Mossy Creek: A Maggie Mercer Mystery

by Jill Behe

  See, height does matter.

  Inside Annetta’s, we were surprised … at least I was, at the crowd. We were lucky to get a back booth. Wyatt sat facing the front door with me facing him.

  He scanned the menu for about half a second, and put it down. I studied mine like there would be a test later, and decided on turkey and cheddar, again.

  Annetta herself came to take our order. She winked at Wyatt, and grinned at me—wiggling her eyebrows. I frowned and shook my head; she smirked and clicked her pen.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “I’d like the ultimate burger platter and a Pepsi. Better bring a pitcher.”

  “Right.” She nodded and jotted while snapping her gum. “Maggie?”

  I opened my mouth, and in that instant, changed my mind. “I was going to order my usual, but, instead, I’ll have a Philly steak and cheese, with peppers and onions. Fries on the side … and a Pepsi.” I paused. “On second thought, I’ll just share his pitcher.”

  “Hey, that sounds pretty good. Can I change my order, Annetta?”

  “Sure. Two Philly’s comin’ up.” The pen disappeared in her hair, and she to the kitchen.

  “Man, I haven’t been here for a sit-down meal since … since Dodge Peters’s wife clubbed him over the head for getting drunk on their twentieth wedding anniversary. How long’s that been?” Wyatt leaned back in his seat, laughing. “’Bout a year, I guess. I couldn’t believe how pissed off she was. Poor guy. I dragged him in here for coffee. Ended up ordering a whole meal.” He shook his head. “I gotta admit, the smells … aroma, makes my mouth water every time.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Betsy forgave him, especially after getting that new bedroom suite she’d been after him to buy.”

  “Yeah, but not for about three weeks … until the Classic Furniture store delivered it up from Morgantown.”

  “That was something to see, Dodge Peters, all humble and meek.”

  “She never lets him forget it, either.”

  “As is her right.”

  “They’ve got a special relationship, though. I envy them.”

  “Yeah. It’s great.” I frowned, distracted. “Now, that’s odd.” I commented, watching Annetta taking orders from the tables. “She’s usually behind the counter.”

  “Does seem a bit shorthanded.”

  “Mmm hmm,” I looked around for Annetta’s help. “I know Susie works evenings. Maybe I’ve just never come in for lunch. I’ve done hoagie-runs, but can’t remember staying to eat.”

  “Me, neither. Well, not for a long while, anyway. Shame, too. The food’s great. I’ll have to start coming in more often, for a ‘dining-in’ experience. What d’ya think?”

  “I’m sure Annetta will appreciate it. With the fan club that’s bound to follow you in, she’ll make a killing. She may even have to start giving you kickbacks.”

  “Shut up.” He laughed.

  “Hey.” Annetta set the tray down and playfully smacked Wyatt’s arm with the back of her hand. ”That’s no way to talk to a lady.” She unloaded the pitcher of soda and set a full glass in front of each of us.

  “I was just telling him that if he came in more often, your business would pick up because of all the fans that’d follow him in. Then you’d have to pay him for advertising.”

  “Shut up.” Annetta snickered. “Your orders will be out shortly. Anything I can get you ’til it’s ready?”

  I shook my head.

  Wyatt ran a hand through his hair. “’Bout time to get to the barber.”

  “No it’s not,” Annetta and I both respond.

  I glare at the woman as Wyatt answers: “Thanks, Annetta, maybe I’ll hold off a bit … and no,” Wyatt glances towards my no- smiling face, “I think we’re fine.”

  “Okay, then. Be good.” She left to greet another few customers.

  Leaning on his elbows, Wyatt stared.

  The intensity of the look had me mentally scrambling. This was a business lunch, right? We were here to talk about business. Yes. Yes we were.

  But, that look….

  “So, Magdalena.”

  Darn it all, anyway. I love it when he uses my full name—well, not the whole thing. Really, it would take forever to get that all out. But, when he calls me Magdalena, his voice gets all deep and low and sultry-sounding.

  Shivers me timbers.

  “Who stressed you out?”

  I had to wait to answer his question because Annetta arrived with our orders. She set down the plates and took a catsup bottle from her apron pocket. “Need anything else?”

  We shook our heads. She nodded and left.

  His question had sounded almost patronizing; I hoped he was sincere.

  “First, Vera-Mae Wellington stopped in.”

  “Really? What’d she want?”

  “To talk to you. Was going to come in a couple days ago, but got waylaid. Monday, she was so anxious to get to town, she hurried a little too much. Banged up her leg falling down the stairs.”

  “Miz Wellington?” He straightened. “Didn’t break anything, did she? Why’d she need to see me? What was so important she came all the way to town on a bad leg? What’d the doctors say? Where’s Bernice? She usually drives her around.”

  I held up a hand and echoed a phrase the woman had used on me. “One thing at a time.” I then, between bites of juicy steak and cheese, proceeded to tell him her tale.

  “I can see how you’d be concerned, but that doesn’t sound like much of a stressor.” He took a big bite of sandwich and half the peppers and onions fell on his plate. He made a face and used his fork to stuff them back in.

  I tried not to laugh; mine was soon going to do the same thing. “No, you’re right, but she imparted a lot of interesting information. A few minutes after she left, though, Forsythia Morgan dropped in, wanting to know all about Miz Wellington’s visit.” I told him everything that busybody had said. “After she left, BJ came in. But he didn’t add any … stress.”

  Wyatt rolled his eyes. “Now it makes more sense. Forsythia’s hard to take even when she meets you on the street. Can never get rid of ’er.”

  “Oh, I got rid of her; no words passed these lips. Let’s just say her irritated feathers were stuck up every which way.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Good. I suppose it’s too much to hope for that she won’t be back. Just wish she hadn’t upset you so much.”

  “Glad you finally see my point. Except, I didn’t realize I looked so bad. Maybe I should start wearing makeup.” Boy, was that backhanded, or what? He’d either retreat and regroup with an apology, or flat out tell me he thought I looked good enough without all the goop.

  “Now, Maggie, I didn’t mean you didn’t look good. Just, a bit frazzled.”

  “Frazzled!” That was even worse than stressed.

  CHAPTER 8

  “NOT IN A BAD WAY,” he backpedaled. “I mean … you know … you looked like you could use a change of scenery. I know this case is driving me nuts. I can’t sleep. And Mac’s been calling and crying on my shoulder, sometimes literally.”

  My annoyance evaporated as he continued.

  “Driving out to the lake … telling the man his daughter’s been murdered was about the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Now, I have to go invade his house to look for some small piece of evidence. To search her room for something she might have left behind, something the county cops missed, or didn’t bother looking for. And then, then, I have to tell him the new developments from the past two days.”

  “You haven’t done it yet? I thought you were going to do that yesterday?”

  “I was, but….” He let out a long breath. “I, he was such a mess. I didn’t get to it.”

  “Wyatt—”

  He held up a hand. “I know. I know.”

  “Your job’s harder than mine, even Ricky’s, but you know we’re here for you.” I reached across the table and laid my fingers on his. “I’m speaking for Ricky, but he’d agree. If you need anything …
to talk, cry, vent, anything at all … call me. I don’t care what time; day or night.”

  His hand clasped mine, gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, Maggie. Appreciate it. Goes both ways, okay?”

  “Yes. I’ll remember.”

  “So, did anything else happen?”

  “Nothing. Having a hard time getting my head around this whole thing, that’s all. Does Mac know we’re coming over today?”

  He nodded. “Not a specific time, but, he knows. He got agitated when I told him I needed to look around, especially since the state and county’s already been through. He said whenever, but I’ll still give him a buzz when we get back and firm up a time. Two okay for you?”

  “Is that when you’re going to tell him about—” I paused, glancing around to see if anyone was listening in, then leaned across the table and whispered, “… the baby?”

  “I plan to. I doubt he’ll be in any better shape than he was the past few days, but I have to tell him. The longer I wait, the worse it’ll be.”

  I nodded. “Are you going out to talk to Miz Wellington? She’s gonna make up a special batch of mint juleps, just for your visit.”

  I smiled over my Pepsi.

  Wyatt chuckled. “I just bet she will. Sounds like she gave you a pretty detailed account. Would you type up those notes for me? Probably won’t get out there ’til tomorrow, but I’ll need to take a copy with me, for reference.”

  “Done. Just needs to be printed.”

  “Glad you were the one hired.”

  “What does that—”

  “You’re always just so on-it, getting stuff done and TCB’ing without having to be asked.”

  Grinning wide, I was about to say think-nothing-of it when Annetta came back to the table. “Well, kids, looks like lunch agreed with you.” She collected the plates. “You up for dessert?”

  “Ugh, no, I’m stuffed.” I rummaged for my wallet.

  Wyatt dug for his, too. “I got it. Annetta, the check?”

  I compromised. “Okay, fine. I’ll get the tip.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “I’ll let ya.”

  Annetta had her hands on her hips. “You two on a date, or is the town picking up the tab?”

  “Neither,” we both answered, eyes locking.

  “Uh huh.” She handed Wyatt the ticket. “Just leave it on the table, if you want. I gotta go check on a coupla orders.”

  I found a five, and almost pouted; it was the only cash in my purse. But, since I’d opened my big mouth and stuck my foot in, I’d now have to chew around the toes.

  Wyatt slid out and left exact change under the check. Reluctantly, my bill went on top, and we left.

  * * *

  BACK AT THE OFFICE, the printer was spitting out pages when Ricky came in. I looked up as he took off his hat.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, Maggie.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Hoo-wee, sure is getting hot out there.”

  Surprise, surprise. “Really? Hadn’t noticed.”

  “Yeah, I know. You get so used to the air-conditioning, you don’t realize what the outside temperature is, ’til you leave.”

  Well, that wasn’t what I meant, but I wasn’t about to enlighten him. Wyatt and I had walked all the way to Annetta’s and back, and I hadn’t even noticed the heat.

  He headed for Wyatt’s office as the printer stopped. “Ricky, could you grab that when you go in to see Wyatt? And, please, ask him what time he wants to leave for Mac’s.”

  “Roger.”

  After their briefing, of which I was not included, they both came out of Wyatt’s office. Ricky went to his desk. Wyatt came over to mine.

  “Mac’s home. He said whenever’s fine.”

  I nodded and rubbed my temples. It’d been my suggestion to search for a diary. Now that it was time, my feet were stuck to the floor. There was only one reason why. I didn’t want to see the grief in Mac’s face or hear it in his voice. When my husband died, dealing with the pain, the grief, had been monstrously hard. Understanding that, and knowing someone else was living it, was going to be a test of strength.

  There was another, underlying, reason. One I was loathe to take out and look at; actually it was something I had to force into a dark closet in my brain. As long as I kept it under wraps, I would be able to deal. Helping Mac through this traumatic time, even if it was just his knowing there was support available, would ease the growing tightness in my chest. Maybe. “Okay.” Still didn’t want to go.

  “I told you the state and county boys already went through the house, her bedroom, mainly looking for a suicide note. They didn’t find one—didn’t think they would—or anything else of significance.”

  I looked at him. “I’m really nervous. You’re sure you want me to go along?”

  Hands went to his hips, and he chuffed. “You’re the one who wanted to go. It was your idea in the first place. Besides, I feel guilty enough by myself. I need the support.”

  “Why do you feel guilty?”

  “I’m the one who gave him the news. He’s a good friend. Miranda was my goddaughter, for Pete’s sake.” He leaned against my desk and crossed his arms. “I can’t let out my grief while I’m around him because I’m supposed to be the professional. I’m the one in charge. I’m supposed to find her killer. And I haven’t even told him the worst part, yet.”

  “What part?” Then it dawned on me. “Oh, Wyatt. You haven’t told him it wasn’t suicide? I thought … you said at lunch you hadn’t told him about the baby, but I thought you at least had told him it wasn’t a suicide.”

  “I’m a coward, okay? If I get a chance to talk to him alone while we’re there, I’ll say something. If not, I’ll do it … tonight. I have to go over there anyway, for moral support, or mutual commiseration, whatever. Just, don’t be surprised by anything weird that happens tomorrow. I may have a huge hangover. And if I’m late coming in, pretend I’ve been out taking statements, or something.”

  I picked up my purse. “Procrastination.”

  “Absolutely. Investigating a crime, I can handle that. Being personally involved—being friends with—the victim’s family? No way. I find I’m questioning my patterns, my abilities, my instincts. Will I bring in the right person? Will I find the right clues to solve the crime?

  “I have to tell my friend, ‘Hey, I have good news. Your daughter didn’t commit suicide. Bad news, one of the upstanding citizens of Mossy Creek did it. Then, worse, she was carrying the only grandchild you’re never going to get.’

  “So, yeah, I procrastinate when I have to go over to Mac’s.”

  “I’m sorry, Wyatt,” I said, quietly. “But, you shouldn’t question yourself. You’re a great cop. If we, as a town, didn’t think you were able to do your job, the council wouldn’t have hired you.”

  “Amen to that,” Ricky crowed.

  “And,” I began, to lighten the heavy mood, “if you couldn’t do your job, your fan club would disown you.”

  Fast, Wyatt snatched his hat and swung it. Quick on my feet, I sashayed my hip. A miss! Yeah, I’m good. And was out the door heading for the Suburban provided by the council for the Chief’s use—Wyatt in pursuit—before he could try again.

  I could hear Ricky laughing from his corner.

  “You keep talking about this fan club of mine,” Wyatt opened the passenger door for me. “How come I’ve never seen any of ’em? Can you name even one?”

  He shut the door and went around to his own side.

  The man had the manners of a true gentleman. He hadn’t even thought about what he was doing, it was that automatic. In awe, I waited until he got in and buckled his seatbelt.

  “Thank you, Wyatt.”

  He grabbed me with his eyes, his hand on the ignition. “Maggie, you have to answer one question, before you make me ask another.”

  “Oh. Sorry. What was the question? I got distracted.”

  “See, there you go again.” He shook his head and started the diesel. “The question was: Where is this fan club?
I’ve never seen it.” He put the big SUV in gear and pulled onto the road.

  “You really have no idea, do you?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “Surely you know that anywhere you go, you’re watched.”

  He gave me a quick confused glance. “Never really thought about it.”

  “Un-believ-able,” I muttered. “Wyatt, you are … um … for wont of a better word—a hunk. You’re tall, well-built, and you fill out a uniform, very-very nicely. You’re in a position of authority. And the pièce de résistance, the absolutely best part? You’re blessedly single. Every woman in this town, old or young, single or married, droools over you. Shoot, Miz Wellington thinks you’re … oh, how did she put it? … quite dishy.”

  I spread out my hands. “And, the men? The men in this town envy you to the point of hero worship. They want to be like you. Hell, they want to be you.”

  “Stop, Maggie, please! You’re giving me a complex. That stuff is just not true. It can’t be. I’d have noticed.”

  I wasn’t done. “Who do the girls call when they need help? Ricky?” I shook my head. “He wishes, but, sadly, no. They call for Wyatt. When Forsythia came by to spy on Vera-Mae, did she ask to see Ricky? No. Did she actually want to talk to me? Certainly not. She asked for you. When you go past the bakery, and you look in the window, who do you see? A cream-filled donut, that’s what. Do you know what Vicki’s thinking about as she’s biting her lip and moaning?”

  “Come on, Maggie. What does all that have to do with a fan club?”

  “Wyatt, the whole town’s a fan. People follow you wherever you go, just to be where you are.”

  Silence for two whole blocks. At the stop sign on Poplar Street, he looked over at me. “Really?”

  I slowly nod. “Really.”

  “How about you, Maggie? Are you a fan?”

  I smiled, or grimaced, depending on your point of view; now, bite-your-fingernails nervous. “I’m at the top of the list.”

  His face changed expression, but I can’t explain how. “What … you drool over me?”