“What are you looking for?” he asked.
I took a sip of my drink, which was a nice blend of sweetness and tartness. “One of my friends overheard Beverly arguing with someone at the history museum the day before she died, but we don’t know who. I figured if I could find the person, we might get some insight into what was going on with Beverly.”
“You’re not buying the robbery-gone-wrong theory?”
“Not yet. My friend didn’t get a look at the person in the room because he or she went out the back door. I thought I’d recognize a vehicle, but you know how busy Main Street is.” I pointed to the Camry. “This car matches the description of someone Beverly might’ve been arguing with, but it could be anybody’s, and I can’t make out the plate.” I unearthed my phone. “May I take a picture?”
“No problem.”
“I appreciate it.” I snapped and saved the picture.
Hamlet closed the laptop and stood. “Mom told me about how you solved Tara Fullerton’s murder and figured out what happened to your church’s youth pastor. Why get involved instead of letting law enforcement handle the cases?” He crossed his arms and studied me. “I’m not being critical. It’s an honest question.”
I gritted my teeth. “You mean why don’t I let my boyfriend handle the investigations?” Was he suggesting there was trouble between Cal and me?
“I didn’t say that.” Hamlet’s face remained expressionless.
He was either extremely unflappable or a masterful actor, which fed my annoyance. “You didn’t have to.” I put my hands on my hips. “For your information, Cal appreciates my help. And the people you mentioned—including Beverly—deserve justice.”
“You think it’s up to you to find it?” He sat on the edge of the desk.
“Someone has to,” I snapped.
He flinched. “Is this about your dad? Because it has to be awful knowing his killer is—”
“Stop. I pay a therapist for this. I don’t need your free psychoanalysis.” I stomped toward the door but glanced back. “Thanks for your help.”
I stormed out of Latte Conspiracies, but when I reached my truck, I’d taken enough deep breaths to calm down and consider my next steps.
I should run in to the museum to figure out who volunteered there on a regular basis, because it would make sense that a volunteer would use the back exit. Plus, I had the perfect idea about how to get the information I wanted.
After downing the rest of my Sasquatch Mocha, I entered the musty two-story brick building that housed the museum. A rack of brochures for local tourist attractions stood next to the door. A sign beckoned me to the permanent display and advertised a temporary exhibit showcasing the high school’s former athletic stars.
Needing to focus on the task at hand, I fought a wave of sadness at the memory of walking through the museum with Daddy—one of the last things we’d done together before he’d been killed. With pride, he’d shown me the exhibit that’d commemorated the thirtieth anniversary of the state football championship.
The wood floor creaked as I strolled through the permanent exhibit looking at pictures, maps, and artifacts before making my way to the room that displayed photos, articles, trophies, and other memorabilia from teams and individuals whose accomplishments had brought honor to Wildcat Springs High School.
I stopped next to a black and white picture of the 1957 basketball team that’d won a sectional championship and picked out Grandpa Winston. Too bad Grandpa and Daddy hadn’t passed any of their athletic ability to me—or my brother. My eyes fell on a skinny kid with ears that stuck out—Earl Smith had been the team’s manager.
I continued through the exhibit, and more women appeared. I paused in front of a picture of Mallory Smith—better known to me now as Mallory Morris. She wore a basketball uniform and posed with the ball against her hip. She’d earned 1,167 career points during her time with the team and had received a college scholarship. She’d also had a successful stint coaching the girls’ basketball team.
“If you have any questions, let me know.”
I turned to face a cheery-faced, bald man who sported crimson IU suspenders and a name tag that read Dwight. A tuft of puffy white hair ringed his head above his ears.
“Thanks, Dwight. I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been here in years.”
He waved a hand. “Lots of people in town have never bothered to venture in, so don’t beat yourself up.”
“Thanks.” I displayed my best smile. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.” I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “My grandpa Ron Winston is marrying Wanda Morris next weekend.”
“Are you Georgia?” His eyes lit up.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve heard good things about you.” He extended his hand and squared his shoulders. “Dwight Winters. It’s an honor to meet our town’s amateur sleuth. A real honor.”
“Thank you.” My face grew warm as I grasped his hand and we shook. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I remembered seeing his name on the football reunion program. He’d been on the planning committee with Daddy.
“How can I help?” Dwight asked.
“First, I need you to promise to keep quiet about what I’m going to ask,” I whispered with way more drama than necessary.
“Absolutely.” He drew his hand across his mouth as if he were zipping his lips.
“My aunt Rhonda and Wanda’s daughter-in-law Mallory are throwing a bachelorette party later this week, and they asked me to make sure the ladies Wanda works with here are included.” I flipped my braid over my shoulder and reassured myself that everything I was saying was true except the next part. “Do you have a list of people who volunteer here so we can double-check? Beverly was supposed to take care of that, but…” A lump formed in my throat.
“Such a shame about Beverly.” Sadness flickered in his eyes. “I’d be happy to give you a list. In fact, I made a copy for that pretty new detective who works for the sheriff’s department. Detective Hawk is her name, I think.”
Pumping my fist behind my back, I widened my eyes and hoped it looked natural. “Do they suspect someone who worked here?”
“I don’t know for sure. They probably want to talk to people Beverly spent time with, see if they observed anything strange. At least that’s the gist of what Detective Hawk asked me.” He lowered his voice. “I think some junkie was looking for drug money, and poor Beverly was an easy target living alone and all.” He lumbered toward the office and motioned for me to follow. “Come on back, and I’ll make that copy for you.”
I trailed Dwight to the office and hovered in the doorway. A large table stood in the middle of the room, and it held a stack of yearbooks. Two large filing cabinets, a bookshelf laden with more yearbooks, and a desk with a computer, a scanner, and a phone stood against a wall. A microfiche reader sat next to the desk, and I was proud of myself for knowing what it was. A bulletin board hung next to the back door, and Dwight removed a calendar and took it to the copy machine in the opposite corner.
“It looks like you’re busy with a project,” I said.
“Sure are. The Wildcat Springs Memory Project to be exact. When no one’s visiting, we’ve been scanning all the school’s yearbooks into an online database. We enter the names of the folks on each page. Thataway people can search for their relatives and friends and the exact yearbook pages they’re on pop up. It’s been quite the undertaking, because we started with the three old township schools that were around before consolidation, and it’s taken us a good ten years to make it to the 2010s.” He turned from the copier and held out a paper. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s all the volunteers and their phone numbers, though there aren’t many of us. I’m about ready to start recruiting. Sure wish I could convince my buddy Earl Smith to help out again, but he lost interest a few years back. Not surprised though. Scanning yearbook pages isn’t his cup of tea.”
I took the list and tu
cked it into my purse. “Thanks. You’ve been a big help. I’ll have to stop in again and look around when I have time.”
“We’d be glad to have you.” He studied me. “Your father, Ray, was a real nice guy. I had the pleasure of getting to know him years ago. We served on the state championship reunion committee together.”
I moved across the creaky floor toward the exit. “He had a good time helping.”
“I remember. Oh, the stories he and Jack Schultz told about their football days. They had us all in stitches.” Dwight held up his index finger. “Come to think of it, I should ask Jack to help with a shift or two. I’ve heard he wants to retire from teaching soon.”
I should split before I got drafted.
Behind me, the door opened, and a cool draft nipped my ankles. Two middle-aged women holding shopping bags from the antique mall down the street entered, and Dwight greeted them.
Perfect timing, ladies.
I waved the paper. “Thanks, again, Dwight. Have a good one.”
When I got in my truck, I studied the paper. Dwight had given me a gold mine. Not only did it contain a list of volunteers, but it also had a work schedule for February. I was more than a little relieved to see Wanda hadn’t worked on Wednesday.
But that didn’t mean she hadn’t stopped in for a visit.
Shaking off my unease, I looked at the other volunteers. Carol Powers, Roger Carlson, and Fiona Sylvan.
Roger wasn’t scheduled for the entire month of February because he was a retired farmer who spent January through April in Fort Myers with his wife. Mrs. Powers had been my very strict junior English teacher, so I wasn’t thrilled about knocking on her door and asking questions. I’d talk to Aunt Rhonda to make sure Mrs. Powers had been invited to the bachelorette party, so I could strike up a conversation with her and see what she knew.
Then there was Fiona. In light of this new information, and her affair with Jack Schultz, I needed to schedule a hair appointment with her—in person. Because, along with Beverly, Fiona had also been assigned to a shift at the museum last Wednesday.
“I was thinking an up-do because my dress for the wedding has a cutout in the back,” I said to Fiona a few minutes after I’d left the museum and walked to the salon. I’d lucked out and caught her between appointments, and the place was quiet except for “Eternal Flame” blasting through the speakers. Even her receptionist was nowhere in sight.
“I agree.” She adjusted her red-framed glasses that coordinated with a glittery American flag on her T-shirt. I’d heard she loved injectable fillers, and judging from the lack of wrinkles on her fifty-something face, I’d guess there was a lot more truth to that rumor than the one about me auditioning for American Idol six years ago.
I leaned against the reception desk. “The dress is dark blue lace, and I hope Cal loves it.”
“I’m sure he will.” Fiona glanced at the scissors clock on the wall, and I decided to take the hint and get to the point.
“Do you have any appointments for next Saturday? I know it’s last minute, so if you don’t, it’s no big deal. I could always do a side braid.”
“Let me check.” Fiona opened her appointment book and ran her finger down the page. “I have a ten o’clock.” She picked up a pencil with a large daisy on the end.
“That’s perfect. I’m so excited about Grandpa marrying Wanda. She’s such a sweet lady, and she knows how to deal with Grandpa—kind of like Grandma did.” I twisted the amethyst ring that I’d inherited from her.
Fiona finished writing, looked up from her book, and closed it. “I’m happy for them both. Wanda’s a nice person.” She took a business card from the counter, wrote my appointment time on it, and handed it to me. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
I’d better act quick unless I wanted this little excursion to be a total failure. “I need some shampoo and conditioner.” I pointed to the display case to my left and reached for bottles of shampoo and conditioner with a formula that allegedly tamed frizz.
Fiona totaled my purchase.
“You volunteer with Wanda at the museum, right?” I held out my debit card and tried not to cringe at the high price.
“Yeah. I’m a history nerd, so I take a few shifts every month.”
“Did you happen to work with Beverly recently?” I had to confirm what I’d seen on the schedule, but I couldn’t act like I knew too much.
Fiona nodded. “Wednesday we had a tour group from the retirement center in Richardville come through, so we always schedule two volunteers in case someone else comes in.” She swiped my card. “That was the last time I saw Beverly.”
“Did she seem upset about anything that day?” Like your affair with her son-in-law?
Fiona shook her head. “She wasn’t her usual chatty self, but I didn’t think much of it.”
“Do you remember why?”
She pressed her lips together and returned my debit card. “We didn’t have time to talk. I got there right before the group arrived, and I left as soon as they were done, because I had to cut and color Carol Powers’s hair at three-thirty.” She bagged the bottles and held out the sack.
I took my overpriced purchase. “Speaking of Beverly, I met Clara for the first time this week, and she told me you’re friends. I bet it’s been great to see her after all these years.”
Fiona removed her glasses and set them on the counter. “With everything that happened, I feel terrible for encouraging her to come home and visit. I didn’t want her to miss her chance to see Beverly again—like she did with her dad. But I never would’ve guessed….”
“Right.”
She glanced at the clock again. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some things to do before my next appointment, so I’ll see you next Saturday.” She stalked toward her back room.
I made a quick exit and headed to my truck. I needed to get home and do some farm bookkeeping before my double date that night, but when I passed Latte Conspiracies, my conscience throbbed like a finger that’d been whacked by a hammer.
Life Lesson #335: Don’t zip around acting like you need a broom for transportation.
I owed Hamlet an apology for snapping at him. Taking a deep breath, I entered the shop. The morning crowd had dissipated, and only a few people were scattered at the tables. Holden stood behind the counter and grinned when I approached.
“Hamlet isn’t here,” he said.
I started to ask why he assumed I was looking for Hamlet but bit back my sharp retort when I remembered the broom. “Do you have his number, so I can text him?” I held out my phone.
Holden took it and typed with his thumbs. “I doubt you’ll get an answer. He calls cell phones electronic leashes and only bought one to keep in his car because his ex-girlfriend made him.” He handed my phone back.
He’d added the kiss-blowing emoji next to Hamlet’s name.
“Really?”
He shrugged. “That’s what you get for handing your phone to a sixteen-year-old.”
I knew a pair of twenty-four-year-olds who weren’t much better. “Thanks anyway. I’ll catch Hamlet another time.”
“He’s working on his house. He definitely wouldn’t mind if you stopped by.”
No. He definitely wouldn’t.
I parked next to a dumpster in Hamlet’s driveway and stared at the run-down ranch. This place was more than a fixer upper. The poor house needed life support. Shutters had gone AWOL, and the paint-chipped blue ones that remained were crooked. A massive crack split the cement on the front porch. Overgrown box hedges looked like they were swallowing the house, and the white siding had dulled with dirt and yellowed with age.
I unbuckled my belt and told myself to tread carefully because the key to this visit was to apologize without giving him the idea that I was interested in anything more than a very casual friendship. When I got out, I heard thuds coming from inside the house.
It must be demo day.
I picked my way across the slushy snow on the driveway and entered the garage. I k
nocked on the back door, and when he didn’t answer, I peeked into a shell of a kitchen that’d been taken down to the studs.
“Hamlet?” I went inside.
Toting a sledgehammer, he emerged from the back of the house and removed his respirator mask and safety goggles. Instead of a sweater vest, he sported a dusty Ball State hoodie. “Welcome to my disastrous abode.” He surveyed me. “What brings you by?”
“Holden said I could find you here.” I stepped inside and closed the door. “I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier. That was rude, and I don’t know what got into me after you’d helped me and were so nice. You didn’t deserve that, and I felt bad, and—”
“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have bugged you about investigating—but thanks for your apology.” He put his sledgehammer on the floor. “I started the bathroom demo today. You missed the toilet removal.”
I laughed. “Does that mean you would’ve recruited me if I’d been here a little earlier?”
“Yes. I would’ve considered it penance.” His eyes twinkled. “Even now you’re in danger of being put to work.”
Time for a distraction move from the Georgia Rae Winston Awkwardness Avoidance Handbook. I pointed out the sliding glass door at the back yard. “Nice view.”
The house backed up to a wooded area, and a concrete patio led to an empty in-ground pool.
“Thanks. As soon as the snow melts, I need to get rid of the pool. It’d be great to have one, but the concrete is a mess, and I don’t have the funds to repair it.”
I edged toward the door. “It looks like you have a lot of work to do, so I’ll let you get busy.”
He brushed bits of drywall from his sweatshirt. “I’m not sure what I was thinking, tackling such a big project, but I keep telling myself it’ll all be worth the hassle when I’m done.”
“Yeah.” I glanced at the broken pieces of drywall littering the floor and thought of my small group’s study of Ecclesiastes. A time to tear down and a time to build. “Things definitely have to get worse before they get better.”
Deadly Heritage Page 7
