by Sharon Dunn
A hand touched her wrist. “All of us at the office are real sorry.” A blond woman in a dark suit had gotten up from the table where Mary Margret’s coworkers were seated. “I’m Dana Jones. If there is anything I can do…”
Ginger stared at the woman’s plate of three bean salad and tapioca. “Thank you, Dana.” This was grief counseling in America, bean salad and pudding.
Behind her, someone cleared his throat. Ginger turned around to face Mr. Jackson. Mr. Wheeler rose to his feet as well. The two men were a study in opposites. A tent-sized suit covered Mr. Jackson’s pudgy form. His bouffant, wavy hair appeared to be held in place with a heavy coat of shellac. Mr. Wheeler was in good shape, wore jeans with a huge belt buckle, and his salt-and-pepper hair had no shine to it. Both men were probably around her age.
Mr. Jackson sucked in his bulbous lips and nodded. “Mary was a valued member of our team. I know her budget was kind of tight. Maybe we could help out with the cost of the funeral.”
Ginger fixated on the bright colors of Mr. Jackson’s tie. Looney Tunes had to breach some unwritten rule of etiquette. Was Yosemite Sam with his pants on fire a good choice for a funeral?
Wheeler stepped in front of his business partner. “Had she made arrangements to cover funeral expenses?”
Ginger opened her mouth to speak, but her throat went dry. Money, they were thinking about money right now. “It has all been taken care of, thank you.” She fought to keep the tone of offense out of her voice.
People said really flippant things at funerals, thinking they were offering comfort. Ginger loved the Lord with all her heart, but if one more person quoted a Bible verse as though that would make the pain go away, she was going to lose it.
Mr. Jackson’s doughy hand touched hers. “Keep us in mind.”
It took some deliberate effort to turn the corners of her mouth up to form a smile, but Ginger managed. Satisfied, Mr. Wheeler returned to his chair and Mr. Jackson ambled back to the buffet table.
Dana shook her head. “She was a real sweet lady. She was the only one who helped me learn the ropes when I started. How did she die? The obituary didn’t say.”
“Her daughter didn’t want the details of her death publicized. The police suspect foul play.”
Dana’s lips parted, and she leaned closer to Ginger. “I’m sure the police will figure out what happened.”
It seemed strange that the newspapers hadn’t done an article on Mary Margret. Murder, or even suspected murder, should be a front-page story. Ginger stared at her murky reflection in the Jell-O. “I’m sure the police will take care of everything.”
“Thanks for the offer, Welstad, but I’ve already sent Vicher to question the members of the archery club.” Captain Paul Stenengarter ejected the magazine from his police issue Glock and shoved it into the side pocket of his shooting bag. Behind them at the indoor shooting range, four men practiced with their pistols. The squeaking of targets being cranked forward broke the rhythm of double taps and rapid fire.
Tammy crossed her arms. “What was the result of that questioning?” After four days of pushing Trevor kicking and screaming toward adulthood and her own long shifts, she’d finally had time and energy to track down Stenengarter, who always worked day shift.
He didn’t make eye contact. “Don’t you have some stolen vehicles to track down?”
“Yes sir, it’s just that I was the one to break the news to the victim’s friends. Some of the information they gave me was highly suspicious, so I filed a report.” She summarized the details of the evidence so far. “I thought maybe I should do a formal interview and talk to each one separately.”
“Did the message say she had been kidnapped or feared for her life?” The captain stared down at her through his rimless glasses. He straightened his spine so he was even taller, an authoritative stance designed to remind her that he was the one with the superior rank.
Tammy stared at her shoes. Maybe she should just drop this whole thing. But the police, handbook said that a break in someone’s habits was a red flag. Stenengarter hadn’t gotten the captain’s job because he was a great cop who worked his way up through the ranks. His father was a local politician. Stenengarter had a college degree and a gift for administrating. But she had good instincts and a need for justice.
She lifted her head and squared her shoulders. “There is no explanation why she was voluntarily wandering in those woods at night. Someone her age wouldn’t go for a hike at night alone. She had to have been taken or dropped there.”
“You need to let this go.” His voice dropped an octave.
She was not letting this go. All her instincts told her something was up. “Did Vicher track down who the arrow belonged to?”
Stenengarter touched his chin. A line of perspiration glistened on his forehead. “It was a generic arrow.” He zipped and unzipped several pouches on his shooting bag. “Could have belonged to anyone.”
“Was I the only officer who talked to her friends?” She spoke more softly, her momentary boldness fading.
“Why don’t you contact them and tell them the case is closed.” He punctuated his point by slamming a box of ammunition on the table. When he lifted his head, he didn’t look directly at her but off to the right. “I’ll contact the newspaper. The official story is that a hiker found her and the cause of death was an accident.”
The firmness of his tone told Tammy that she couldn’t ask any more questions. She’d lost all the ground she had gained. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”
“Yes, you will. ’Cause it’s an order.”
Tammy Walked the few steps to the firing range exit, opened the door, and stepped outside. Her feet crunched on the gravel on the way to her car. She could kick herself for turning into Miss Minnie Weak-Knees. Stenengarter had a way of doing that to her.
She needed this job. The best way to keep her job would be to follow orders and respect the captain’s authority.
As a child, she’d had an uncle who taught her how to play poker, much to her parents’ chagrin. Uncle Randy had explained that the most important thing was not the cards you had, but knowing how to read the people around the table. If you watched them close enough, people would give you “tells” that showed they were bluffing about their hand.
Tammy closed her eyes, trying to shut out the thoughts. She couldn’t go against the department. She wasn’t Stenengarter’s favorite. He’d fire her. Trevor depended on her. Her mom depended on her. If she followed orders, she’d still have a paycheck to pick up.
Tammy touched the cold steel of her car door handle and added up no fewer then six tells in her conversation with Stenengarter.
When Ginger turned into her driveway, the first thing she saw was the strange car parked by her house. The second thing she noticed was that Earl’s truck was gone. Her heart beat a little faster. The memory of being chased by that car less than a week before flooded her brain, along with all the anxiety that went with it. She wiggled in her car seat. Her arm muscles hardened. The car that had chased her had been brownish-gold. This car was yellow and smaller. She relaxed.
“Now who do you suppose that is, Phoebes?” Ginger spoke to the huge mutant cat who sat beside her in a child’s booster seat. She had picked it up at a garage sale so Phoebe could see out the window.
An attractive thirtysomething woman with mid-shoulder length brown hair stood by the back door. Phoebe placed her front paws on the dashboard and let out a plaintive meow.
Ginger opened the car door and stepped out. “Hello, can I help you?”
Phoebe scampered across the driver’s seat and plopped down beside Ginger. The cat sat back on her haunches and raised her chin, a soldier at the ready.
The woman came toward them. “I’m so glad I caught you.” She had on blue jeans and a pale pink Windbreaker.
It took a moment for Ginger to realize that the woman was Tammy, the police lady. “I’m sorry, what is this about?” She probably had good news about Mary Margret’s investiga
tion. It had only been a day since the funeral, and already the police had done something.
Tammy looked very different with her hair down. She wore pink lipstick and the full workup on her eyes. At the police station, Tammy had been nice but all business. Now she seemed less threatening, shorter, and not as muscled up. Could a uniform and tight bun do all that?
“I’m sorry, I should have called first. I wanted to talk to you in person before the story came out in the newspaper.”
“Have you found out who killed my friend?”
Tammy’s face paled. “They ruled it an accident.” She broke eye contact. “There’s an archery range just up the hill from where your friend was found.”
“But the messages on my machine.” Ginger gripped the car door. “Who ruled it an accident?”
“The decision was out of my control. I’m really sorry, I—”
Ginger’s cheeks warmed. “You said you suspected foul play.”
Tammy leaned toward her. “I was out of line. I didn’t have the authority to make that kind of call.”
“Mary Margret always left a note when she went somewhere.” Ginger had the sensation of slipping down a mountain, grasping at pebbles. “Someone took her, kidnapped her in her own car, and then brought the car back.”
“Yes, all of that is suspicious, but I—” Tammy shook her head several times. “I really am sorry.”
Ginger clenched her teeth so tight her jaw hurt. “You’ll have to excuse me.” This woman was just the messenger. Honestly, she seemed like a kind person. Her tone suggested that she was trying to convince herself as much as Ginger. “I have groceries to get out of my car.” She jerked open the back door, pulled the bags out, and skirted past the police lady.
She trotted toward the house without looking back.
The police didn’t care. Obviously they were going to treat this whole thing like it didn’t matter. Like Mary Margret didn’t matter.
Ginger yanked the door open, and Phoebe followed her. She plopped the grocery bags on the table. Mary’s garage sale stuff still sat in a box on the counter.
Ginger straightened her back as realization spread through her brain. She picked up the kids Mickey Mouse fishing pole. Her hand rested on the photo album.
Mary Margret did leave a note; she just didn’t have time to write one.
Ladies, this is the note Mary Margret left for us. A tiger cannot change its stripes, and Mary Margret had to let us know something was up.” Ginger swept her arm across the table with a flair Vanna White would have admired. She had spread out all four garage sale items Mary Margret had bought the morning she died.
“What kind of message was she leaving with garage sale stuff?” Dark circles framed Kindra’s red eyes. It had been two days since the funeral.
Poor kid. Ginger cleared her throat and focused on the task at hand. “Everything got mixed up in the trunk, but I took out all the items I know I bought and the stuff that was new in the package. Mary left that Mickey Mouse fishing pole on the top as a way of letting me know something was up because it looked out of place. She hid the other three things underneath the gingham.”
Kindra refilled Suzanne’s steaming mug of herbal tea, then sauntered to the table and picked up each item. “An old photo album with half the pictures pulled out and a fisherman’s vest and this.” She held the box with shells on it, opening it and turning it over in her hands. “Why did she want this stuff anyway?”
Ginger shrugged. Sometimes Mary’s idea of a garage sale treasure was a little off center. “Mary Margret was fine when she called me around eight and said she had already hit four garage sales. These items must have been what she bought. I think they have something to do with her death.”
And she was beginning to think it hadn’t been a teenager fooling around that Saturday. Somebody wanted one of these things, and they had chased her down in that car. Earl had told her that someone had even tried to break into the Pontiac’s trunk. “When Mary’s daughter and I were over there packing stuff up, I picked up the garage sale section of the newspaper that Mary marked up. She numbered all the sales she hit one, two, three, four.”
Suzanne pushed herself off the counter she had been leaning against. “So we retrace her steps.” She set her tea mug on Ginger’s table. “We talk to the people she bought this stuff from and see if they give up anything.”
Ginger patted her curls. “Correctamundo.”
Kindra sat at the kitchen table and flipped through the photo album. “There is nothing overtly incriminating about any of this stuff. These are just a bunch of vacation photos. This guy with the white hair liked to stand in front of mounds of dirt a lot. And sometimes that skinny older lady is with him.” She pulled one of the photos out of the album and read the back. “Their names are Arleta and David. No last name.”
Suzanne peered over Kindra shoulder. “Maybe they’re archaeologists.”
“Maybe, but some of them are of old buildings and stuff, no people. This is downtown Three Horses.” She pulled one of the photos out. “And look at this one; he’s just standing among some trees.” Kindra wiggled in her chair. “None of this says crime spree to me.”
“I know. I’ve gone through it a hundred times,” Ginger said. “The only thing I could figure out was that the vest with all the pockets and zippers must have come from the same place because the old guy is wearing it in some of the pictures.”
Suzanne slumped down into a kitchen chair. “What if her death has nothing to do with this stuff?”
“It’s a place to start.” Ginger crossed her arms and paced the length of the kitchen table. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest choice or the choice the police would have made if they believed that Mary had been killed, but she had to start somewhere. She stopped. “Mary Margret was our friend. What happened to her was not an accident. If the police aren’t going to do anything, we will.”
The other two women nodded.
“For Mary Margret,” said Kindra.
Suzanne raised her tea mug. “For Mary Margret.”
Ginger sat in the passenger seat of Suzanne’s minivan as they drove through a neighborhood with huge houses, groomed lawns, and wrought iron fences. Because it was a resort town close to two lakes, Three Horses was a mix of middle-class people who stayed year-round and a more affluent group who mostly came in the summer.
Ginger glanced at the list of addresses she had written down from the garage sale section of Mary Margret’s newspaper. “Looks like 57 Bryant.”
Suzanne made her way through the exclusive neighborhood. “I think that is just up here a ways?”
Ginger adjusted her purse in her lap. With everything that had gone on with Mary Margret, she hadn’t had time to think about the disturbing thing Earl had said to her the night Mary disappeared. This was the first time she and Suzanne had been alone since their friend’s death. Normally, she would have gone to Mary Margret about marriage issues. Ginger cleared her throat. “So, Earl says he wants me to be his cheerleader.”
Suzanne touched her bulging belly pressing against the steering wheel. “I am growing so fast, I can’t even fit in my Accord anymore.” She turned the wheel as the street curved. “His cheerleader? You mean like with pom-poms and saddle shoes?”
Ginger giggled. “No, he says I’m not supportive of him, of his inventions.”
“You do call them contraptions.”
That was true. Attempting to fight off the rising guilt by fidgeting, Ginger folded and unfolded the piece of paper in her hand. “I thought I was being supportive. I cooked and cleaned for him all these years, made his lunch. I never complained when he disappeared during hunting and football season. I even made bean dip for him and all his football buddies.” She was the queen of budget balancing. She kept her house clean and organized. Wasn’t she being a good Christian wife?
“I’m just so confused, Suzanne. What else am I supposed to do? What does he mean, ‘be his cheerleader’?”
The minivan rolled past a small grove of pi
ne trees, planted in perfect rows. She shrugged. “Maybe he wants you to be more a part of his life, of what he does.”
“He never wanted me to climb up the poles with him when he worked for the phone company.”
“Climbing up poles probably wasn’t his passion.” As they curved up the road, a lake surrounded by forest and mountains came into view. Suzanne turned off the Christian music station they’d been listening to. “You know, one of the best things I ever did for our marriage was to get a sitter and go hunting with Greg.” She shook her head and smiled. “You would have thought I gave him a Corvette for Christmas. I never shot anything. I just tromped around the forest with him in the little camouflage costume.”
“I don’t know why Earl’s bringing this up. When I see what other couples go through, what they do to each other.… I just thought we had a good marriage.” That was what bothered her more than anything, that Earl thought something was wrong with their marriage.
Ginger glanced down at the piece of paper. It was nearly in pieces from her creasing it. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t look good in camouflage. “Guess I could stop calling his inventions contraptions.”
“At least that’s a place to start.” Suzanne pressed the brakes. “You’ll figure it out.”
Ginger tore a corner of the paper. She wasn’t so sure about that.
A brick mansion situated on a cul-de-sac stood to the left. The property was on a larger lot than the rest of the houses and featured old-growth ash and willow trees along with an abundance of yellow rosebushes. Solar panels covered part of the roof.
“I went to the sale at this place.” Ginger stared out at the huge expanse of lawn. “Must have been around ten. I only remember it because it was such a weird sale.”
“Weird, how?”
“It was run by two foreign ladies. They laughed a lot and said something about ‘quaint American customs.’ The stuff they had was nice and very new. I got a crystal dish for like a dollar.”
