Mossy Creek: A Maggie Mercer Mystery

by Jill Behe

Uh oh. Too close for comfort. I drew in a breath and said, “Um, yeah. I do.”

  “All those things you listed a minute ago, that’s what you think about me?”

  I glance down. “Wyatt, that’s what I know. And I’m not the only one.”

  I wished I was.

  He turned his attention back to driving, and we went around the corner. “Hmm.”

  I bit my lip.

  Good God, what did I just do?

  CHAPTER 9

  WE PULLED up in front of Mac’s brick ranch. I don’t know how he did it, but Wyatt was out of the vehicle and around to my door before I even got my seatbelt off. His lack of reaction to my honesty was still bothering me, but when I looked at him, he was smiling.

  That lasted until we got to the front door, then he was all business.

  He knocked.

  We had to wait a minute, until a haggard-looking MacLean Richards opened the door and gestured us inside.

  I didn’t think about what I was doing, instinct had me walking over to the poor man. My arms wrapped around him, my head on his chest. He started blubbering and held tight. I sobbed with him. This was the first time I’d let my guard down and shown my grief for Miranda. It was too hard to deal with on a personal level, for a couple of big reasons. Though my sons are grown, I’m still a mom.

  We stood like that, Mac and me, for several minutes, ’til Mac’s weeping subsided.

  “Thanks, Maggie.” He nodded and wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “Go wherever you need to. Her room’s second on the right, at the top of the stairs.”

  Before my eyes, Wyatt and Mac’s handshake transformed into the kind of hug that no one ever wants to see. I dug in my purse for a tissue and blew my nose.

  “Please, just find out what happened to my little girl.”

  I looked at Wyatt. He shook his head and motioned me towards the stairs. Not happy with him, I went up.

  As Wyatt checked out the ground floor, I concentrated on Miranda’s bedroom. There didn’t seem much point in going through the whole house again, since who knows how many law enforcement officers had already rifled through everything, finding zilch.

  Then again, they’d only been looking for a suicide note, and had probably done a search for drugs, and other paraphernalia associated with suspicious deaths. We were on a more focused mission; we knew the victim, might see something they missed.

  Miranda was … had been, a tidy housekeeper, at least when it came to her room. Her nightstand drawers held miscellaneous pens and scraps of notebook paper with odd nonsense quotes, small photo albums of various events she’d attended, an unopened box of condoms, and a battered address book, but no letters … and no diary.

  Going through a teen’s dresser was something I had always made a point of not doing. It was creepy, for one, and felt like an invasion of privacy. The state of affairs, in too many households these days, makes it almost a necessity, but not for me.

  I told my boys to keep their things straightened, including their dresser drawers. They did, for the most part. I’d put their laundry—all neatly folded—on their beds. Their job was to put it away.

  Miranda’s things were nicely in place, and it didn’t take long to see that there wasn’t a diary amongst her delicates, or under her jeans. It was possible she hadn’t kept one; some girls don’t, but I wasn’t finished, yet.

  I could tell her room had been gone through, probably the county boys. There was an empty space on her desk, presumably where her computer had been.

  Nothing exciting in any of the three drawers.

  The closet was about as full as it could get without being over-crowded. Dresses, shirts, pants, and skirts, all hung up on scented, or otherwise frilly girlish hangars. Even her bathrobe and jammies were hanging from a hook on the backside of the door. The floor was jumbled with shoes—though all were paired—with boxes of more stacked along the back wall. The upper shelf was crammed with sweatshirts, sweaters, old yearbooks, and: Oh, cool. LP’s! I didn’t think anybody under thirty had long-playing vinyl record albums anymore, or even knew what they were.

  Back in the corner on a hook was a denim jacket, pockets bulging more than normal. The left held a wad of tissues—thankfully unused—and some fuzz-covered mints. In the right, I found a couple paper clips, a crumbled piece of lime-green notepaper, a gum wrapper, and … HOLY COW! A man’s class ring: a big gold chunky thing with a dark red gem set in the center.

  The light in the closet left a lot to be desired, and I couldn’t read the lettering. I’d have to wait until we got back to the office so I could use my magnifying glass. I was so excited I almost dropped the clunky thing, before tucking it—and the piece of paper—into my back pocket.

  “You about ready?”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Wyatt in the hallway. “I’d like to go through these boxes.”

  He shrugged and leaned against the wall. “Go ahead, but I doubt there’s anything more than shoes. Especially since county already blew through this place. If they found anything of significance, they took it with them. But, it’s up to you.”

  I tapped a tooth with a fingernail while studying the inside of the cramped closet. “You’re right. It’s probably pointless.” There was one, obvious place I hadn’t checked, yet. And, I’m not above asking for muscle when necessary. “Help me lift the mattress?”

  “It’s not that heavy, is it?”

  He came into the room.

  I gave him a look. “No, Einstein, but I don’t want it to slide off. Why make more of a mess than we need to?”

  He shrugged and bent to grasp one of the corners. “You think she hid it under here?” He grunted as he hefted the Queen-sized Serta. And there it was, a traditional little pink book, complete with keyed-clasp.

  “Most girls I knew growing up kept their diaries under their mattress, or in their nightstand drawer, but this is a pretty obvious hiding place. My question, why bother hiding it at all?”

  I picked up the small journal, and Wyatt let go of the bedding.

  “Now, how do we get it open?”

  “It’d be easy enough to break, but….” I stopped Wyatt with a finger as I went to the jewelry box on the dresser. “Girls, ninety-nine percent of the time, keep their keys in these.” I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the tiny gold key nested in red velvet. Turning, beaming, I held it aloft.

  Wyatt clapped. “Figures you’d be right again. And that’s good; at least we’ve found something. Sure wasn’t anything downstairs. Least nothing that would give us a clue as to who killed her.” He lifted the gold pendant that hung from a gold chain around my neck—my version of a watch. I had to hold my breath. “Getting late … what do you say, super snoop, ready to go? Oh, and just for your information, I told Mac it wasn’t suicide.” We exchanged a knowing look. “I’ll tell him the rest tonight over a bottle of Jimmy B.”

  “I can understand that. Even though it doesn’t bring her back, knowing she didn’t take her own life is…. It’s just better.” Mollified, mostly, I dropped the little book and its key into my purse. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  With Wyatt heading out of the room, and I followed him down the stairs.

  Mac stood by the newel post. “Find anything?”

  “What we did should help a lot. Thanks for letting us come by.”

  He nodded; teared up again. “Anything to help. I just don’t understand….”

  “That’s okay.” Biting my cheek, I glanced at Wyatt, still annoyed with him keeping so much from his friend. Then again, he knew the man, indeed, had shared a pact with him. I let the moment stand for some heartbeats, then took Mac’s hand in my own. “Stay in touch, Mac. If you need anything, call me. Okay?” I gave him a farewell hug.

  Feeling the man’s wiry arms rise and squeezing in kind, told me he knew he could.

  Wyatt’s words broke the embrace. “Again, I’ll be back … later tonight,” he reminded.

  Mac’s mouth threatened to grin. “We’re Binging-it tonight, right? A
nd you’re in charge of the ammo.”

  “Just like I promised.”

  “But don’t get crazy with the Foghorns; m’mood’s more set on the other.”

  Wyatt chuckled. “No problem, I’m already there with ya.”

  This time no cheek-biting would prevent any mirthful approval. Binging has been popular in local parts since my dad’s prime. Jim Beam and buffalo wings (the more lava the better), though some understandably preferred Jack Daniels, Jameson, or others. The combination fit for men during times of loss, local games, Super Bowls, or just simple Friday night get-togethers: cronies and buddies alike, all backslapping, cards, and cigars.

  Mac and Wyatt sharing a Bing night would be a chance for them to deepen their bond, pouring out their mutual grief, but in a safe way … where their egos could save face, even as they enjoyed one another’s company and the opportunity to vent their sorrow.

  Mac waved us off the porch and we got into the SUV, depression, excitement, terror, all sorts of things hanging over our heads. Why? There was Miranda, of course, ever present, but then there’d my admission, and the Gordian knot it had left in my stomach, and of what would be happening next.

  Back at the station, and at my desk, I slung my purse down-and-under, pulled out my chair and—OUCH. Something sharp had stabbed my right hipbone. Frowning and massaging the offended area, I felt the hard lump of the treasure I’d found. Holy Hannah. “WYATT!”

  I dug it out of my pocket as he came barreling out of the office.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Ricky scrambled, too, hurrying to help. “What’s wrong, Maggie?”

  “I forgot about it, believe that? Once we found the diary, I just—Wyatt, look.” I held out the ring. “This was in the pocket of her jean-jacket. There was a piece of paper crumbled up in it, too.” My other hand went for it, and Wyatt grabbed the ring.

  Ricky looked on, grinning. “Where’s it from?”

  Wyatt squinted at the small lettering on the side. “A college, I think. Here, Rick. See if you can make it out. It’s pretty worn down.”

  The boy studied it, took it over to his desk and turned on the lamp to get a better look. Even borrowed my magnifying glass, to no avail. “Nah.” He shook his head and brought the ring back. “It’s about wore off. Could take it over to Tate’s Jeweler’s.”

  “Good idea.” Wyatt motioned for him to keep it. “And for God’s sake, don’t lose it?”

  I un-wadded the small square of green and turned it right-side up. “Well, shoot.”

  “Now what?”

  “Says: ‘Meet me on Foggy Bottom Road at 10. Can’t wait, sweets. LB.’ Who’s LB?”

  “LB?” Ricky scratched his head. “I can’t think of anybody with those initials.”

  “Me, either.”

  Wyatt snapped his fingers. “A nickname, maybe … or, something she called him?”

  “Wait a minute.” Ricky caught hold of my arm. “There’s a cheerleader named Leticia Bradley … Lettie. I questioned her.”

  “She wouldn’t call Miranda sweeets.”

  He shrugged. “My mom used to call my sister sweets every once in a while.”

  “Or,” I proposed. “Maybe Miranda intercepted it.”

  “Or,” Wyatt added. “Maybe she was supposed to deliver it.”

  I nodded. “Hmm. Yeah, could be. But it was all crumpled up.”

  “So?”

  “Well, usually, if I have a note I’m done with, I crumble it.”

  “Maybe she was jealous of Lettie,” Ricky reasoned. “She could have found the note, crumbled it, and kept it so whoever was supposed to get it, wouldn’t. Hell, maybe Lettie’s gay.”

  “Or maybe Miranda delivered it, and whoever it was intended for read it, crumbled it, gave it back to her, and she never threw it out.”

  “Enough.” Wyatt massaged his temples for a moment, then resumed. “Let’s not get too carried away. The note may or may not be relevant to the crime, but it is significant of something.” He ran his hands over his face. “Maggie, from now on you’re in charge of all the material evidence we collect—save the ring, least ’til Ricky brings it back.”

  “Hey, we finally get to use that locker in the back.”

  Wyatt chuckled. “Forgot the damn thing was there.” Wyatt’s faced turned serious. “Log everything we have so far. I’ll get you the key. It doesn’t leave your sight.”

  “Wyatt, I’ve been doing this job a long time.” I’d thrown off his momentum.

  “Of course you have, I’m sorry.” A pause. “Rick, take that ring over to Tate’s. See if Tilly or Mike can tell us anything.”

  “Roger, boss.” Pocketing the ring, Ricky spun, grabbed his hat, and went out.

  Wyatt stood.

  And smiled.

  Mmm.

  “Great work, Magdalena.”

  Oh, crap! One of these days, he was going to melt me into a puddle doing that.

  “Thank you, Wyatt.” My lashes almost fluttered.

  “Now. You need to keep a log—”

  “I know. You said that already.” I frowned. “I have been keeping a log.”

  “Excellent.” He winked and returned to his office.

  Irritated, hands on my hips, I watched him. Apparently, he wasn’t going to apologize for insulting my intelligence.

  My body, though, was absorbing all the glow and warmth and … WOW energy, from the last fifteen minutes. My body won. I had to sit down, or my knees would’ve buckled.

  But my brain was still not happy.

  * * *

  I DECIDED to take the diary home to read. Wyatt insisted it should be me—since I was female. Sounded sexist, but I didn’t protest. Why should it matter who read it? Miranda wouldn’t be objecting. It did make me feel like a snoop, and if circumstances had been different, I wouldn’t have been anywhere near it.

  I did read it over, and have to admit, it was shocking. I’ve never read anything more boring in all my life. Well, maybe not the most boring. I remember back in high school…. But, that’s a different story. Suffice it to say, it was the mother of all yawners. How had she stayed so popular?

  No secret rendezvous, no ‘so and so got caught smoking in the girls’ bathroom,’ no ‘Missy Sue got caught kissing … anybody … behind the bleachers.’ No juice. All she’d written down were dates, appointments, and sporting events—nothing but a bunch of pocket lint.

  Humdrum.

  Where were all the intimate thoughts and racy shenanigans of an active teenage cheerleader? And if it was just a calendar, why lock it? Why bother to hide it? Who would care when she had a hair appointment, or had to babysit?

  I pondered. Could this drivel be a decoy? If so, why the need for two? DUH! The other one’s too hot for prying eyes. But, whose eyes was she trying to keep out? And, what was so secret?

  Wyatt and Ricky were going to be disappointed when I told them the only things I found, even remotely interesting, were the little hearts she drew around the nights she was babysitting.

  Now, that could have been because she really liked babysitting little Kendall, or, because she was meeting her boyfriend afterward.

  I wondered if Ricky’s sister had kept a diary when she was in high school. Maybe she could tell us—in generalities, at least—what she wrote in hers. I never kept a Little Miss Secret, not for more than two weeks at a time, if that long.

  I fell asleep and dreamt of dates and hearts … and Wyatt.

  CHAPTER 10

  THURSDAY

  THE MAN WAS ALREADY in his office and on the phone when I got there. Boy, what a shocker that was. Can’t remember a time when he got to work before me. He’d warned us about maybe having a hangover, but never even a whisper about possibly beating me here. Maybe this was the ‘something weird’ he’d mentioned in the same conversation.

  What else would get him here this early? Better not be another death.

  Not wanting to interrupt his call—although I really wanted to know whom he was talking to, and why—I bided my time. He�
�d tell me when he was ready, but I’m so curious by nature—Mama calls it nosey. It irked me royal, not being close enough to hear the conversation.

  I set the donuts from Corsair’s Market on the table, and proceeded to make coffee, just like always, trying my hardest to overhear … something. His door was open, but he was talking kind of low—not that he was trying to keep me from hearing on purpose.

  Then, just as his voice raised enough for me to hear actual words, the front door crashed opened. I turned around and gasped, nearly dropping the coffee grounds. “Wylie-James!”

  He took a few steps into the room, and crumpled to the floor.

  I threw the grounds in the trash and hurried over. “CHIEF.”

  I knelt beside Wylie-James. Holy Limburger Cheese, Batman. The man stunk. I made a face as my stomach pretzled. It was hard to tell whether the odor was actually coming from him or his clothing. Not that it mattered; both were in bad shape.

  His shirt and pants were torn and caked with mud, or eeuww, worse. A large bruise started midway on his forehead, just above the left eyebrow and purpling all the way to an ear. Crown to heel, scratches and abrasions, small cuts and ill-formed scabs adorned what skin I could see, let-alone his face.

  Wyatt hurried out of his office, and pushed me aside.

  Happy to be away from the stench, I called for an ambulance.

  “Maggie, what happened?”

  Like I was supposed to know.

  Phone to an ear, I shrugged. “He just walked in—well, stumbled more like—then collapsed, right where you see him.”

  “He alive?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You didn’t give me a chance to find out. He seems to be breathing.”

  He laid two fingers to Wylie’s jugular while I waited for the hospital dispatcher to answer.

  “Yess.” There was relief in his voice. “His heart’s beating pretty strong.” He grimaced. “What’s that smell?”

  “It ain’t me. He’s the one been swimming in a pigsty.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Smells like it, too.”

  I held up a hand for silence, and requested the ambulance. “Curiouser and curiouser.” Quick peek over Wyatt’s shoulder. “Wonder where he’s been all this time.”