by Laney Monday
I kept my voice as steady as I could, but I couldn’t help glancing back and forth, looking for the killer. The killer, who might just be after us. Armed, this time, with more than just a hairbrush.
10
After a few hours of fitful sleep, I woke to the sunshine streaming through the frothy curtains Miss Ruth had left behind. Riggins and that skinny Tony guy had gone through our apartment quickly and efficiently. They’d left with nothing but hair and fingerprint samples and Blythe’s laptop. I didn’t give them permission to rifle through any of my things. I got the impression they were looking for bloody clothes Blythe might have secretly changed into and then back out of, or something really obvious like that. Since Blythe was still wearing the same clothes she’d had on after the judo practice at the PAL, she’d changed and surrendered those to the police so they could have forensics experts check them for traces of evidence.
Blythe was curled up in her sleeping bag next to mine, her eyes still puffy from crying. I tried to close my eyes and go back to sleep. I could really use the rest. Besides, the idea of getting up and facing everything I’d gotten us into in the last twenty-four hours put my stomach in knots. But my stomach growled loudly, declaring that it was not only in knots, but very, very empty.
I obeyed my stomach and stumbled into the kitchen. I opened the empty refrigerator and stared at its lone occupant—a box of baking soda. I don’t know what I was thinking—that eggs and bacon and orange juice would have magically materialized overnight?
The only food in this place was a half-empty can of Blythe’s low fat Pringles. We didn’t even have any coffee. By the time I washed my face and brushed my hair, Blythe was up. I offered to head out alone in search of caffeine and sugar, but Blythe wouldn’t have it.
“We need to go about our lives. I know we have to deal with what happened last night, but we can’t let it get in our way. This is going to be our new home.” She smiled bravely.
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t want to dwell on it right now. I want to get this place together so we can get open for business.”
And I wanted breakfast. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get some groceries.”
“I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
While I waited for Blythe, I did a little research on Ellison Baxter. So far, no mention of his death online. It looked like he’d grown up in Bonney Bay. I found a mother and sister on his social media. They listed Bonney Bay as their home towns, but were both currently living in Florida. He wrote for the Bonney Bay Blaster, a local paper that seemed to have just gone digital only. That couldn’t possibly pay all his bills. I did some more digging, and found that he freelanced as a technical writer. Why had his family left Bonney Bay? Why had Ellison stayed?
True to Blythe’s word, in ten minutes we were on our way to the town’s general store, the Cherry Bowl. It sported a sort of Old West style facade and was painted spring green and accented with bright red awnings. Though my mind was strictly on food, Blythe insisted we get all the essentials while we we here—toilet paper, detergent, etc. And of course it only made sense to start with the non-perishables first. Besides, Blythe knew me well enough to understand that once I had the bacon in the cart, it would be a battle to keep me from checking out as fast as I could and running home to fry it. I could already smell the sizzling goodness.
I tried not to think about bacon and reached for a jumbo pack of toilet paper instead.
“Just get a small one, Bren. We’re on a budget.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We can’t afford to pay these small-town store prices for everything. There’s a Costco twenty miles from here. We’ll make a big trip once we’re settled in.”
Of course Blythe had done her research. It was so good to see her acting like her put-together self again. I cheerfully filled the cart with little essentials as she read and checked them off a list on her smartphone. I dropped a stick of deodorant in the cart and looked over my shoulder at Blythe. “Next?”
She just stared straight ahead at the rows of haircare supplies. Oh, crud. There was a purple hairbrush, just like the one—
“Excuse me, Miss?”
We both jumped practically out of our skin. Blythe even gave a little yelp. A plump, middle-aged lady wearing a lime green polo shirt and a black apron embroidered with the store logo, a cluster of cherries, said, “Are you Blythe Battle?”
Blythe’s eyes darted from the hairbrush to the store clerk, her expression one of guilt and terror. I quickly stepped in front of her. “I’m Brenna Battle,” I said firmly. “And this is my sister, Blythe.”
“Amy, it is her!” the clerk shouted down the aisle.
A younger clerk hurried breathlessly around the corner into the aisle. Blythe and I shook hands dumbly as the older woman introduced herself as Millie Brown, the owner of the store. The younger one—just a girl, really—was Amy Winebauer. Before I could get a grip on what was going on, and why they were so enthusiastic about finding my sister in their store—were the police looking for her? Did they want to take her back in?—Millie said, “You were the last one to see Ellison alive, right? What happened to him?”
“Uh, we really wouldn’t want to speculate,” I said.
“Oh, right. Until his family gets informed and all that.”
I nodded enthusiastically. They didn’t seem to know the police had already determined Ellison had been brutally murdered.
“I—I wasn’t there when he—when he . . .” Blythe’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Millie put an arm around her shoulders. “You poor thing! What a welcome to a new town!”
Amy nodded sympathetically. “His poor mother. I wonder if DeeDee even knows yet?”
“She’s not here?” I said, as if I didn’t know.
Millie said, “No, when her daughter, Stephanie, moved to Florida and had a baby, DeeDee followed. I guess she didn’t think she was getting a grand-baby out of Ellison any time soon.”
“It’s so sad,” Amy said. “Now she never will. And I wouldn’t be surprised at all if it comes out that his death was suspicious.”
I tried to make my face blank. Were they looking for a reaction? Fishing for information? Manipulating us with pretended concern?
“You wouldn’t?” Blythe said.
“After what he did to Stacey?” Amy said. “If she did him in, well, I’m not saying it’s right, but what woman wouldn’t understand that, you know?”
I exchanged a glance with Blythe. “What did he do to Stacey?”
“Come on, Amy, they’re new in town,” Millie said. “Don’t spoil Bonney Bay for them with a bunch of gossip.”
I waved my hand nonchalantly. “Every town has its gossip. We wouldn’t judge Bonney Bay on it.” And I wouldn’t want to stop you from spilling the beans. Not if it could help keep my sister out of jail and save us all from the real killer, I thought.
“I think we just landed right in the middle of it anyway,” Blythe added. “Would that be Stacey Goode?”
Millie nodded. “Oh, have you met Stacey already?”
“She was at the recital and party yesterday.” Blythe put on a winsome smile.
“Of course! Ruth said you two were coming to the party. She was so excited. We both had to work, so we missed it.”
“So … ” I ventured, “Stacey and Ellison?”
“He dumped her,” Amy said. “Like yesterday’s garbage.”
I tried my best to look concerned and sad for poor Stacey, instead of jumping up and down and saying, Yes! I should’ve known! That explained the dose of extra-strength witchy-ness she’d dished out. Ellison had been all over Blythe during the party. If Stacey was crazy jealous like that, it could explain even more—like Ellison’s murder.
“Were they together long?” Blythe said. I caught the suppressed anger mixed with excitement in Blythe’s polite tone.
“Well, they weren’t physically together long,” Millie said.
Amy snickered.
Millie reddened. �
��You know that’s not what I meant. Stacey lived in San Antonio. She met Ellison online.”
“While she was still married,” Amy added. “He told her he loved her, and she left her husband—”
Millie jumped in. “Her little boy, Leo’s, father!”
“For Ellison,” Amy continued. “She moved out here, expecting to get married and live happily ever after in Bonney Bay. It never occurred to her that she was just one of a long line of women Ellison liked to string along.”
“It never occurred to any of us. Ellison was good at keeping things quiet. Stacey was the beginning of the unravelling of his web of lies,” Millie said.
“He had no intention of settling down. And Stacey’s husband wouldn’t take her back,” Amy said.
“But she decided to stay in Bonney Bay anyway?” I said in dismay.
“I guess it was kind of payback, you know? Stacey stayed, and she told everyone she met what happened.”
“How long has she been in Bonney Bay?” Blythe asked.
“About a year now, I’d say.”
A year to win friends and allies in Bonney Bay. A year to plot her ultimate revenge against Ellison. To wait for someone to pin it on. Or, was it an unplanned crime of passion? Had seeing him with Blythe been the final straw that made her snap? Had she taken Blythe’s brush at the party? Had Blythe left it lying in the dance studio bathroom? Or had Stacey been lurking around the bar while Blythe and Ellison were out for drinks?
“Some one’s been seeing Ellison lately, though. Two days ago, he came in right before closing and bought flowers and chocolate covered strawberries.”
“Any idea who it is?” I dared to ask.
Amy shook her head. “That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out.”
Blythe’s face was fixed with a look of friendly concern, but I knew her gears were spinning just like mine. Who could it be? Did Stacey know about her? Did this mystery woman know Ellison was putting the moves on Blythe?
“Thank you, really,” Blythe said sincerely. “I appreciate the honesty.”
Millie said, “Well, we’ll let you ladies finish your shopping. Let us know if you need help finding anything.”
“Sure,” I said. Should we go to Riggins? Did he already know? Would he care? I couldn’t wait to get out of here so I could talk this over with Blythe. My stomach growled loudly. And cook us some breakfast. “Where’s the bacon?”
Blythe gave me a look. She went to fill the cart with ingredients for enough inexpensive meals to last us a week, and I let Millie lead me to the local cherrywood smoked bacon, orange juice, and lemon scones from the bakery. I almost popped one of the scones out of the plastic clamshell container and ate it right there, but even without her by my side, I could hear Blythe hissing in my ear that it was stealing—even if I was about to pay for it in approximately two minutes. I sighed, swinging the basket Amy had fetched for me, and found Blythe at the checkout.
Blythe drove us home. I was busy picking scone crumbs from my shirt and popping them into my mouth.
Blythe backed out of the parking space. “Do you think it was that awful Stacey Goode? Or—what if it was her husband?”
“Then why your hairbrush?”
“And how my hairbrush, either way? I know I never left it lying around.”
“Maybe the killer didn’t take your brush. Maybe it was just there because Ellison took it. You know, like a token.”
“You make him sound like a creepy stalker! Maybe it wasn’t even my brush. Maybe it’s just the same kind of brush, same color, and mine is just missing.”
Yeah, with the same color hair in it. That was likely! “We don’t know him! We have to examine every possible scenario.”
Blythe let out a deep breath. She turned into the drive-thru of Espresso on the Bay. “I need some coffee.”
I swallowed with difficulty. “Me too. My throat is scone-dry.”
“Ha, ha.” She frowned at me, unimpressed.
I shrugged. Oh, well. I tried.
11
I sipped my coffee as I flipped eggs and bacon. And of course, ate another scone. Blythe busied herself putting away our groceries and unpacking the mishmash of kitchen essentials we’d brought from her place and mine. We hadn’t lived together since we were kids. It was going to take some getting used to. But I was determined to make this fresh start work. I vowed to try to pick up after myself and keep my comments about Blythe’s freakish neatness to myself.
The smoked cherry wood bacon filled the apartment with an aroma that was exotic and homey all at once. The eggs had come out just right—over hard for me, and over easy, with beautiful unbroken yolks, for Blythe. I had a way with yolks. It would have been a shame, since I didn’t eat runny eggs, but Blythe appreciated them. She loved hers over easy, even though they busted on her every time she tried to cook them.
We hadn’t brought the table up from the trailer yet, but when I was done cooking, she tossed the empty bacon package in the garbage, wiped the counter, and set it as though it were our table—one of my own plates for me, and one of hers for her.
“A little bit of home for each of us,” she said.
We ate standing up. As we slurped up the last of our drive-thru coffees and started in on the pot I’d brewed—hey, what can I say? After the night we’d had, it was a caffeine overdose kind of day—Blythe whipped out her phone, ready to work on another list.
“We’ve got to get the mats down and get the trailer unloaded,” I said.
“And carry the furniture up here. And then return the trailer to the rental place.”
And all I wanted was a jog and a nap. And to know my sister was safe. I got out my phone and did a little surreptitious research on the Bonney Bay Police Department. Could they really handle this murder business? I found a picture and profile of Chief Sanders, a slim, sleepy-looking elderly man with a neatly trimmed silver mustache. There seemed to be no one with the title detective or even deputy. I couldn’t figure out how many officers they employed. Based on what happened last night, the same officers who patrolled the quiet streets must handle investigations. They called in the Chief for the big stuff, like murder.
All too soon, we were carrying more boxes, then our kitchen table and chairs into the studio and up the narrow staircase to our apartment. The couch was next. Blythe climbed the ramp into the truck and grabbed one end. I took the other, walking it backwards down the ramp. Good grief, my knee did not like lifting heavy objects, especially while walking backwards. Blythe caught the strained look on my face.
“Put it down!” she insisted.
I shook my head. “Let’s get it out of the truck first. Then we can turn around.”
“Maybe we need some help.”
“I’ve got it. I just need to—”
“Hello-o!” I glanced over one shoulder, then the other, searching for the source of the friendly greeting.
Blythe lowered her end, and I dropped mine with a bang on the metal ramp. A slender young woman jogged across the parking lot, dark shoulder-length hair bouncing. A young guy trailed behind her. He looked about eighteen, but strong and stocky.
The woman smiled shyly. “I’m Lourdes Vargas. I promised Mama Ruth I’d keep an eye on you, and here you are, breaking your backs! Mama Ruth wouldn’t stand for it.” Her deep, slightly raspy voice contrasted with her slight, feminine frame and her reserved politeness. “Here. Here is my brother, Carlos.”
Carlos removed his cap and shook our hands.
Blythe scrambled out of the truck and around the couch. “You’re related to Ruth?” she asked.
Lourdes laughed, a light, scratchy laugh. “No, not really. Mama Ruth is my best friend, Sandra’s mother. We were like sisters, until Sandra moved to North Carolina to go to school. Carlos is my baby brother. Ten years younger than me. When our mother died, I got Carlos, and Mama Ruth sort of adopted us both. I don’t know what we would’ve done without her.”
“How old were you?” I said.
Carlos answered for
his sister. “Lourdes was twenty-one. Poor Lulu. I was a handful. Mama Ruth didn’t make me a ballerina, but I had fun chasing them around and tying their slippers together.”
Lourdes gave him a gentle elbow. “He was an absolute terror.”
Carlos tried to scowl, but it looked more like a smile. His dark eyes twinkled with a mischievous affection for his older sister. “So,” he said, “let us help you. For Mama Ruth, yes?”
My pride wanted to say no, but the pain in my knee told me to say, “That would be great. Thanks.” I actually stood off to the side while Carlos took the walking-backwards end of the couch and Lourdes and Blythe teamed up on the other end. I gave my knee a rest while I opened doors for them and guided them around corners and up the stairs.
Blythe and I showed Lourdes and Carlos how to carry the big rolls of judo mats. They were made of vinyl-covered, high-tech open-cell foam, designed to absorb the high impact of judo throws. Though they resembled rolled-up wrestling mats, all the air in those foam cells made them lightweight. Secured with seatbelt-like straps, they were easy to carry, though because of their size, it took two people per roll. We set the rolls on end on the former dance floor. I couldn’t wait to get them rolled out and set up, but our helpers were sweaty and out of breath—visibly thirsty.
“Why don’t you two come up for a minute? We don’t have much yet, but we do have cold orange juice.”
“Yes, please, come on up,” Blythe said.
“Okay,” Lourdes agreed in her quiet, raspy way.
Upstairs, Blythe went to find some more cups in one of the kitchen boxes, and I grabbed a couple of the chairs to position near the couch. Carlos came alongside me to help.
