Behind me, a car pulled into the lot. Detective Jackson glanced past me to get a look at the car. His posture stiffened some as he pulled his glasses back over his eyes. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Taylor. It looks like someone is here to bribe a pawn shop owner." He swept past me and lumbered with long, purposeful strides toward the car that had just pulled into the lot.
The car suddenly turned sharply, kicking up a grimy cloud of dust as it made a donut shape and headed back toward the exit. The driver's window was open, and I caught a glimpse of the man inside. I'd only seen him briefly as he entered Principal Morely's office, but I knew immediately it was Martin Greer. In the explosion of activity, I'd lost sight of Detective Jackson. But as the kicked up dirt haze settled to the ground, he came back into view.
I stumbled back in horror as he stood in front of the speeding car, using only a hand gesture to stop it. The driver pulled sharply on the steering wheel to just avoid hitting Jackson, but he kept his foot glued to the pedal. I sucked in another alarmed breath as Detective Jackson launched himself onto the hood of the car. He slipped around on the hood but held firmly to the edge of the driver side window to keep from getting pitched off and possibly even run over.
"Stop," Detective Jackson yelled. The car had driven off the road and careened wildly to the side as the driver raced through the shrubby landscape.
Dick Larson, the pawn shop owner raced outside and started filming the scene with his phone. I could only assume it was for the police and not for YouTube.
Jackson managed to shift his body over far enough to reach in through the driver's open window. He yanked the steering wheel hard and the front end turned right into a granite boulder. The impact stopped the car but sent Detective Jackson sliding off the hood. He avoided the boulder and landed mostly on his feet.
"Now that's what I call determination," Larson called to me.
"Get out of the car before I pull you right out through this open window," Jackson ordered as he reached for his gun.
There was a short pause before Greer opened the door and stepped out.
I walked over to join Larson in front of the store, and we watched as Detective Jackson searched and handcuffed his suspect.
"Well, I never liked the man, but I certainly didn't take him as a killer," Larson said as two more police cars arrived at the scene. "I called them the second I saw Greer whip a circle in front of the store. Oh boy, my Belinda is going to be howling with heartbreak for the next three months. She was crazy about that boy. I never liked him, of course. But then I doubt I'll ever like anyone she brings home." He released a long, tired sounding sigh. "A summer of tears is just what she needs though. She knew all about Carter's illegal yearbook sale, and she kept her mouth shut."
"Sometimes love makes us do stupid things. Even if it's for love of a child. Greer was hoping to protect his son's misdeeds, but now their lives have been turned upside down. And, through no fault of his own, Alder Stevens paid the biggest price of all.
Chapter 35
I stared absently out the front windows of the newsroom, searching mentally for the right line to start my story. Parker had insisted it be in his inbox by four so he could do his edits and get the polished copy to the layout team in the morning for Saturday's paper. I knew mostly what I wanted to say, but I was struggling to land on the right words.
The shadow of a large figure passed the window just as I looked back at my computer. The door to the newspaper office opened. Detective Jackson walked inside and, without waiting for a invite, he strolled past a thunderstruck Myrna and right to my desk. I glanced at Parker's office door. He and Chase were still in a meeting, a meeting that had gotten remarkably loud at times. It seemed they hadn't noticed our visitor.
Jackson grabbed Chase's rolling chair and pushed it across the floor to my desk and sat down. He leaned forward, resting his muscular forearms on his thighs. I'd never noticed the skull tattooed on the inside of his wrist. Somehow it worked nicely with the rest of him.
"Since you solved the case around the same time as me, I thought I'd share some of the final details with you." He reached for the bowl of peppermints I had on my desk. Mints helped me think when I was writing. Jackson unwrapped the candy and stuck it into his mouth.
"Please," I motioned to the chair. "Have a seat." I lifted the bowl of candy. "Can I interest you in a peppermint?"
His shoulders were almost too big for a normal shrug, but he pulled it off and then reached into the dish for a few more mints. He straightened his intimidating torso and pushed the mints into his pocket.
"By the way, I think your timing might be off. I discovered the suspect was Greer earlier in the day while I was picking through my cobb salad at the diner."
"And drawing cute graphics on the napkin? Do you want to hear the rest of it or not?"
"Yes, I do. What happened exactly? Was Principal Morely involved?"
"In the murder? No. But his hands were not clean. Morely had found out about Carter Greer and his secret yearbook sale. Because of Greer's position as school board president, Morely was hesitant to do anything about it. But he finally worked up the courage and confronted Martin Greer, letting him know that he was going to have to report it to the superintendant and that Carter might be expelled. Unfortunately for Morely, he was having a secret affair with a teacher that was anything but secret. The entire staff lounge and half the student body knew about it. So Martin Greer had leverage. Morely would keep his mouth shut about the yearbooks, and Greer would not bring up the affair to the board."
"Ugh, men in power. They are always so corrupt."
"Yep." Tired of shuffling the mint around on his tongue to talk, Jackson bit down on the candy, scenting the air with peppermint.
"And Alder? How did he end up dead?"
"Alder had caught Carter and his friends selling the yearbooks, and he let them know he was going to tell the district. But Carter got ahead of that. He had his girlfriend—"
"Call the office and report a burst pipe in the girls' locker room."
Jackson sat back, looking properly impressed. "You're a regular gumshoe, Taylor."
"Thanks."
"As you know, Alder got the shaft. Morely accused him of walking purposefully in on the girls changing for gym and asked for his immediate resignation. Later, he softened the term to retirement because he knew that Alder would never have done anything inappropriate. But Martin Greer had pressured Morely to get rid of Alder. And Alder probably could have just slipped quietly into his retirement, but he refused to let the embarrassing incident stand. His reputation was ruined all because a spoiled kid decided to make some bucks selling stolen yearbooks. He told Greer he would go to the police about the stolen yearbooks unless his name was cleared. Greer decided it was too risky leaving Alder alive with the secret. Morely resigned from his position an hour after we booked Greer. Greer gave a written confession, saying that he acted alone in the murder. He'd asked Carter to steal the gun and the bullets not for murder but because he was sure they were worth millions."
Jackson stopped and pointed at my laptop. "Shouldn't you be writing all this down for your story?"
"Actually, it's not my story—" As I spoke the office door opened. Chase walked out, looking agitated, but he opened up a wide smile when he saw the detective.
"Jackson, hey, I was just coming down to see you. I need to get all the details of the Stevens murder."
Jackson turned his questioning gaze my direction. I nodded to let him know that yes, Chase was writing the article. He leaned back on his chair.
"Actually, Evans, after I have a chat with my friend, Miss Taylor, I'm heading out to meet friends in the city. You can get the details from Officer Reed. She's still in the office, so she can fill you in."
Chase pointed and winked at him. "Perfect. I will head down to the station just as soon as I get some work done at my desk." He looked pointedly at his chair.
"Oh, this is your chair?" Jackson asked. "I'll be out of it in a minute." Now his i
mpressive forearms, ink skull and all, were resting on the top of my desk. "Just wanted to say good work on that investigative reporting, Bluebird. I'll let you get back to business.”
"Thank you."
Jackson stood up, towering over my desk as he pushed Chase's chair back to his desk with one swift shove of his boot.
As he walked to the door, an idea popped into my head. I jumped up. "Detective Jackson, I'll walk you out."
I could have sworn that Myrna hadn't closed her mouth since the first moment Jackson stepped into the news office.
Jackson opened the door and we walked out onto the sidewalk. He was at a dizzying height when I was standing close to him. "Alder Stevens was working on a cardboard castle."
His brow arched. "Hmm. A little trespassing, huh?"
I ignored the comment. "So you saw the castle?"
His single dimple appeared. "I did. It's amazing."
"He promised his wife Pauline that he would build her a castle. I hate to think that it will just get thrown away when the house is sold. Do you think you could ask the district to display the castle at the high school or somewhere that people could enjoy it?"
"You bet. I think that's a great idea."
I turned and reached for the door.
"Next time, Bluebird, leave the investigation to the professionals."
"I am a professional, a professional journalist. Have a good day, Detective Jackson."
He waved good-bye over his head as he walked back to his car.
I hurried back inside and quickly shook my head at Myrna, who looked ready to fire off a million questions. "Not now, Myrna. I've got a story to write, and I've just thought of the start."
I sat down at my computer. My fingers took off over the keyboard.
"The Secret Life of Alder Stevens—by Sunni Taylor. Most people knew him as the quiet, industrious man who kept the cafeteria floors shiny. The man who the teacher called when the classroom window got stuck or the heater thermostat was broken. He was the man who made sure bookshelves in the library were free of dust and that there were paper towels in the bathroom. But when no one was looking, Alder Stevens was making sure a student who came to school shivering in the dead of winter had a warm coat. He was helping out a coworker whose heart was broken by the loss of a loved one. He was making sure all of our feathered friends stayed fat and happy. He was making adventurous plans to see the world with his beloved wife, plans that, sadly, would never come to fruition. And in the quiet of his backyard shed, when no one was looking, Alder Stevens was building a castle. . ."
Chapter 36
I positioned the ladder near the wall and stepped back. Ursula and Henry, with all their whining and fighting, had done a beautiful job in the sitting room. They'd even done all the prep work on the walls and wood trim. All that was needed was a luscious coat of Cupid Pink.
I picked up the paint can opener and pushed it under the lid. I pressed down to pry it open, but the round lid didn't budge. I turned the can and tried it from the other side. It was as if I was trying to lift a two ton boulder with the tiny can opener. I turned the can again but no luck.
"Hello, Sunni, where are you?" Nick's voice echoed through the entryway.
"Perfect timing, Nick," I called back. "I need your help opening a paint can."
Nick appeared in the doorway holding up a basket that smelled like oranges wrapped in a warm blanket of cinnamon and sugar. "Emily made orange muffins."
"Yum." I walked over and took hold of the basket of muffins and handed him the paint can opener. "If you don't mind. Apparently, I'm getting weak in my old age. I can't budge the thing."
Nick curled his arms to show off his biceps. "There's no job too big for these guns." He continued the muscle builder stance, holding his arms out to the sides like a gorilla as he walked across the tarps on the floor. He crouched down to the paint can and flexed his forearm ready for a stubborn lid. Instead, the lid flipped right off, somersaulting once before landing on the tarp. Paint side up, thankfully.
Nick held out his arms. "Wow, I'm even stronger than I thought."
"Or I'm weaker than I thought."
Nick's phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. "Yes my lovely, precious wife?"
I decided to nibble a muffin while he finished his call with Emily. They were warm and delicious. "Tell Emi these taste like a warm summer day in the park."
"Yes, that was your poetically inclined sister." He paused. "Just a minute." He handed me his phone. "She's got big news."
I shrieked. "Is she pregnant?"
His face smoothed to marble. "What? No." He whipped back the phone. "Are you pregnant?"
I could hear Emily's laugh through the phone.
"I open your paint can and bring you summer sunshine in a basket, and you give me five new gray hairs." He handed me back the phone.
"Delicious muffins, Emi."
"Thank you, my sister, the brilliant journalist," Emily chirruped into the phone.
"Am I? What did I do?"
"I was at the grocery store, and Reggie, the cashier, said that all the Junction Times were bought up because everyone was talking about your story on Alder Stevens. I read it. You did a great job, sis. Better than any obituary or eulogy. He and Pauline had lived and worked in the area for so long, a lot of people knew him."
"Woo hoo! That's wonderful. Now maybe Parker will let me have some of the bigger stories. Thanks for letting me know. Your very strong husband saved my morning by opening my paint can."
"Only took me one try," Nick spoke toward the phone.
"Yes, he comes in handy for things like that. Now tell him to come home. There's a barn to sweep up and chicken coops to clean."
"I'll tell him. Bye, Emi." I handed back the phone but didn't need to tell him the last part of the conversation.
"Let me guess, Emi wants me to hurry back and clean the coops."
I nodded. "And there's the matter of a messy barn." I followed him out to the entry and opened the front door. The sky was a cerulean blue dotted with a few puffy white clouds. Newman and Redford hardly glanced up from their nap on the porch steps. "At least it's a nice day for farm work."
"True. Not looking forward to summer humidity though. I'll see you later. Just let me know if you need any pickle jars or soda cans opened." He pointed to his bicep again.
"Those big guns will be the first I call." I waved to him and headed back into the sitting room. I walked across the tarp and pulled the paint tray off the top of the ladder. Then I turned back around to the paint can. My gasp echoed around the empty room as I stared down at the impossible sight. The lid was securely back on the paint can.
"It can't be." My slightly breathless voice bounced back to me. My hands were trembling a bit as I picked up the can opener. I jammed the tool under the lid and pressed down on it. With a lot of effort, energy and what I was certain was an unladylike grimace, I managed to loosen the lid again. I quickly picked up the can and held it over the tray. A river of velvety pink paint poured out, but before I finished, the tray slid across the tarp. Pink paint puddled on the tarp before I could stop the viscous flow.
I put the can down so fast paint splattered on my legs. My head spun, possibly from paint fumes but more likely from the series of unexplained fiascos.
"You haven't had nearly enough water this week," I told myself. "You're dehydrated from the long days. In fact, so much so, that you are talking to yourself, Sunni."
I finished my one-sided conversation and headed down the hallway to the kitchen. I went straight to the refrigerator for the pitcher of cold water. I stood at the counter, pouring myself a glass, when I heard a noise behind me. I spun around and watched as the hands on my mother's favorite wall clock jumped a few minutes ahead.
Then, as if someone had turned on some magical hologram machine, a tall man appeared. He checked a gold pocket watch he had dangling from a chain connected to his blue silk waistcoat. His dark, semi solid, semi smoky gaze turned toward me. "That has been driving me
mad since you put the clock on the wall."
"Holy moly baloney," I muttered.
"Obviously, you are a fine poet. No wonder you considered my romantic prose, hmm what was the brilliant word you used? Oh yes, corny. By the way does that have anything to do with the vegetable?"
Thoroughly terrified and confused, I reached back to the knife rack, pulled out a long one and threw it across the room. The blade flew right through the man and plinked off the wall behind him.
He turned in what seemed like perfectly human movements and looked at the knife on the floor. A dark blue ribbon held his long brown hair neatly in a queue at the back of his neck. "I suppose it's a good thing I'm already dead." He turned back to me. "Wouldn't be the first time a woman threw a kitchen knife at me. Large ceramic vases are much more painful and effective, by the way."
The spinning in my head had swirled into a category five tornado. The walls around me blurred as much as the image standing in my kitchen, chatting amicably with me as if we were about to sit down to tea. Actually, sitting down sounded exceptionally good. And I wasn't going to wait for a chair. My knees gave way, and as my backside fell, a chair scooted, unaided, across the kitchen floor. I landed hard on the seat.
I covered my face. "You're imagining this, Sunni. Just take a few good breaths." With the exception of my thundering heartbeat, the room was quiet around me. I slowly peeled away my hands and lifted my face. Using my feet, I pushed the chair back until my head and the back of the chair smacked into the counter.
The man glided closer, and gliding was the only way to describe the way he moved. His boots made no sound on the wood floor.
"If you've gotten past the initial shock, then perhaps it's time to introduce myself."
My hand was shaky as I pointed at him. "You're him. You're Edward Beckett."
"Or you could just introduce me to yourself." He pressed his hand against his waistcoat and flipped the tails of his cutaway overcoat back as he bowed. "Edward Beckett, the third, at your service."
Death in the Park Page 17
