Katie eyed me wearily. “Have you been reading relationship books or something?”
I shrugged. “I’ve taken half a dozen Cosmo quizzes in my day, which sort of makes me an expert. Despite having not dated anyone for over a decade.”
“Except the serious relationship you’re currently in with Fireman Bob.”
“Except for that.”
“And how is that hunk-a-hunk of burning love?”
I laughed. “A little hunky. A little dopey. And he likes to eat. I might be in love.”
Katie punched me, and I giggled.
“So,” I said. “Have we taken care of the emergency?”
She made a funny face. “Not exactly. You see, Chris is only part of the problem. And I need your help with the other part of the problem.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It’s not… bad. It’s just that… well, Dominic still doesn’t know how to throw a football.”
I understood. “You want me, Hope Walker, to teach your son how to throw a football.”
Katie nodded. “But we can’t let Chris know about this.”
“Fine. On one condition. You’re going to find a way to start supporting the stuff Chris is interested in.”
Katie groaned. “You don’t seriously want me to take an interest in…”
“Say it, Katie. You can say it.”
Her voice was a whisper. “Craft beer.”
I smiled. “Good girl.”
“Hope, I can’t wait to give you advice when you’re in an actual relationship with an actual man.”
“Me, in an actual relationship?” I punched Katie in the shoulder. “I think you know me better than that.”
Chapter 15
I was sitting in A Hopeless Cup, putting the finishing touches on my articles for this week’s edition of the paper, when Sheriff Kramer walked right up to my table.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it. Unless we’re talking about Gemima. I’m totally the one who let the air out of her tires.”
“You’ve never really done that to her, have you?”
“I think this is the part where it’s best for me not to say anything without a lawyer present.”
Alex smiled. “Listen, something came up that I forgot about. I’ve got to take Mary Riley to Boise to meet with the Secret Service. She’s finalizing a few things for her deal in that counterfeiting case.”
“And when you say Secret Service… you mean Special Agent Awesome Vargas.”
Alex ignored the jab. “I honestly forgot about it until this morning, and I’m waiting to hear from Dr. Bridges today. So if you happen to hear from him first…”
“I’ll be sure to interrupt your visit with your girlfriend.”
“Good. Because it’s never too early to be a gigantic pain in my rear.”
I winked. “Exactly.”
Alex turned, grabbed his coffee from the counter, and gave me a front tilt of his cowboy hat. “Good day, Miss Walker.”
“Good day, Sheriff.”
Ahh, flirting. I could handle flirting.
I sent my articles to Earl for his review, then stepped out of A Hopeless Cup and right into one of those perfect November days. Though winter would be here soon, fall was still hanging on for dear life. The temperature was cool yet comfortable, the air crisp, with that clean and smoky smell that fall delivers so well. The colors on the trees around town were brilliant oranges, reds, and yellows. And the snowcaps of Moose Mountain looked like something on a postcard. I walked down Main Street into old town, past the shops and buildings I’d passed a thousand times in my youth, and I felt refreshed. Renewed. In tourist town, trends changed and businesses came and went, but here in old town… this version of Hopeless was somehow immune to both change and decay. Which was the way the long-time citizens of Hopeless, people like Granny, preferred it.
But not Wilma Jenkins. To her, and people like her, tourist town wasn’t enough. She wanted all of Hopeless to change. For the old version to disappear. And though I liked things how they were, I did at least understand. All across America, small towns had been dying for the last forty years, often because their people had refused to adapt, had refused to keep up with the times. So I understood where Wilma was coming from.
I just didn’t like the way she went about it.
I heard a honk and looked up to see a middle-aged woman stop in the middle of crossing the street. Two shiny black SUVs were coming her way, and they apparently didn’t care about pedestrians having the right of way. The woman retreated to the sidewalk, and the two SUVs sped on past. It appeared that somebody very important, or very rich, was in town. The kind of rich important people who think that their rich importance means they don’t have to be kind or polite or have manners.
My phone buzzed, and I looked at the screen. It was Mark Pendergast, the TV executive from New York who had talked to me about the possibility of doing a TV newsmagazine. It was a huge opportunity—in fact it was exactly the kind of thing I had dreamed about when I first left Hopeless years ago.
“Hey, Mark,” I said as I answered.
“Hello, Hope Walker. I need something from you.”
“What’s that?”
“I need you to wish me luck.”
“Okay, good luck. What did I just wish you luck about?”
“I’m about to go into a meeting with the network executives. I’m talking about the big dogs. These are the people who will decide the fate of our little show.”
“About that… I still need to get out there for that screen test.”
“Yes, you do. But first things first. And the first thing is today’s meeting.”
“Then I officially wish you luck. And this time I even know what I’m wishing you luck about.”
“I have a good feeling about this, Hope. I have a very good feeling about this.”
I found myself outside of Dr. Bridges’s office, and I decided to check in. Alex wasn’t the only one who was anxious to learn what the good doctor had discovered in his examination of Randall Mossback.
“Is Dr. Bridges in?” I asked the front desk secretary as I entered.
“He was just about to head out for lunch,” she said in that polite but firm way that medical secretaries have down to a science.
“Hi, Hope!” said Dr. Bridges, coming out from the back as if on cue. He had hung up his familiar white lab coat and was slipping on a brown tweed coat in its place.
“Hey, Doc. I was curious if you had anything new on the Mossback autopsy.”
“As a matter of fact, I just finished most of my work a little bit ago.”
“Great! Sheriff Kramer told me to check in with you. He’s in Boise today.”
The doctor looked at his watch. “I’ll be happy to get you up to speed, but I’m afraid I don’t have the time right now. I have an important date.”
“A date? You rascal!”
He laughed. “Not that kind of date. This one is with my granddaughter. And I can’t be late. I was late one time and she let me hear about it for a month.”
“Can’t you at least give me a quick run-down of what you found?”
His eyes twinkled. “Sure I can… if you can keep up with me.”
We walked together down Main Street and turned toward Memorial Park. Dr. Bridges set a surprisingly brisk pace. He wasn’t kidding when he questioned whether I could keep up.
“Randall Mossback died from ligature consistent with a hanging,” he said. “Best guess for time of death is between noon and eight p.m. on Saturday.”
“Wait—Saturday? Are you sure?”
“Am I sure? I’ll tell you the same thing I tell Sheriff Kramer. Although I’ve done my share of autopsies, I am not a trained medical examiner. Hard to find one in a small town. But time of death is one of those things that I am fairly certain of. So yes, he almost certainly died on Saturday between noon and eight. Maybe a little earlier or a little later, but that’s a pretty go
od window.”
We arrived at the park, where a woman just a little younger than me was pushing a little girl on a swing. The girl squealed when she saw us. “Grandpa!”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“It’ll all be in the report that I’ll send Sheriff Kramer later today. But there was one other thing of interest. The sheriff asked me to look for anything in Coach Mossback’s system. Does the word ‘flunitrazepam’ mean anything to you?”
“Should it?”
“Unfortunately, in my years working the ER, I’ve come across it a few times… though usually in larger doses. You might know it better by the name Rohypnol. Or its common slang term—roofies.”
“Coach Mossback got roofied?”
“I’m saying it was in his system… but in a relatively small dose.”
“So… what does that mean?”
“Scientifically, all I’m saying is he died Saturday afternoon by ligature consistent with hanging, and that there was a small dose of flunitrazepam in his system. But then I’m sending both my findings and the body off to the state crime lab for a second opinion. Hope, I’m not just a doctor. I’m a person, a citizen of this town, and a fan of our football team. And I’ve got hunches too.”
“And what’s your hunch telling you, Doc?”
“I don’t know how or why… but I think Randall Mossback was murdered.”
Chapter 16
I’d promised to keep Alex in the loop if I heard anything from Dr. Bridges… but who was I to interrupt his fun-filled day with Secret Agent Awesome? So instead I drove over to the Mossbacks’ home. I wouldn’t normally bother a poor grieving widow, but if Dr. Bridges was right, and this was actually murder?
That poor grieving widow might just be the prime suspect.
Susan Mossback opened the door with a big smile on her face that faded into a look of confusion the instant she saw me. She wore tight-fitting blue jeans, a white low-cut blouse, and a stylish black jacket. Light pink lipstick and dark mascara completed her look. Seems like someone needed to give Mrs. Mossback a few pointers on the whole grieving widow thing.
“What are you doing here?” She looked past me as if she was expecting someone else.
“Sorry to come by unexpectedly. I know you were waiting to hear from Dr. Bridges about your husband’s body—”
“Yes, I need to know when I can schedule the funeral next week.”
“That’s the thing. I’m not so sure it will be happening next week. Dr. Bridges sent the body to the state medical examiner for a second opinion. It might take a while.”
“A second opinion? On what? Randy hanged himself.”
“Probably,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Probably?”
I leaned in. “I can’t really say much but… Dr. Bridges found a few things that suggest foul play might be involved.”
“You’re saying Randy was murdered?”
There was no shock on her face. Nothing particularly emotional about the response. More like curiosity.
“Well no, Dr. Bridges isn’t willing to say that just yet. That’s why he needs the second opinion.”
Mrs. Mossback stood straight, looked past me again, then nodded solemnly and chewed nervously on her lip. “So… a delay in getting the body.”
“I’d assume so. Listen, if it turns out there was foul play… that Coach Mossback was murdered… can you think of anybody who would want to hurt your husband?”
“Are you kidding me? How much time do you have?”
“You’re saying people didn’t like him.”
“I believe I already told you he was a giant turdball. There was no middle ground with my husband. Either you worshipped him because he got your kid or your town a state championship, or you hated him because of his very existence. There’s a thousand people who wanted him dead. Probably more.”
“Anyone in particular?”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Rival coaches, angry parents, former players.”
“Got a few names?”
“I don’t keep a running list, if that’s what you mean.” She looked past me again. Definitely expecting someone.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Mossback, but were you one of those people?”
That snapped her back to attention. “That wanted my husband dead? Depended on the day of the week.”
“Seriously?” I said.
“No, not seriously.”
“So the two of you weren’t struggling?”
“Not really.”
“You slept in a hotel this weekend.”
“I covered this with you already. Yes, I sleep in hotels lots of weekends. Like I told you, we had an arrangement.”
“Which most people would say is pretty weird.”
“Really?” she said, her face darkening. “Then try this on for size, cupcake. Let’s say that I tell a group of people that I spend fourteen weekends out of the year sleeping in a hotel so my husband can concentrate on work. They might think we’re insane, or they might assume our marriage is in trouble. But when I explain I do this so that my husband can concentrate on football—and that he is probably the best football coach you’ve ever seen—that insane behavior suddenly becomes ‘eccentric.’ People in this country worship football.”
“Just so I’m clear, Mrs. Mossback, you’re saying you had no reason to want your husband harmed? Because, forgive me for saying this, but you don’t seem too upset that he’s gone.”
She shook her head like she was very tired of having to go over this with me. “Randy may have been a turdball, but he could be charming, too. And things weren’t terrible in the bedroom. Was our marriage perfect? No. But I haven’t worked in fifteen years. Financially, Randy always managed to do pretty well for himself—and for me. And he’s a rock star—which makes me the rock star’s wife. People treat me like a queen. I don’t pay for meals. I don’t wait in lines. I get special treatment. So, you really think I’m gonna throw all that away and make my life harder just because some chick like you who’s never been married thinks my marriage is weird?”
“I’m sorry, I’m just—”
“Doing your job? Well do it better! If my husband didn’t kill himself, I don’t know who did. All I know is it wasn’t me.“She looked past me once more, then pulled the front door closed behind her. “I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you’re looking for. But if you’ll excuse me, my ride’s here.”
She walked past me down her driveway and climbed into a green pickup truck. It sped off before I could see the driver, but I didn’t need to. Because I knew that truck. I’d followed that truck before.
Wherever Susan Mossback was going, she was going there with Coach Arnie Duncan.
It was early afternoon, and Coach Arnie Duncan wasn’t getting ready for the biggest game in school history. Instead he’d picked up a grieving widow who didn’t seem particularly sad and was dressed more for a night on the town than a midday drive.
The journalist in me couldn’t let that go.
I kept a safe distance but followed Coach Duncan’s truck through Hopeless to the edge of town. I had a funny feeling I knew where he and Susan Mossback were headed, and I wondered if this might be the clue that would break this case wide open.
If only I could get past the dump truck that had turned in front of me. I wanted to keep up with Duncan’s Ford pickup, and instead I was stuck behind the world’s slowest vehicle, with lovely clumps of dirt falling off the back and giving my little sedan the dust storm it had so badly needed. And then I heard the blare of a train horn and looked past the dump truck to see the train crossing lights blinking red up ahead.
Duncan’s truck had already crossed the tracks. But the dump truck had to slow to a halt. As did I.
I waited as thirty or forty train cars moved past, then waited some more for the crossing signs to lift, and waited still more for the dump truck to get it in gear. I passed the truck as soon as I could. I had lost the truck, but I had an idea where it was headed, so that’s wh
ere I went.
The Clap Back Inn.
Sure enough, Duncan’s green Ford pickup was parked in the inn’s front lot. And unless the Clap Back Inn had become the preferred place of mourning for new widows, I’d say Susan Mossback had found herself a new football coach.
A skinny twenty-year-old kid with greasy hair and acne manned the front desk. His name was Irwin, and I’d managed to get his help on a previous investigation. When he saw me, he straightened up, blew a breath into his cupped hand, and sniffed it.
That was never a good sign.
“How’ve you been, Irwin?” I said as seductively as I could manage.
He responded as Irwin normally did to my feminine advances—by swallowing so hard it looked like a bowling ball was traveling down a snake’s body.
“H-haven’t seen you around lately.”
I leaned closer and tapped my nails against the counter. “What can I say, Irwin… Momma’s gotta work. You’re looking good.”
“I am?”
“You been lifting?”
“Weights?” His voice came out as a screech.
“Of course weights, Irwin.” I pointed at his arms. “Muscles like that don’t just show up overnight… do they?”
He shrugged. “I ride my bike to work when my moped won’t start.”
“I knew it had to be something. Wait—you didn’t go and get a girlfriend behind my back, did you?”
“How could I get a girlfriend?”
I laughed. “Silly Irwin, you always have the best sense of humor. Listen, as much as I love flirting with you, I’m actually here on official business today. Did a couple come through here in the last few minutes?”
“A couple what?”
“A man and a woman, Irwin. You know, a couple?”
He shook his head. “No couples have come through here this morning. But a man checked in a couple minutes ago.”
“Little taller than me, stocky, goatee?”
“That’s the guy.”
“But no woman with him?”
“Checked in by himself.”
A Hopeless Game Page 10
