I felt now that I was at least ankle deep in the murder case. My insatiable curiosity and desire to get ahead of an intriguing story made me put off the walk back to town. I continued on toward the play area and did a preliminary scan of the other trash cans but found nothing else of note. My earlier assessment of the first can had been accurate. There was only a scant amount of debris in the other cans, signaling that it had indeed been a slow day at the park. That would have made it much easier for the murderer to carry out their fiendish plot.
I reached the far edge of the park where the cement path curled around and looped back toward the other side. I kept on the path and found myself heading back toward the police activity. They were measuring impressions in the dirt and taking pictures of blood splatter. One police car still blocked the entrance to the park, and they'd hung caution tape from plastic pylons around the crime scene. I could only assume they were waiting for some kind of biological clean up crew to sanitize the area once all pertinent evidence was collected.
I watched from a distance for a few minutes. Detective Jackson seemed to be in charge, but he was far less tense and angry than the police chief. I never heard him bark one order but then he didn't really look like the order barking type. He looked more like one of those people who could take command of a room merely by walking into it.
Detective Jackson was quite a sight to see with his tall physique and thick head of hair. If I hadn't known the truth, it would have been easy enough to imagine I was watching a crime show being taped with him as the popular male star.
The path I walked on ended on the curved tail of the park where some of the trailheads began. It led right past the remote corner where Alder was killed. Right after we arrived, I'd seen two officers traverse some of the easier trails, no doubt looking for suspects or evidence. The trails were mostly concealed by tall trees, but it was possible to see through the branches to the cleared paths. I scanned the wilderness area on the back corner of the park and an idea popped into my head that was probably a little crazy and a tad dangerous. Of course the best articles were always written when a little crazy danger got thrown into the mix.
I was no tree expert but several of the deciduous trees lending a great deal of shade to the remote corner were what I as a kid would have referred to as 'leafy jungle gyms'. Gnarled and sturdy branches jutted out in profusion, making for the perfect climbing trees.
I kept on the path. The investigation team was down to just Detective Jackson and two other young, rookie-looking officers. They were all quite absorbed in the task of measuring imprints in the dirt. If I was lucky and stealthy, I could make it to the trailhead and into the trees without being noticed.
It had been a few good years since I climbed a tree, but I figured it was just like riding a bicycle. Well, maybe not exactly like riding a bicycle, but I was willing to give it a try.
Chapter 10
I had managed to get to the trail without attracting attention. I quickly discovered that climbing the tree wasn't as hard as trying to find a good high perch without alerting the investigators to my presence. With some patience and a good deal of channeling my ten-year-old self, I found the best path to the highest spot in the tree and managed my ascent without dislodging too many leaves. The fresh sturdy spring growth had more to do with that than my finesse at tree climbing. At thirty-five, I was far clumsier than my ten-year-old self. My ten-year-old self pointed that out on several occasions.
While I rested on my perch like a cat with one particularly annoying thin branch tickling my nose and a gnarled tree knot jammed in my belly, I got a wonderful bird's eye view of the murder scene and Detective Jackson, who looked even taller and more broad shouldered from my new vantage point. I hadn't seen them take any impressions of footprints. In fact, the clay dirt around the body outline looked smooth and grated. Almost as if someone had dragged a straight edge across it to clear footprints, I thought wryly. Perhaps even someone with a flattened peach box.
I couldn't spot much else from my precarious roost in the tree. I was about to climb down when the detective and his two men moved out of the sunlight and under the shade of the tree. My tree. I froze and quieted my breathing. They were so close I could hear their conversation.
The officer who still looked fresh out of high school pulled his notepad out. "A nearby resident, Mrs. Brickman, was the one to call the police. I went to her house and spoke to her. She said she heard the gun shot around noon, the same time she ate her lunch. Her view of this corner of the park is blocked by the surrounding trees, but she saw the park pigeons flutter above the trees for a second before settling back down. The woman we interviewed who had come to the park with her son, not knowing there had been a murder, said she had seen our victim feeding the pigeons almost every day for the past week. She had never spoken to him but said he looked very sad and lonely."
"Well, that makes sense." Detective Jackson had a rich, deep voice. Naturally. “Alder Stevens was pretty well known around here. He lost his wife a few years ago and he recently retired. The coroner will know more tomorrow, but it seems he was shot at close range. That means they took the time to clear away footprints before leaving. I want both of you to scour this park from one end to the other to search for this red clay. It's sticky when it gets on shoes. Check the sidewalks and the restroom to see if we can get an imprint somewhere."
The two officers eagerly took off on their red clay search. I hadn't moved a muscle, not wanting to make a sound. Detective Jackson watched the officers head across the park. I waited for him to follow or head back to his car, but he stayed under the tree.
"Did you get all that?" he asked into the air.
I moved my head side to side to see if there was someone else standing near him. But he was alone.
He turned slowly and stared up into the tree. "I'm talking to you, Bluebird."
I glanced briefly down at my blue blouse, probably not the best color for hiding in a tree. But then I hadn't expected to climb one when I got dressed this morning. I looked down at him from my perch and decided right then that he looked stunningly handsome from a bird's eye view.
"Would you like some help down?" he asked.
"Nope, I can make it down just fine on my own." I scooted back, dislodging some debris from the tree. Jackson stepped aside to avoid it as it cascaded down. I was feeling pretty confident about my descent, even with my audience. I lowered one leg near the trunk and searched blindly for a dent in the bark to used as a ledge. I got a good purchase on the trunk and went to lower my second leg, only to find that my shoelace had gotten wound around a secondary branch. I was doing what my ten-year-old self would have called a tree climber's split. It was a predicament I'd found myself in before, but twenty-five years ago I was far more limber.
"Uh oh," I muttered before I could stop myself.
"Should I come up there?" he asked.
"No, I just need to get my shoelace untangled," I said through gritted teeth. I reached for the lace and pulled the end. The lace came free and shoe slipped off. I did as well. I landed hard on my bottom, looking up at the branches I'd just fallen from. My shoe was dangling from a branch by its lace.
"Sure you don't need some help?" He sounded far too amused by my antics.
"I'm glad to provide you with some entertainment, but I'm fine." I jumped up and grabbed my shoe. Then I leaned against the trunk and pulled it back on.
"Since you're safe on the ground," he called up. "I'm going to get back to work."
"I'm safe. Thank you. Wait," I said abruptly.
He turned back.
I walked closer to the edge of the trail. "There's a piece of cardboard in that first trash can near the kid's playground. It's a flattened box from canned peaches, which, in itself, is odd in the middle of a park. It has red clay dirt crusted along one flat edge. Like it was used to—"
"To clear away footprints?" His smile produced a dimple. Not two dimples. Just one and it was a deep one. "Thanks, Bluebird. I'll go check it out."
Chapter 11
I was relieved to see that Ursula and Henry had packed up and left for the day. I was tired and hungry and not in the mood for their banter. Redford and Newman met me at the back door as I carried in my sack of groceries. My out of the ordinary day had my mind swirling. I'd nearly forgotten that I'd invited Lana and Raine over for dinner until Lana sent a text asking if she should bring anything.
I plucked two dog treats from the cookie jar and tossed them to my eager pups, then walked into my bedroom to change into shorts and a t-shirt. I sat on the bench at the end of my bed and pulled off my shoes. They were covered in reddish dust from the long walk back to Firefly Junction. The journey back had given me some time to process the events of the day. I'd been handed a dull assignment, but now that topic had morphed into a murder mystery. I had every intention of staying on my new assignment, even if it meant the story had changed dramatically. A great deal of ingenuity and persistence and a good amount of sneaking and skulking about at the park had helped me gather a few interesting clues. I planned to follow up on each one of them to find out who had killed Alder Stevens.
When I'd returned from my long walk back, Parker had taken his wife to a dentist appointment in the city and Chase was out on assignment. Myrna had been all alone in the newspaper office, which was perfect. She seemed to know nothing about the death in the park. It gave me some time to plan how to approach Parker about covering the murder, a rather drastic change of course from the quilting bee and retirement angle.
The inn tended be drafty in the late afternoon, especially when the sun had started to drop and an afternoon breeze flowed down the mountain range to the foothills and valley below. I grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it on before heading back out to the kitchen to make a salad. I'd decided on a hearty dinner salad with lots of chopped veggies, garbanzo beans, pumpkin seeds, dried cranberries and, of course, grated cheese. I'd given my lunch to the ducks and geese and then taken a long walk back to town. My stomach was writhing in hunger pains.
I popped open a box of crackers, knowing full well that I'd be spoiling my appetite for dinner but being too starved to care. I poured myself a glass of iced tea and set to work cleaning the produce. I had picked three flawless red tomatoes for the salad. I decided to keep them in large slices. They were too pretty to chop.
As I held the first tomato under the water, Newman let out a sharp bark and the ball he had clenched between his teeth dropped to the floor and rolled toward the hallway. I glanced over my shoulder at the dog. He had dropped down to his haunches and wagged his tail, excitedly, as if he was waiting for the ball to be thrown.
"You daft dog, I'll throw you a few after I finish putting together the—" As I explained my evening's agenda, (to my dog, no less) the tennis ball shot back across the floor startling me into dropping the tomato. Newman pounced on the ball and trapped it back in his jaws.
I dried my hands. "Lana," I called as I headed toward the front of the house. "Where are you? I wasn't expecting you yet."
No one responded. I glanced in the entry and even opened the door to see if she had walked back out to the front stoop or yard. There was no sign of my sister. I headed back inside, more than a touch confused. I wasn't an expert in physics, but the speed at which the ball rolled away from Newman and the rate of speed at which it returned couldn't be explained by any scientific laws that I knew of, even if it had ricocheted off the back wall. Henry had told me on more than one occasion that he thought the entire foundation was off enough that the house leaned to the right. Maybe it leaned more than I realized.
I returned to the sink and finished washing the first tomato. I placed it on the cutting board next to the sink and grabbed the next one. As I washed the second tomato the first one rolled off the cutting board and fell on the floor. Newman's ears perked forward.
"No, that's not a ball." I put the second tomato down and picked up the fallen tomato. As I turned to rewash it, tomato number two went rogue and rolled off the cutting board and counter. A leaning foundation might have been a half-hearted excuse for the ball rolling back quickly, but unless that foundation was not only leaning but spinning on a point like a top, it wouldn't explain why the tomatoes kept jumping ship. They were rolling in different directions. I decided to cut the tomatoes' game short and placed them securely in a bowl.
A few minutes into my struggles with unruly produce, my sister knocked at the back door. Raine was with her.
"Come on in," I said. "There's some iced tea in the fridge. I'm just chopping veggies for the salad." I returned to the cutting board. "I'm behind because the tomatoes tried to make a run for it."
Raine walked over with her glass of tea and leaned her hip against the counter to watch me work. "Did you say the tomatoes were making a run for it?"
Lana came up alongside Raine and looked pointedly at my chopping technique. "It's no wonder with that dull knife you're using. I'd cringe too if I was a tomato. I'll bring my knife sharpener next time I come."
The dogs heard Lana's voice and came bounding into the kitchen. Newman dropped his tennis ball at her feet. It reminded me of the strange ball incident.
"The weirdest thing happened before you got here." I swept the sliced tomatoes into the salad bowl and turned to the girls. "Newman barked at something, not sure what, and naturally, the ball dropped from his mouth. It rolled slowly across the kitchen floor." I traced the path through the air with my finger. “I was busy washing tomatoes when the ball suddenly rolled right back at him and at a fast clip, as if someone had kicked it. I thought it was you, Lana, but no one was there. Almost as if the ball—"
"Was thrown by a spirit or invisible entity?" Raine finished my sentence.
"No, well, sort of."
Raine put down her tea and placed her fingers to her temples as she closed her eyes. Lana and I watched her for a moment, then Lana winked at me.
"Well," Lana said, "reaching anyone in the spirit world?"
Raine huffed in annoyance. "Not with you interrupting the call. But I'm telling you, Sunni, I've felt a lot of charged particles in the atmosphere of this house. There is definitely some paranormal activity. If you'd just let me conduct a séance, we could find out exactly what is going on."
I rinsed off the green onions. "I think all that's going on is a creaky old house and a tilted foundation."
"You're such a spoil sport," Raine complained. "Anyhow, what else happened after I left you at the park?"
Lana pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. "Raine told me about that poor old man in the park. I can't believe you stuck around to watch the investigation."
"Really?" I asked.
"You're right. It sounds exactly like you." Lana swirled the ice around in her glass. "I hear you got your first glimpse of the town male masterpiece, Detective Jackson."
I lifted a brow at Raine. "You didn't leave out any details, did you?"
"Not any of the important ones," Raine responded. "So, was it worth the walk back to town? Did you find out anything of importance?"
"I've got some good leads." I grabbed a large spoon and sprinkled sunflower seeds into the salad. I carried the bowl to the table.
Lana tossed napkins out like cards being dealt from a deck. "Leads? Are you writing a story on the murder?"
I shrugged. "I'm hoping to do more than that. I'm hoping to beat the police, the stunning Detective Jackson included, to the suspect."
Both women looked up at me in question.
"I'm going to try and out-investigate the investigators."
Chapter 12
Parker was standing in the newsroom, eating a rainbow sprinkled donut with all the finesse of a toddler, when I walked into the newspaper office. On my first day of work, his tie was loose and slightly askew and I thought perhaps he had tied it too tight but today he was wearing a new tie and it hung in the same half-hearted knot as the day before. Parker swiped away the colorful sprinkles from his tie and pushed the last chunk of donut into his mouth.
"Taylor," he said after a big swallow. "We need to talk about your first assignment. Something has happened to put a wrench in the original assignment."
Myrna clucked her tongue. "I'd hardly call murder a wrench. Unless, of course, it was done with a wrench. Like that old game we used to play as kids. What was that called? Clueless?"
Parker shook his head. "Clueless is right." He turned back to me. "Come into my office and we'll talk."
"Right." I hurried to my desk to put down my things and grabbed a pen and paper.
Myrna held out a chocolate donut as I swept past her. "I took a guess that you were a chocolate donut person."
"Good guess. Would you mind putting it on my desk? And thank you." I walked into Parker's office and shut the door before sitting in the uncomfortable folding chair. His desk had several unruly stacks of papers. There were three sticky notes stuck to the bottom of his computer monitor. Each note was hastily written in barely legible manuscript, but I could decipher my name on one of the notes. The scribbles above my name said new assignment.
Parker's chair squeaked as he leaned back on it. "I'm afraid I've got some bad news about Alder Stevens, the topic of the story I handed you yesterday."
"He's dead," I interjected. "I know."
The crinkly lines around his eyes deepened. "How did you hear? I have Chase at the police station right now finding out the details of his death. I myself only just heard about it through a neighbor who works at the police station."
I hesitated, looking for the right explanation. I was sure he wouldn't appreciate me skirting around to get my own scoop on a murder story without his permission. And it seemed Chief Walker hadn't brought it to Parker's attention. "Oh, well—" I smiled. "Now what kind of reporter would I be if I divulged my sources?"
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