by Jill Behe
They were disappointed. We were all envisioning hot torrid confessions. I, again, voiced my puzzlement about her need to conceal. Why would she have to hide something no one else was around to find … or even look at? There had to be a reason for the deception.
The entries she’d made in the last week before she died did sound different ... more tense … forced … but, with no real emotion. I pointed out the fact that she also put little hearts around the days she babysat for the mayor’s little son.
“My sister used to do something like that, whenever a boy she liked talked to her.”
Silence in the room.
CHAPTER 12
RICKY SPREAD HIS HANDS. “What?”
“You read your sister’s diary?” Wyatt, fun-tugging at the corners of his mouth, studied his second in command.
Two pink spots daubed Ricky’s cheeks. “When I was a bratty little brother, yeah. I needed to find out if she was snitching me out to mom and dad.”
Wyatt scratched an arm. “About what?”
Ricky shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Kid stuff.”
“Really?” My body screamed spill it. “I’m a mom; tell me what kind of kid stuff?” It was so much fun to tease him.
He swallowed nervously. “Look, it was a long time ago. I don’t do stuff like that, anymore.” He was starting to sweat.
“What stuff would that be?” I pressed without mercy. “The stuff your sister was snitching you out about? Or, that you were reading her diary?”
“Both. Look—”
“Stuff like what?” Wyatt, trying to hide a smirk, gave me a wink.
Ricky gave us a smug smile. “Stuff like reading my sister’s diary.” Then he laughed. “Had ya goin’ there for a while, didn’t I?”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Wyatt let him off the hook, uncrossed his arms and looked back at me. “So, what’s up with Randy’s hearts?”
“I’ll have to think about it some more, but it could be she was falling for the mayor’s kid … he is a real cutie. There’s more to this, though.”
“You don’t think they’re connected to the little guy?”
I shook my head. “No, it doesn’t add up.”
“Okay. Hang on to the journal for now. See if you can get any more out of it. Just, please, don’t lose it.”
I tightened my mouth. He made it sound like I did that a lot.
“If you find something, let me know, and as soon as you can.”
Batting a thousand, aren’t you, Wyatt?
“Ricky? Any word on that ring?”
“Nope. Mike says it’ll take a few days to research it.”
“All right. Let me know when you hear from him.” He flipped his legal pad closed and threw his pen on top. “Okay, gang, let’s get back to work.”
I rolled my eyes. Like we hadn’t already been working. I kept my eye on Ricky when we got back to our desks. He didn’t seem to have any lingering guilt about his confession. I really wanted to ask him what kind of stuff his sister had on him, but held back.
The diary of Miranda Richards gnawed at my inner-snoop. I was over-thinking it, but something just Bugged. Me. About. It. As much as I’d mulled and mulched and spread, the same results kept coming up.
A light bulb went off.
The hearts! They must be a code. Or could be. Surely, she was cleverer than using them to mark when she was working. And, why hide it? She had no siblings; she was six when her mother died, and her father pretty much left her alone.
If the hearts meant a meet with a boyfriend, then her ‘dates’ had to be after she was done babysitting. That meant late-late nights. Would her ‘older’ man patiently wait at her house until the mayor brought her home?
No, I couldn’t see that. And Mac wouldn’t have tolerated it.
Then, inspiration. Well, not really. Kind of confirmed my own theory that this was a decoy, a diversion. It had to be a smoke screen. She was trying to throw someone off track.
But who?
If we could get into Miranda’s room, again, I had a pretty good idea where exactly to look. All those shoeboxes. Somewhere, in one of them, was the real diary of Miranda Annabelle Richards, in all its X-rated glory. The county hadn’t been looking for that kind of thing. They might have gone through the boxes, but had probably overlooked the little book.
By quitting time, I was more tired and cranky than usual, most likely from using all my brainpower trying to figure out that blasted red herring, and not thinking about other stuff. Whatever the cause, facing an empty icebox wasn’t high on my fun things TO-DO list for the evening.
Annetta’s Diner had a great supper menu.
The place was about empty when I walked in, and it was a surprise to again have Annetta seat me, and in the same back-booth Wyatt and I’d shared for our noontime the day before. She handed me a menu before bustling away to somewhere else. Left me wondering why she’d stuck me way in the back, but didn’t mind.
A few minutes later, she returned, leaning against the edge of the table, snapping her gum. In her pink waitress uniform, with the frilly white apron, and never-fading carrot-red hair swung up into a beehive, she reminded me of Flo, from the old TV classic Alice.
Oh, come on, Early to bed, early to rise … you remember that show.
“How come you’re taking orders on this side of the counter?”
She gave a laugh and a wave. “Evey said she was going to be a little late. I’m just filling in for the kid.”
“Evey Peters? Cody’s kid-sister?”
She nodded, and blew a bubble.
“Really? I didn’t know she was working here.”
“Oh, yeah. Been here about…. Well, I’ll be. Been almost a year, already. Kinda strange, how that all came about, I recall. Sailed in one day, all in a hurry-like, and asked if she could help out in the afternoons. I said sure, as Susie had just quit to work at Sporelli’s.”
“Susie Chapin? That was sudden, wasn’t it? I remember her being in here on my late lunch runs. I thought she enjoyed her job.”
“Thought so, too. One day she comes in and says, ‘Today’s my last day.’ Didn’t give any more notice than that. So, there I am, stuck with no suppertime waitress, and no possible replacement on such short notice. How lucky is it that Evey comes in the next day? Ya ask me, they worked it out that way, and on purpose, too.”
“You think so?”
She nodded. “Had to’ve. And when we got word about Miranda, you’da thought Evey was her best friend, the way she carried on. Had to take the night off. Yeah, she was real shook up over Miranda’s death.”
“Do tell.”
“Yup.” She pulled out her little order pad and clicked her pen. “What’ll ya have tonight? A whole meal, or just coffee and pie?”
“Oh, Annetta, you’re sly.” Laughter. “I’ll have the country ham dinner, with sweet tea. When I’m done with that, I’ll let you know if I have room for dessert.”
“Sure. Comin’ right up.” She grinned and went to yell my order at her son, the chef school graduate short order cook.
I hauled my purse onto the table and began to rummage for my book. No, not the novel-of-the-moment. Crosswords help me pass the time while waiting for my meal to arrive, other than twiddle my thumbs … which doesn’t really help. Puzzles are relaxing, the way knitting is for others.
Why not bring a book? Funny you should ask. Because usually I get irrationally aggravated at the waitress for interrupting me, or so absorbed in the story my meal gets cold. So, no. Hard and fast rule, no reading at the table … whether it’s in a restaurant, or at home.
My bag must weigh fifteen pounds or more—probably an exaggeration as it hasn’t ever been weighed. Not sure why that is—not that I haven’t weighed it, but that it’s so heavy—there’s nothing that heavy in it, and I do clean it out once a week. You’d think it would be lighter, but no.
Slowly, my arm and shoulder muscles are developing definition from lugging the silly thing ev
erywhere I go. If someone ever gets a notion to attack me, it wouldn’t take but one swing, right upside the head—Ka Bam—and the perp’d be out cold.
By the time Annetta came back with my tea, I’d found my crossword book and was hunting for a pen.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “I know y’all are investigating Miranda’s death. Have you interviewed everyone?”
I set aside my puzzle book. “Annetta, you know I can’t—”
She waved at me, irritated. “I know that. What I meant was.… Oh, never mind. I’ll just come right out with it.” She slid into the other side of the booth and inched her nose close. “The mayor’s been actin’ real strange since this business with Miranda. Well, actually, since before then, but it’s gotten worse. You do know she was their babysitter, don’tcha?”
“We do. Yes.”
“Well, if you haven’t talked to them, you need to. I’d do it separate, myself. That way they can’t co’oberate their stories.”
“Them?”
“The Pattersons. Mayor and Mrs.”
I laughed. “Thanks for the advice, but we’ve got it covered.” I took a sip of the sweet cold drink. “Why do you think they shouldn’t corroborate their stories?”
She lowered her voice and peeked around. “I don’t wanna get in trouble for this.”
“Don’t worry, Annetta. I’m not going to broadcast it. And if I repeat it to anyone, it’d only be Wyatt and Ricky.”
Satisfied she continued in a stage whisper. “Okay. Well, I’m not exactly sure why I feel so strongly about this, but I think Mayor Patterson’s acting too fishy to not be involved somehow. And, I don’t believe for a minute that Miranda killed herself.”
I sat back in my seat and studied her. “Me, either.”
“Because, number one she wasn’t depressed, and number two her car wasn’t where she was found. That means that someone,” she stabbed a fork into the table, “drove it away from there.”
My brows raised, impressed that she knew so much about it. “Annetta, you should have gone into law enforcement.” I was going to ask how she found out about the car, but she started talking again.
“Thanks.” Another fork stab. “But that’s not all. He comes in here a lot. When he does, he stares at Evey. Has for as long as she’s been here. I didn’t put it together at first, but then I remembered that he used to do the same thing when Susie worked here. She acted half-afraid of him most of the time. Now, he’s doing the same thing to Evey.
“And his behavior is odd while he’s in here, too; not just the staring thing. I can’t really explain what I mean, just that he doesn’t act the same as he used to. He’s worse.” She stopped to look over her shoulder. “Always seemed friendly. Had a good word for the customers who were in here at the time. Now, though, he slinks in the door, not a word to anyone, and he sits as far in the back as he can get. No smile, no hello, or anything. The ‘friendly’ he does show is almost inappropriate, and it’s mostly aimed at my part-time help—all high school girls.” She shook her index finger at me. “I see how they react to him, too. Flattered that the handsome mayor is paying attention to them, but intimidated when he gets too touchy-feely. And, he does get touchy-feely. Not overt to the point of X-rated or anything, but just shy of inappropriate.” She shifted closer. “How do you say ‘back off’ to the mayor? Ya know?
“Now, Miranda was their babysitter, and it’s no secret that he took her home every time she sat for them. But he was up to no good, if you ask me.”
The picture forming in my head made me queasy.
“Have you seen him lately … like, in the last few days?” She closed her eyes and shuddered before continuing. “Ever since Ricky found Miranda, the mayor’s been a mess. His face is gaunt and gray, hollow-eyed. Short-tempered. Complains about the service or the food, or whatever.
“I’m telling you, Maggie, something bad happened. And it happened because of him, or to him, or both. And, I think it’s connected to Miranda’s death.”
I wanted more details, but a little bell jingled.
Annetta straightened, and stood up like someone jabbed her in the ass with a pin.
“Oh. Your food. Hang on. Be right back.” She hurried to get my plate.
Pretty spry for an almost fifty-year-old woman who’s been wearing out pairs of shoes all day for the past twenty years or so. Wait! What am I saying? She’s not that much older than me.
The puzzle book had lost its appeal and was returned to my bag. Annetta had effectively taken up my excess minutes, and imparted some very attention-grabbing stuff, too. Stuff that needed to be gone over in my head a second time, and studied … thought about.
Stuff Wyatt needed to hear.
Especially her concerns about our distinguished mayor. Hadn’t seen the main man in a while, so I couldn’t judge his mood or appearance. Wyatt was supposed to question him in the next few days.
Oh, calamity and hardship. I was going to have to break down and call the chief of police at home. Had to remember not to forget to tell him about the fake diary, too. Yeah, I’d already told him and Ricky my theory, but we needed to find out for sure if there was a real one. He’d told me to let him know if I thought of anything else … as soon as possible. This qualified. Didn’t it?
“Here ya go, Maggie.” Annetta’s chirpy voice brought back my focus as she set my ham, mashed potatoes, and carrots down, along with two homemade—still steaming—biscuits, with a side of honey butter.
Mouth-watering.
“This looks great, Annetta. Thank Wally for me, will ya?”
“Sure. Need anything else?”
“Nope. I’m good. But, listen….” My knife slid smooth and easy through the juicy inch-thick piece of meat. “If you want to talk some more, let me know.”
“Thanks. I will.” She looked up as the bell over the door jangled. “Oops, got a customer. I’ll be back to check on you shortly. Enjoy.”
“Mmm, definitely.” I took a bite of ham.
CHAPTER 13
AFTER PAYING the check and leaving my friend a nice tip, I went to my car. A turn of the key … a few clicks. Another turn—nothing. Rolling my eyes at Gertrude’s stubbornness, I turned off the key and pumped the gas … just once—she’s a mature Plymouth—then tried again. She wanted to, my poor Gertie, but she didn’t start. I couldn’t chance flooding her, so I sat there for a couple minutes. Okay, so I was thinking evil thoughts about her, but I didn’t say them out loud. She wouldn’t have started at all, if I had.
Five minutes later, I tried again, and just like that, she started without any protest. “Must’ve been a fluke, right, Gert?” I patted the dash, and pulled out of my space.
All the way home, I thought about what Annetta had told me, even the weird stuff about Susie and Evey. Did it all tie together? Susie had graduated two years before, but I couldn’t remember if Evey was in her class, the next class, or Miranda’s. What would connect the dots? Would those dots tie those three girls together? What about Annetta’s ramblings? Was the mayor really involved up to the hairs of his chinny-chin-chin?
“I wonder.” I bit my lip and tried to hurry Gertie around the next corner. Getting home quick was a priority in order to make notes - so I wouldn’t forget my brilliant idea. That happened a lot lately—my forgetting things.
Don’t talk to me about old age, I’m only, um, forty-something, remember?
I hit the garage remote and up the drive we went. Gertrude slid right into her slot without a fuss. “Gertie,” I said, in my most persuasive voice as I gathered up my belongings. “You had better get a good night’s sleep, so you can start right up in the morning.” I closed my door and walked around the front bumper. “I can’t afford to have you clunk out whenever you feel like it. If you’re sick, we’ll have to take you to the car doctor, again. You like Dodge Peters, don’t you? He’s always treated you very well. But, I need you, little girl.”
Oh, hush. If people can talk to thei
r plants, I can talk to my car.
I unlocked the connecting door to the house and went in, leaving Gertrude alone to do her cool down tick-tick-tick.
My bag thunked onto the kitchen counter and I stood with my hand on it. What was it I was supposed to remember? “Oh, crud.” I went to my desk in the hallway for a tablet and pen. “Come on, think. What was that light-bulb-moment idea you had in the car, Maggie Lou?” It did no good to stare at the blank sheet of paper. Neither did growling. “I can’t remember.” I hate when that happens. Making a fist almost broke the pen in half.
The tablet went flying across the room, pages flapping like an injured pelican. I stomped down the hall, needing to change into my comfy-clothes - lounger pants and an oversized T-shirt—compliments of my oldest son. I liked it; he lost it. Unpinning the French twist, I brushed out the kinks, and banded my long hair into a tail.
I’m one of those female anti-establishmentarians who don’t believe that once you hit your mid-forties—oops, did I just admit that?—you have to chop off your hair to your earlobes. If my grandmother, and those before her, wore it long and up in a bun, why shouldn’t I? Well, not in a bun, but you get my drift.
I went to the kitchen. It was time to take care of me, to relieve some stress, to bake. It was a trait. Not a medically recognized inherited one—like blue eyes—but more of a ‘hand-me-down’ compulsion, from my mom and hers. Growing up, all the sibs and cousins knew when there was something major happening in the family because there were baking sheets, batter bowls, and lots and lots of cookies everywhere. And thank the Lord for dishwashers!
While gathering ingredients, I ping-ponged about calling Wyatt. Two trays of aroma-filled, nicely golden, chocolate chip cookies later, it was decided. Munching one, I made a pot of coffee, then dialed the boss. I’d never done that before—called him at home.
“Hey, it’s me.” My mouth was full of cookie. “Are you busy?”
“Um, no. What’s wrong? Somebody tape your mouth shut?”
I frowned and swallowed my mouthful. “No. Listen, I had supper at Annetta’s—”
