Mossy Creek: A Maggie Mercer Mystery

by Jill Behe

  “Hopefully he’ll come around pretty quick and tell us.” Wyatt got to his feet.

  I wondered, too. Hmm. Maybe Wylie-James’s’ disappearance was connected to the murder. Why come here, instead of going to the hospital? That would have been more logical, given that he passed out as soon as he got in the door. Breathing through my mouth, I stared at the comatose man.

  In mere minutes, I could hear the siren. The front door burst open—second time this morning—and Ricky blew in.

  “What’s going on?” He stopped and looked around, almost in a panic. “I heard the call for an ambulance on the scanner.” Taking a moment to calm down, he focused on me.

  I pointed to the prone body.

  “Who’s that?” He moved closer.

  “Wylie-James.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “Wylie-James.”

  “Man, he been rolling around in a cow pasture?”

  Nodding, I stuck to my original assessment. “Pigsty.” Stubbornness runs in my family … both sides.

  He nodded back. “That, too.”

  So much nicer when they agree.

  Snagging his sleeve, I pulled him closer to my desk. “You might want to step over here … gonna need some room for the stretcher.”

  Two burly paramedics wheeled a gurney through our battered door. It was a bit of a squeeze, but they managed. Didn’t take them long to get Wylie-James strapped on; he’s only skin and bone.

  They took his vitals and hooked up an IV before transporting him to the hospital. Wyatt told them to please have him contacted when Wylie-James came to, and that he or Ricky would be by shortly for a report. They said they’d pass along the request to the ER.

  By the time the fuss was over, the coffee pot had finished dripping, and I needed a mug like a boozer needs their sauce. I decided the morning warranted a donut, too. Sweets are a big temptation for me, but most days I can resist. Either that or buy bigger clothes.

  That’s not gonna happen.

  I was still dying to know who’d been on the phone with Wyatt so early this morning. Thought I’d forgotten about that, huh? I may be the dispatcher and administrative specialist extraordinaire, and whatever else they need, but I know better than to stick m’nose into the police chief’s business … except, of course, when he decides to include me. So far today, he had not.

  I sniffed—indignantly.

  Stingy man.

  Yeah, I know, with all the excitement, he hadn’t even had time for a mug of joe, and it was only nine o’clock.

  Ricky paced in front of the box of Corsair’s: éclairs, cream-filleds, and long johns. Nervous, he’d snagged three already—his normal quota. So, when he reached for another, I cleared my throat. He stopped his zigzagging and looked over.

  “Chief hasn’t had any, yet.”

  He sighed, and skulked to his corner desk. “Maggie?”

  I watched him over the lip of my steaming java. “Yes, Ricky?”

  “S’pose Wylie-James knows anything about Randy’s death?”

  I smiled. “Great minds think alike.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

  “Oh, yeah? Hah. I guess we’ll have to wait ’til he wakes up to find out.”

  “Umm, yes. I would think so.”

  “Well, shoot. I know we can’t ask him anything; the man’s unconscious.” He stopped and tilted his head. “Well, we could ask; he just wouldn’t answer.”

  I rolled my eyes, but didn’t say a word. Yeah, sometimes he acts the hick.

  Wyatt came out of his office far enough to say in a controlled whisper, “I need to talk to both of you.” He put a hand to the side of his head. “And bring me a donut and some coffee … and make it a double.”

  CHAPTER 11

  RICKY and I looked at each other and got up to join our boss. Ricky handled the coffee and donuts—took the whole box of two with him. I backtracked and grabbed my notepad and pen. Just in case.

  Neither Rick, nor I, snickered. But, we wanted to.

  Wyatt sat at his desk writing on a legal pad. Ricky set the box of donuts on the corner of the desk, and the cup of coffee right in front of Wyatt, who stopped writing. The man took a big sip. With a sound of satisfaction, he leaned back in his chair. “I realize there is some curiosity about why I was here so early.”

  Why was he looking at me?

  “Mac and I were up most of the night, and by the time we were done, I’d forgotten how to drive. Once the rooster crowed, I figured it better to just come straight in.”

  I smiled.

  He continued, looking amused. “I was on the phone with Mac, before Wylie-James showed up.”

  Aha!

  “Says his daughter’s is car missing. Now y’all know, he was out on the lake when this all happened. When he got back, he saw her car was gone. Didn’t dawn on him until this morning that it was actually gone. If it wasn’t in the garage, then where was it? Not at the crime scene, that’s for sure.”

  Sitting straight up, he smacked himself in the forehead—lightly. Ricky and I exchanged looks with questioning eyes. Wyatt shook his head. “No. Listen. If she committed suicide, her car would have been out at the swimming hole!”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Man, are we thick or what? She couldn’t have gotten out there unless she drove herself, somebody dropped her off, or she walked. I think we can eliminate one and three, don’t you?”

  Ricky was getting into the swing of it.

  “So what happened to her car?” I dimmed the enthusiasm. “If it’s not out at the swimming hole, and it’s not at her dad’s, and no one—so far as we know—reported seeing it anywhere, then where … is … it?”

  Wyatt nodded. “Good question.”

  “We should have figured that out before now. I mean, Miz Wellington said someone carried her, or someone in a cheerleading outfit, towards the swimming hole, but came back empty-handed before taking off. Right there,” I clapped my hands, “proof that she wasn’t driving her own car!”

  Ricky cleared his throat.

  Wyatt stared.

  “Someone killed her for her car?” Ricky shook his head. “Never mind. That’s pretty idiotic.”

  Wyatt interrupted. “More like farfetched. The car was a clunker. And, maybe she wasn’t driving it that night. Whatever the case, it’s still missing.”

  I leaned forward. “Even so, now that we have more telling evidence, we need to figure out whether it’s someone she knew, or a stranger? Or if her death was simply poor planning by the killer?”

  Ricky frowned. “Poor planning?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded, and was about to continue with my theory when Wyatt butted in ... again.

  “If the killer wanted her death to look like a suicide, he should have left her car for us to find, to really throw us off track. I’m not sure I’d call it poor planning, but I don’t think it was supposed to happen. Could’ve been panic. Whoever it was, freaked out because she was dead. He, or she, wasn’t prepared for that, and after stringing her up, took off in the car.”

  “Exactly.” I nodded again. “He didn’t plan for her to die.”

  Wyatt grinned, briefly.

  “More or less,” I added … sort of like sticking your tongue out at your best friend in grade school.

  The man looked frustrated.

  Ricky scratched his head. “So we’re back to square one?”

  “Maybe Wylie-James can shed some light on the subject.” Both men stared. “I just have a feeling.” A shrug. “I mean why, in his exhausted condition, come all the way to the police station, unless he had something really important to tell us? I mean, the man practically went right past the hospital on the way here.”

  “He say anything before keeling over?” Wyatt leaned back in his chair, linking his fingers behind his head.

  “Nope. He walked in. I said ‘Wylie-James,’ real surprised-like—because I was—and boom! the man was down.”

  “
Damn weird, ya ask me.”

  I agreed.

  Meeting done, Ricky and I went back to our desks.

  * * *

  WYATT AND RICKY were due back from lunch when the phone rang. “Mossy Creek Police Department.”

  “Maggie, Caroline from the hospital. Chief in?”

  “Not at the moment. Need to leave a message?”

  “Dr. Lassiter wants the chief to know Mr. Forster is awake and asking for ’im.”

  “Oh, that’s great. Thank you. I’ll be sure to let him know. He’s been rather anxious about the man.”

  “Sure. Bye.”

  Click.

  I hung up just as Ricky and Wyatt walked through the door. “Hey, guys.” They came over. I guess my voice had excitement in it, or something.

  “What’s up, Maggie?” Ricky sat down on the corner of my desk.

  I looked at Wyatt. “Wylie-James is awake and asking to see you.”

  “Great.” Wyatt elbowed Ricky. “Come on. Let’s hear what he’s got say.”

  “On your six, Boss.”

  “I need my notepad. Meet you outside.”

  “Roger that.” Ricky made for the door, shoving his hat on his head.

  “Wyatt, take a Steno.” I held it out.

  Wyatt took it. “Thanks, Maggie. See you when we get back.”

  I winked. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  A long eye-to-eye pause. “Good.” He put his hat on.

  I bit my lip.

  He grinned. “Later.”

  I waited until the door shut and closed my eyes—just-for-a-minute. He was doing it again. “Maggie.” I shook my head, resigned. “You’ve got it bad, kid. Real bad.”

  An hour later, filing paperwork and hearing them come back, I finished up and went to find them. They were in Wyatt’s office. “So, what did he have to say?”

  “A lot, actually.” Wyatt kicked back in his chair and yawned. “We know where Miranda’s car is.”

  “Really?” I took a seat. “Where?”

  “Old Bear Creek Swamp.” Ricky wagged his head. “Sucked it right in.”

  “What?”

  “Yep.” Wyatt straightened. “Almost got Wylie-James, too.”

  I sat back. “Oh no. Spill it … from the beginning.”

  “It was like this: Said he was out and about Sunday night and saw a car run off the road and into the swamp. By the time he got down over the back to the car, the front end was already partially submerged. He waited to see if anyone would crawl out. When no one did, he waded in, thinking they might be unconscious. Tried the driver’s side, but it was too dark to see.

  “He banged on the window, but got no response. By now, the car was listing pretty deep to the right, the front passenger side sinking fast. He moved ’round to look in the windshield and slipped; mud sucked him partway under the car.”

  My breath caught. My heart pounded. Worried for Wylie-James.

  Wyatt continued. “Caught hold of the tire and pulled himself upright again, staggering in the deep muck. Himself now the priority, he abandoned the rescue attempt, hoping the car was empty and he wasn’t leaving someone to die. He knew if he didn’t get out of there, the mire would do him in, just like the car, and with no means of escape. He struggled, mostly slipping and sliding across the mud, toward the embankment.”

  Wyatt’s hands rubbed his face. “You know how steep that one side is? He couldn’t get out the way he went in. Said he felt like he wasn’t going to make it to shore, or get out of there alive.”

  Ricky piped in. “Poor guy. Every time he stopped to rest, he went deeper, so he tried not to sit too long. Took him a couple hours, at least, to get to the far bank.”

  Wyatt again. “Just as he managed to flop onto solid ground, someone clocked his dome and it was bye-bye.

  “Coming to, he started walking to town to get some help. He didn’t realize how badly he’d been hurt ’til he got here, the spots came up, and he was lights out.”

  “Was real confused waking up in the hospital. The staff was ready to tie him to the bed, because he was threatening to leave. Calmed down when they told him the chief of police was on his way to talk to ’im.” Ricky crossed his leg over his knee and bounced a foot. “Man’s one lucky hound.”

  “No wonder he passed out. I don’t suppose he saw who walloped him.”

  Wyatt shook his head. “Didn’t even know what day it was. When he found out it was Thursday, he had a fit. Lost three days.”

  “Got clunked pretty good. That’s like … that’d be a major concussion. Think it was the killer?”

  “Y’think? Whoever it was, cost him half-a-week.”

  “Wish we had a forensics team like CSI has to analyze the car. Bet we could find out who drove it last.”

  Wyatt laughed. “Yeah. Wouldn’t that be great? Our entire year’s budget for all that equipment, plus the techs.”

  “Well, we did find out a couple things. Wylie-James isn’t missing anymore, and neither is Miranda’s car. Someone didn’t want anyone to find it, or not for a while, at least, which reaffirms our murder theory.” I was thinking, writing, and speaking at the same time. Wow, multi-tasking. “You’ll need to call Mac.”

  “Yeah. Dodge, too, and have him tow that car out of the mire. But we can’t say the investigation is at a stand-still.” Wyatt leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. “It is moving forward, just not fast enough.”

  * * *

  THE MAIL CAME, as usual, at about two. Most of our correspondence comes from other agencies. Some ask for information, some verify a request. Today, there were two marked PERSONAL for Wyatt. I never open those. When they come in, they’re not for anyone else’s eyes but his. I put ’em in his box.

  He smiled at me.

  Returning the look, I wished I could give him a sloppy wet one, but just turned around and walked out.

  Half an hour later.…

  “Maggie?” Wyatt came out of his office, squinting at a sheet of paper in his hand.

  “Yes?” I stopped typing and waited.

  Halting a foot from my desk with a sheepish look on his face, he handed me the paper. “I forgot my glasses. Can you read this for me?”

  Was he kidding? “Oh, come on, Wyatt. You don’t wear glasses.”

  He didn’t even crack a smile. “I don’t wear them in public.” He glanced around the room. “I didn’t used to have to wear them here, but lately the print on these forms has been getting smaller and smaller.”

  Already wearing mine, I took the paper and shook it straight. “It says—” My eyes flew over the words. “Wyatt, this says—”

  I looked at him.

  He was grinning.

  “Congratulations, Maggie!”

  My jaw dropped, and I stared again at the official letterhead. A formal appointment from the borough, agreeing with Wyatt’s recommendation, that I receive a peacekeeper’s badge. No, I would not be authorized a firearm—guess they don’t trust me with one—or wear a regulation uniform—they’d be ugly—but still and nonetheless WOULD be duly sworn in as a protector of the law and the residents of Mossy Creek.

  The words began to blur. I realized tears were spilling, and blinked to clear my vision. “This is so coool. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. But, won’t this…? I mean—”

  Silence.

  Wyatt stared, smiling. Then the smile vanished. Then his face stood concerned. And it had every right to. I was crestfallen. Crud … what horrid timing. The problem? Fraternization. Our relationship had just started to— And then there was our moment in the SUV where I had laid it all out—gag, what was I thinking? Now what? Was our budding relationship going to be stuck in the budding stage!

  I tried to bring my smile back. “Does this mean we have to stop … uh, the flirting?” I figured that was a safe way to word it, since we hadn’t actually made any real overt moves more involved than that.

  Wyatt said something—under his breath.

  “Did you just say—?”

  “Not th
e word you think you heard.” He crossed his arms. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He shrugged. “I mean, you can always refuse. And there’s no pay raise, or anything attached. Really, it’s just a token role. You can hold a suspect, but not arrest them. You can’t carry a weapon. You’ll still be assigned to the desk and dispatch, not to a car, or a routine cruising schedule, and—”

  “Sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of it.” I could see the frustration on his face. “Wyatt, I’m really and truly honored. This means a lot to me,” I held up the paper, “that you did this. I just.… I don’t….”

  I blew out a breath. “If it means I can’t flirt, etcetera, with you, then maybe I shouldn’t accept it. I don’t want you to lose your job over it, and I definitely don’t want to lose mine. But, I really like … um….”

  There I was, at a loss for words.

  Again.

  He sat on the corner of my desk. “I’m sorry, Maggie. It seemed like a good thing when I did it. Ricky thought it’d be a hoot for you to have a badge, since you didn’t have a private eye license. But, you’re right, if it means we can’t pursue a personal, uh, friend-li-ness, then I’ll tell the council you turned it down.”

  “I don’t want to make you feel bad for suggesting it, either.”

  “Don’t worry, Maggie. This was a spur of the moment thing. You’re not going to hurt my feelings. I know how much it means, both ways.”

  I smiled and almost patted his knee, until I remembered we didn’t know each other well enough for that ... yet. “Thanks, Wyatt.”

  We sat enjoying each other’s company for another few minutes, until the phone interrupted our mutual admiration moment. I put the caller on hold, so Wyatt could get to his desk.

  He got up and strolled to his office, but turned at the last minute. “By the way, you were right, I don’t wear glasses. And, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you refused.”

  Wow. I had to fan myself … almost forgot to transfer the call.

  A few hours later, Ricky returned.

  Even though I had decided Miranda’s diary was bogus, I still hadn’t talked to Wyatt or Ricky about my conclusions. At our—almost daily—afternoon briefing, I broached the subject.