All eyes were on them. The captain emerged from the bathroom to see about the commotion. “He’s the guy?”
Jeff nodded. Aaron was squirming. When he finally managed to roll onto his back, everyone could see his bright crimson face. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it! I don’t even have a pocketknife. I haven’t unzipped my jacket since I put it on this morning. And there was no one in the bathroom when I used it! I didn’t do it!”
“Shut up,” yelled the captain.
Jeff leaned in. “I’m going to tell you what I’ve told five people in the last month. To prove you didn’t do it, you’re going to need a heck of a good detective.”
“Don’t you mean lawyer?”
“Whatever!”
Chapter 4 Taylor Kelsey sat on the edge of the couch cushion, leaning over the coffee table and poring over newspaper cutouts. She had a highlighter in one hand and a TV remote in the other. Her thick blond hair, which was currently crimped after testing a new hair curler, drooped over her shoulders, and her deep green eyes were holding article headlines as she thought.
Across the room, the eight o’clock news’ intro was playing, for it had just come back on after commercials. Taylor pealed her eyes from the newspapers and turned up the TV volume. Then, straightening out her blue silk pajamas, she sat back comfortably.
Taylor was sixteen, a cheerleader, and probably—actually definitely—the most beautiful girl in Formstaw (which had two-hundred fifty-thousand residents). If a Hollywood agent saw her, he would most certainly sign her up for movies immediately. Not joking. One time a talent agent (not for Hollywood) saw her and wanted her to model. But when they told her she’d be wearing a yellow dress, she disenfranchised them. Yellow is not a color she would ever wear, thank you very much.
She wasn’t dumb—an all A student, scored the SATs as a genius—not your typical dumb cheerleader. The modeling gig was a small town thing, no big deal to pass up. If it were the real thing, she would have probably done it despite the yellow. Nevertheless, yellow was out of the question. She was white and had blond hair for crying out loud. Yellow did nothing for her that she could see.
“Taylor,” her dad Andrew Kelsey asked from the adjacent couch, “what are you doing?”
Taylor smiled and looked at her mom who was sitting beside her dad. “I’m trying to solve a mystery. Just like your books, Mom.” Taylor’s mom, Christina Kelsey, wrote mystery novels. She had written ninety-nine full-length mysteries but hadn’t got one published. She hadn’t even sought publication because she decided, for reasons unknown, that she wanted to write one-hundred novels before she was published. No one understood, or even attempted to understand, but let her write in peace. Taylor read every one of her mom’s novels and, as a result, knew a lot about detective work.
Between Nancy Drew and her mom’s novels she was ready to solve her own mystery. Christina asked, “What mystery, Taylor?”
“The mysteries in the news.”
Andrew spoke this time. “Do you mean the murder in the café or the robberies?”
“Both,” said Taylor.
“Which robbery?”
“Well, the police think that all the robberies are being committed by the same group of people. Some kind of ring of thieves. So, solving one robbery will solve them all. Also,” continued Taylor, “the police are viewing the café murder as a completely separate case. But I think there’s a connection.”
Now her parents were interested. “What kind of connection?”
“I’m not sure yet, but here’s what I know: Aaron Cadell, the suspect of the café murder, I think is innocent. All the evidence was stacked against him. The bloodied knife in his pocket. He even admitted to using the bathroom when the dead body should have been there.”
“Sounds like he did it,” said Andrew. “It’s a slam dunk.”
“I don’t think so. He seems too shocked about the whole thing to be the murderer.”
“But he is the murderer,” said Christina.
“Murder suspect, Mom. He’s still on trial. Apparently he has a good lawyer. Anyway, his name is Aaron Cadell. Get this, his dad Jack Cadell used to work at the café, but quit one day before his son became the accused murderer. Just one day.”
“Probably coincidence,” said one of her parents. She didn’t really know which one. Her mind was in race mode.
Taylor continued. “The father and son apparently have a bad relationship. I think that has something to do with the case. The father seems suspicious to me.”
“But,” said Christina, “Aaron went into the bathroom.”
“But,” responded Taylor, “the medical examiner says Brad died five hours earlier, which means he was killed somewhere else.”
“You almost have me convinced, Taylor,” said her dad Andrew, “but why are you all the sudden interested?”
Taylor smiled, giddy with excitement. She pulled her legs in so she was sitting Indian style. “Do you remember the robbery two months ago of that huge painting?”
“Yes.”
“The museum curator, Mr. Mahoney, put up a reward for the person that finds it. Fifteen thousand dollars! I’ll be able to buy that shiny red car at the dealer…”
“If you’re trying to solve the missing painting case,” asked Christina, “then why are you trying to solve the murder case?”
“Because there’s a connection, remember. If I solve one, I solve the other.”
/> “You better hope there’s a connection,” said Andrew, slightly laughing.
“Why do you have to be that way, Dad?” asked Taylor rhetorically. “You’re always belittling me! You’re always being mean! You—”
“No he isn’t,” said Christina.
“He just did!” screamed Taylor in a fit.
“What are you talking about?” asked Andrew calmly.
“‘You better hope there’s a connection,’” Taylor mimicked angrily.
Christina was taken back. “Taylor, you’re so mature most all the time. Imagine if your friends saw you acting this way.” She laughed, making the situation a little less tense, then joked, “Am I going to have to make you go to your room?”
After a minute of silence, Taylor picked up her newspaper cutouts. “I’m going there anyway,” she said jokingly, then handed her dad the remote. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
“I don’t know what got into me. Good night.”
“You’re going to bed already.”
“I’m tired from cheerleading practice today, and I’ve got to get up early to crimp my hair before school.”
“Oh, good night, honey,” Christina and Andrew chorused.
Taylor said good night again and went upstairs to her room. The window was open and the blinds were pulled aside inviting a cold breeze into the spacious room. The room was exactly what she preferred: wood-paneled walls, hardwood floor, a canopied bed, old rustic-looking furniture.
Her window likewise had a great view, overlooking acres of land that washed into golden valleys and verdant mountains. The cold, clear, aromatic mountain breeze was refreshing. She climbed into bed, took several deep breaths, and fell asleep thinking about how in the world the robberies and the café murder could be connected.
Later that night she woke up to use the bathroom. Before she entered, she heard her parents talking down the hall. She checked the time on her cell phone, which she was using as a light. After midnight. What could they be talking about? Tiptoeing to her parents’ door, which was slightly ajar, she could make out several words.
When she stopped moving, she could hear everything clearly. Christina was mad. “You lost another account!”
“I still have a few. Enough. I still have enough,” said Andrew.
“What happens if you lose another one?”
“Well… We could sell the house.”
Christina went silent for a minute. Taylor was just as stunned. “Are you kidding?” barked Christina.
“No.”
“Then what can you do to get those accounts back.”
“I need architect software. I’m the only architect, at least that I know of, who still draws by hand.”
“Then why don’t you just buy the computer programs.”
“We can’t afford it. I would have to take out another loan. The bank won’t give me another one with the big loan we’re already paying down for the house. We won’t qualify for another year.”
Taylor was so shocked and tired that she accidently stumbled into her parents’ door and tripped into the room. The hardwood floor thudded as she landed on her elbows.
“Taylor?” they both asked. “Were you eavesdropping?” asked Andrew, sighing in frustration.
“No—no—I—I was just…”
“Eavesdropping,” Christina finished.
Taylor stopped pretending. “Well it’s your fault we might lose the house, Mom. You write all those books, but you never do anything with them. You can get them published and make money off them, you know. You’re not dumb, but you’re dumb when it comes to money.”
“Taylor!” said Andrew sternly.
“Well, she is.”
“Please don’t call me ‘she,’” interjected Christina.
Taylor started out of the room, muttering, “She, she, she…”
“Ahhh!” Christina sighed. “What’s wrong with her?”
“It’s late,” said Andrew, “let’s get to bed before we all say things we don’t mean.”
Taylor went into the bathroom and slammed the door. “Parents are so dumb!” she whispered to herself. She swooped up her toothbrush, her productive way of soothing anger, and moaned one last time.
Chapter 5 It was Friday afternoon the next day, and Taylor Kelsey and her best friend Susan Beckette sat alone at a round table in their school cafeteria, talking just loud enough to overpower the ambience of the lunch period. The school was a private Christian school so all the girls were dressed in plaid skirts and button-up shirts. Some days out of the year they were allowed to don blouses of their choice. And the boys, who also wore slacks and button-up shirts, were occasionally allowed to wear jeans.
“So, you see,” explained Taylor, as she had been the past ten minutes, “I think there’s a connection between the two cases: the robberies and the murder.”
“Because the dad of the suspect worked at the cafeteria?” asked Susan, dumbfounded by Taylor’s far-fetched logic.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s review, shall we?” said Susan. “And not Mrs. Thompson’s classic literature lesson. That was a little too much for me.”
“Okay.”
Susan Beckette was a strange person. She was practically a genius, almost as smart as Taylor, but didn’t like people to know. So she talked fast and often times acted dumb. Then, when people least expected it, she would unleash her mind and put them to shame. Which is why she loved trivia games.
Now she had a notepad and pen in hand. Reviewing. “So,” Susan clarified, “there have been a string of robberies in the past three to four months and you think there is a gang behind all of them. Right?”
Taylor thought it over. “We prefer the term ‘ring’ rather than ‘gang.’”
“Okay,” muttered Susan, writing it down, “got it.”
“And there’s been a recent murder in a cafeteria that doesn’t add up.”
“Says you.”
“Says the evidence,” retorted Taylor.
“Does evidence speak?”
“Quite loudly actually,” Taylor answered.
Susan finished penning a sentence. “The body of a Mr. Brad Ringer was found lying face up, but the waitress named Chelsea found it face down.”
“Yes.”
“The medical examiner says the time of death was five hours before the body was found.”
“Yes.”
“And Aaron Cadell used the bathroom five minutes before Chelsea found the body.”
“Yes.”
“In the bathroom!” pressed Susan.
“Yes.”
“Furthermore”—Susan lifted her pen to her chin—“the murder weapon, dripping with the victim’s blood, was found in the man’s inside jacket pocket.”
“Correct.”
“Phew!” exclaimed Susan.
“What?”
“You said correct instead of yes. You’d said yes four times in a row before that. Thank you for the switch.”
“Your welcome. Continue,” said Taylor.
“Okay. Other than the circumstantial evidence: the time Aaron went into the bathroom and the murder weapon found in his pocket,” Susan said in an expressed tone, “he had a crush on Chelsea, the waitress, who was dating Brad Ringer. That’s motive, means, and opportunity, which is what police detectives look for in a suspect.”
Taylor nodded. “Susan, Susan, Susan. You might be forgetting that Aaron Cadell is still only a suspect. Albeit the evidence is stacked against him, but that’s the very reason I think he is innocent.”
Whipping out a folder and opening it before Susan, Taylor explained, pointing to the picture on the top, “Exhibit A. Aaron Cadell’s jacket was zipped up the entire time he was in the restaurant. He swears it.”
Susan looked at the picture of Aaron with the zipped-up jacket. “He’s not bad looking.”
Taylor put the top picture on the bottom. “He’s in college. You can’t have him.” Then, “Exhibit B.” Susan was now looking at a picture
of the café bathroom. Taylor pointed to the stalls. “The suspect Aaron Cadell could have dropped the knife in any one of these bathroom stalls and flushed it. Why did he keep it?”
“Maybe he thought he wouldn’t get caught.”
“Susan, have you ever read ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ by Edgar Allen Poe?”
“Correct.”
“Very funny.” Taylor fake laughed. “The criminal always tries to hide the evidence, and they always try to get it as far away from them as possible.”
“Maybe the knife was an heirloom.”
“I don’t think so. Also, look at Aaron.” Taylor switched the picture back to Aaron Cadell. “You said it yourself, he was good looking. He could have got any number of dates, thus he didn’t need Chelsea.”
“Maybe he loved her.”
“Maybe hitherto,” said Taylor.
Susan sighed. “Hitherto. What is this, the fifties?”
Taylor didn’t respond. She was deep in thought.
Susan flipped a page in her notebook and muttered as she wrote. “And Taylor thinks the cases are connected because Aaron Cadell’s dad, Jack Cadell, worked at the café and quit one day before the murder happened.” After she finished writing, Susan slapped the notebook onto the table and stuck the pen through her naturally wavy black hair onto her ear.
“Oh,” exclaimed Taylor abruptly, “I almost forgot something.”
“Good because thus far I’m not convinced.”
“Mr. Mahoney, the museum curator where the large painting was stolen, has put up a reward.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen thousand.”
“I’m convinced!” remarked Susan immediately. “But can we go to that new fair tomorrow; it’s only gonna be in town for two months?”
Taylor smirked. “No, we have to investigate.”
“There’s going to be an elephant,” replied Susan, as if that was a great incentive.
“No.”
“There’s going to be an elephant,” Susan repeated in the same awe.
“No, I don’t care for elephants.”
“There’s going to be an elephant.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll capitulate,” said Taylor. “But not because of the elephant.”
