“You know, sweetheart,” he said, just as we were saying goodbye, “I’m wishing right now you’d made that trek to the Ben & Jerry’s factory.”
I laughed. Greg didn’t.
After the call, I took a quick shower and put on fresh clothes—jeans and a simple white camp shirt. My plan was to head over to the police station. It was late afternoon. By now, my mother would either be in a cell or released after being questioned. I was hoping to speak with Officer Littlejohn. I didn’t care if he knew about me or not; I was going to make myself known.
The B & B kept a small guest pantry just off the kitchen. There they had hot coffee, as well as bottled water, cookies, and fresh fruit for their lodgers. It had been hours since I’d eaten that greasy fair food, and I needed something healthy. I grabbed a bottle of water and a banana to stave off my hunger until after my visit to the police. Just as I was leaving, I ran into the young couple from California as they were coming in. They stopped me.
“Wow,” said Abby. “Can you believe this? I mean, in LA maybe, but here?” She removed her ball cap and shook out her long brown hair. Her face was pale with fatigue.
“We just came back from the police station,” said Ollie. “By the way, I’m Oliver Grigsby, and this is my fiancée, Abigail Wong. I don’t believe we were properly introduced at breakfast this morning.” I gave them my name, and we shook hands.
“You’ve been there, at the police station, all this time?” I asked, surprised.
He shook his head. “Not all of it. Several news people were hounding us at the farm, so we just took off. We ended up driving around, finally stopping at this little diner for a late lunch.”
“Not that we had much of an appetite,” Abby added.
“That’s for sure.” Ollie put a protective arm around Abby. “We were on our way back here when the police called us on my cell and asked us to stop by the station. This time we were questioned by detectives from some state-level unit—Sea Pac or something like that. Pretty much the same questions we were asked back at the maze.”
“You weren’t asked anything new?”
Abby and Ollie looked at each other several moments before answering.
“Actually,” Abby finally answered, looking like she’d rather skip the information, “right before we left, the chief of police asked to see us in private.”
“In private? That’s rather odd, isn’t it, considering a state agency is now involved?”
Again, the couple exchanged glances before Abby continued. “Chief Littlejohn asked us specifically about you.”
Following the directions Ollie gave me, I found the police station that served the two tiny neighboring towns of Holmsbury and Saxton. It was located in a large two-story white house with green shutters, situated on a spacious lot bordered in the back by woods. In the front yard stood a majestic maple just starting to put on its colorful fall coat. A porch with several empty rocking chairs stretched across the front, with a wide set of steps leading up to the front door. Guarding the steps and each corner of the porch were thick, round columns. At one end of the porch, a handicap ramp had been added. Had it not been for the large sign at the end of the drive and scattered news personnel hovering about like vultures waiting for scraps, I would have thought it was the home of someone’s elderly aunt. Much of the side yard had been paved over to create a large parking lot. Towards the back of the house, I spotted a couple of police vehicles parked near a back entrance. The original back door had been replaced with a wide commercial glass door.
Ollie and Abby had been questioned privately by Chief Littlejohn about me. He was no doubt the man I’d seen with my mother back at the maze, although he seemed young to be a chief of police. When they told him they’d just met me that morning, he’d been gruff and disbelieving, saying it was just too coincidental that the people who first stumbled upon the body in the maze were all from California and staying at the same bed-and-breakfast. He didn’t buy their ignorance of me one bit. He’d also told them that he intended to question me thoroughly. My gut told me he knew who I was. Whether or not he knew before our mother was found crouching over a dead body was another matter, but dollars to donuts, he knew now.
Getting out of the car, I looked up at the big converted house and aimed a defiant chin in its direction. Well, here I am, little brother. And you didn’t even have to ask.
As I walked up to the front entrance, a reporter stepped in front of me. It was a young woman, her blond hair styled in a half up-do. She introduced herself as being from a news station in Boston and flashed credentials at me. “I remember seeing you at the corn maze today,” she said to me. “Can you tell us anything about the murder?”
The other news people crowded around, sensing a fresh tidbit.
When I said nothing, she continued. “Did you know the victim?”
“No, I didn’t.” I side-stepped to go around her and started up the steps.
“How about the suspect, Mrs. Littlejohn?”
I stopped dead in my tracks halfway up the steps but didn’t turn around. In that split second, a million thoughts bombarded my brain like a meteor shower. I swallowed back the thought of my mother, long-lost or not, being a murder suspect and continued up the stairs, ignoring the reporter.
The interior of the large house had been renovated to suit the needs of a small and not-so-busy country police department. The front door opened onto a large foyer. To the left was a wide, curved staircase with a thick banister—the kind that made me wonder how many kids had traveled butt-first down it before this place became a police station. To the right of the staircase was a long hallway with a closed door at the end and a couple along the length of it. A large doorway stood immediately to the left of the entrance and was closed by two sliding wooden doors. To the right was a large opening leading to what was probably the original living room. The floors and staircase were covered with scuffed hardwood.
I stepped to my right into the large open area. The room had been transformed into a waiting room with a built-in counter, behind which sat a woman with long auburn hair held back from her face with a black plastic headband. She was of average size and shape and appeared to be fortyish. Her black-rimmed glasses were low on her nose, and she had a small mole on the chin of her plain face. She didn’t wear a uniform, so I figured she was a civilian employee. A nameplate on the counter identified her as Joan Cummings.
There were several plastic chairs positioned around the room, along with a beat-up coffee table holding out-of-date magazines. No one was in the waiting area. From somewhere in the back, the hum of voices drifted into the waiting area, sprinkled every now and then with low laughter.
“Reporters have to remain outside,” the woman said, glancing at me.
“I’m not a reporter.” I stepped in front of the counter. “I’d like to see Chief Littlejohn.”
She gave me her attention. “The chief is quite busy at the moment. Perhaps someone else can help you. Is this an emergency?” Her tone was heavy and damp, like the weather.
“My name is Odelia Grey. I was at the corn maze earlier.”
Placing an index finger on the bridge of her glasses, she scooted them up her nose and studied me with surprise. “That was fast.”
“Excuse me?”
“I just left you a voice mail asking you to come in or call. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Now it was my turn to be surprised. Before I said anything more, I dug around in my tote bag and retrieved my cell phone. It had fallen out of the pocket on the inside of the bag to the bottom, under all my junk. Sure enough, I had fresh voice mail.
“Sorry,” I said to her, holding up my phone. “I never heard the ring. Did Chief Littlejohn want to see me?”
“Not that I know of. The detectives from CPAC asked me to call you to set up a time for you to come in. They’re re-questioning some of the witnesses from today.”
“What’s CPAC?”
“Crime Prevention and Control Unit. It’s part of the Mass
achusetts State Police.”
“Oh.”
“They handle major crimes like homicides.”
“So it wasn’t Chief Littlejohn who asked to see me?”
“No, Ms. Grey. The chief isn’t involved with the case. CPAC is handling it.”
“Oh.”
I took a second to process the information. If Chief Littlejohn’s mother was a suspect, it made sense for him not to be involved with the investigation—doubly so if the state police handled homicides as a rule. Yet Ollie and Abby had definitely said Littlejohn wanted to see me.
I gave the woman behind the counter a weak smile. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter who wants to see me. I’m here now.”
“Unfortunately, the detectives were just called back to the farm. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll see when they expect to return.”
While I took a seat in one of the plastic chairs, Joan Cummings made a call. A minute later, she called me back to the counter.
“Looks like they’re going to be a while. Could you come back tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. You have my cell number and, as I told the police who questioned me earlier, I’m staying at the Maple Tree B & B in Saxton. I’m planning on being in the area until Monday.”
“Fine, then. We’ll call you about setting up a time. Keep your cell phone close.”
“Why do they want to see me? I gave my statement twice today at the scene.”
“I just make the calls, Ms. Grey. If they want to see you again, then they want to see you again. It is a murder investigation, after all.”
Just as I was about to leave, I had a thought. I turned back to the counter. “Excuse me, but the old woman at the corn maze—the one who was found with the body—is she a suspect? Is she being held in custody?”
“It’s not my place to tell you that, Ms. Grey.”
Undeterred, I pressed. “What about the young man they took away? Is he the killer?”
“He most certainly is not!”
The ferocity of her reply made me take two steps back. Sensing her impropriety, she gathered herself back into her professional mode.
“The young man was a misunderstanding,” she explained in a rigid but calmer voice. “He’s been released.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you. I was just curious.”
“Only natural. You can ask the detectives any questions you have, Ms. Grey, when you see them. Or read about it in the newspaper. Have a good day.”
Her words were as perfunctory and unemotional as a canned voice mail recording from the IRS. Boy, nothing like being thoroughly dismissed. Problem was, I wasn’t ready to be dismissed. I’d just come three thousand miles to surprise my missing mother, only to find her covered in the blood of a dead man. On top of that, I was starving. Right now was not the time for some bureaucrat to screw with me.
Instead of leaving, I stood in front of Joan Cummings until she was forced to look up at me. “Yes?”
“Chief Littlejohn—I really need to see him.” If anyone knew where my mother was, it would be the chief.
Ms. Cummings gave off a deep sigh. “I told you, he’s not here.”
“Can you call him? It’s rather urgent.”
“What is it about?”
“His mother.”
She gave me a weary look. “As I said, Chief Littlejohn is not handling the matter. Anything you need to say about the case should be said to the CPAC detectives.”
“May I leave him a message, then? Is that allowed?”
Another deep sigh. “Well, what is it?” She poised a pen over a phone message pad.
“Tell him his sister wants to speak with him. I believe you already have my number.”
That got her attention. She stared open-mouthed at me, then shook it off and jotted down the message.
I left the station and waded through the small gathering of vigilant journalists to my car, not giving them so much as a cough along the way. Not being knowledgeable about the area, I decided to drive around and check things out. There had to be a central town district in either Holmsbury or Saxton where I could find a restaurant and get an early dinner. Then I remembered the GPS. Once it was powered up, I punched in a query for restaurants in the area. Several fast food chains came up, along with some local places, one of which was a seafood restaurant recommended by the people at the B & B. It was about eight miles away in yet another small town. I poked the go button on the gizmo and headed the rental car in that direction.
Driving in rural Massachusetts is nothing like driving in Southern California. Back home, cities blended one into the other with blurred boundaries, the houses, not unlike office cubicles, stacked side by side along miles of straight paved roads and sidewalks.
Here in the Holmsbury/Saxton area, most roads were two-lane and curved, following the flow of the natural landscape. Houses were far apart and often set back from the road, with groves of trees acting as natural fences. In the more populated areas, like where my mother lived, the houses were closer together but still distanced enough to maintain a sense of privacy and individuality.
I was driving along a road that hugged the bank of a small river when a car came up fast behind me. Traffic on this road had been very light, and right now there were only two cars to be seen—mine and this one. When it got near to me, it slowed down, falling into pace behind me. Glancing into my rear-view mirror, I noted just one person in the vehicle. While I continued driving, I pulled slightly to the right to allow room for the car to pass me on the narrow road. It made no move to go around. I sped up a bit to put distance between us. The other car stayed at the prior speed, allowing me to get farther ahead of it. I gave a sigh of relief. Just another driver going someplace on a Saturday afternoon. Still, I kept my cell phone handy.
I guided my vehicle around another bend in the road. Here the highway left the riverbank and cut through a grove of mature trees, their limbs of fall colors reaching out from either side to form a patchwork canopy. Lost in bucolic peace, I had almost forgotten about the car behind me—until a flashing colored light reminded me it was there.
I had no clue why I was being stopped, but I dutifully pulled over to the right, onto a flat patch of dirt. The other car pulled in behind me. It was a dark, nondescript sedan without a color bar on the roof, but the flashing light on the dashboard left no mistake in my mind that it was an official vehicle. Nor did the uniform on the man who got out of the car and headed my way. The officer in the uniform was of average height and a bit on the stocky side. He had graying hair and a full face. He appeared to be in his fifties. Maybe the detectives had tried to reach me again, but when I didn’t respond, they had sent someone out to find me. I glanced down at my cell phone, but there had been no further missed calls. Maybe I was going too fast. I hadn’t seen a posted speed limit for quite a while, and I’d heard about country speed traps.
“License and registration, please,” the officer asked as soon as he reached my window.
I grabbed my wallet from my purse, pulled out my California driver’s license, and handed it to him.
“The car’s a rental, but I have the rental contract in the glove box if you’d like to see it.”
“You’re quite a ways from home, aren’t you, Ms. Grey? What’s the purpose of your visit here?”
“Just a long weekend to visit relatives.”
“Like your mother, perhaps?”
The officer wasn’t bent towards my window, so I couldn’t see his face or badge. I leaned forward in my seat and stuck my head slightly out the window. He removed his sunglasses. We stared at each other, eyeball to eyeball, until my eyes wandered to the name tag over his pocket: Littlejohn.
Okay, color me confused. The name tag said Littlejohn, but this was not the man I saw leading my mother out of the corn maze. He was much older than the other officer and thicker in build. Maybe this was Officer Littlejohn’s father, which meant this could be my mother’s husband—my stepfather. But that didn’t make sense either. This man had to be about
twenty years younger than my mother. That wouldn’t be unheard of, exactly; after all, Greg is ten years younger than I am. But it seemed unlikely. My brain was on overload. I needed time and privacy to work it all out, to make sense of everything. Then again, maybe this was a cousin or uncle, or a relation like that. Slowly, one bit of information did make sense.
I stuck my right hand out the window towards the cop. “Chief Littlejohn, I presume?”
“You presume correct.” Instead of shaking my hand, he handed me back my license. “We need to talk, Odelia. Where are you heading?”
I glanced at the GPS. “Um, to a place called the Blue Lobster.”
“Good choice. Follow me, I know a shortcut.” He turned to head back to his car.
In a slight panic, I called out my window, “You’re coming to dinner with me?”
Chief Littlejohn turned back towards my car. This time he bent at the waist to get down closer to my level. He’d put his sunglasses back on and his mouth was a tight, thin line. “You got a problem with that?”
“Uh…”
After a long, tense moment, he broke into a half smile. “Is there a law against a big brother taking his long-lost sister out to dinner?”
The Blue Lobster was somewhere between a shack and a real restaurant. Located on a large corner lot seemingly out in the middle of nowhere, it shared a gravel parking lot with an old-fashioned ice cream stand. The restaurant itself was a weather-beaten blue building with three large eating areas—an inside area, a screened-in porch, and an outside deck. Judging from the way the building was laid out, it was clear that the Blue Lobster had started out as a simple and small take-out place, and over time evolved into what it was today. Each section looked like it had been added on in a different decade, with the open deck added last. The ice cream stand was a small, faded green building with a couple of windows in the front through which the treats were served. Its eating area consisted of about a half dozen picnic tables under a portable tent. Across the road was a large seasonable vegetable and fruit stand with its own parking lot. All of them were doing a brisk business.
Corpse on the Cob Page 4
