At home in California, I walk almost every day for exercise, with Wainwright as my companion. It had only been a couple of days, but I missed my morning walk. It wasn’t merely good exercise; it also helped me to think clearly. Many a problem, big and small, had been dissected and brought to resolution while pounding the pavement and the sand around Seal Beach. Most of the time when I travel, I toss exercise clothes into my luggage just in case I feel the need to move my joints and clear my head. This trip, although only a couple days, was no different. Back at the B & B, I changed into some black, stretchy exercise capris and a long purple tee shirt with a sunburst on the front. Instead of taking my iPod, which is usually plugged into my ears during my walks, I tucked my cell phone in the pocket of my pants in case either Willie or Greg called.
I headed south on the winding road in front of the inn. There were no sidewalks, just dirt and gravel shoulders on each side of the narrow road, with lush vegetation beyond that. Along the left side was a low, irregular stone fence, uneven and jagged in spots, that had probably been there since the time of the minutemen. Overhead, the trees, slender birch and sturdy maples, whispered in the humid breeze as a chorus to the gentle hum of insects and call of birds. The air was sweet and heavy. I filled my lungs with it, sucking it deep into every chamber. The road wasn’t well traveled. Just the odd car or truck went by while I plodded along. In the distance, I heard the call of a child, followed by the bark of a dog. Houses were sparse, and the ones I saw were well maintained, with large yards and gardens. As I passed one house, I smelled charcoal being fired up in an outdoor grill.
With the steady slap of my sneakers as the metronome for my thoughts, the details of the last two days marched through my brain in chronological order. I inspected each one for clues and details. Then I started mentally rearranging them, hoping to make some sense of the chaos.
My mother was found hovering over a dead body, with blood on her hands. Check. My mother seemed too old to have stabbed McKenna with the broken flagpole. Check. Troy Morgan may have been the first one to stumble upon the scene. Check. McKenna was known to be involved with drugs. Check. Clark was involved with a drug-related shooting in Boston years ago. Check. Cathy was lying about her feelings about Clark. Maybe. Something funny was going on at Buster’s. Double check.
Pulling out my phone, I called Willie. “Where are you?” I asked, as soon as he answered.
“The question, little mama, is where are you? You’re huffing and puffing like the little engine that could.”
“I’m in the middle of a power walk to burn off stress and some of that fattening food.”
“Me, I’m at the hospital. I have an idea how you can get a little one-on-one time with your mother.”
“Great. And the watchtower?” I talked while walking, keeping my eyes on the road in front of me while my brain concentrated on the call. The exercise and humidity caused sweat to flow down my forehead and back like champagne at New Year’s. I wiped my brow with my free hand and wished I’d brought a bottle of water.
“I have the name of the kid manning it during the time of the murder. He wasn’t there today, so I couldn’t talk to him, but he’s local, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Marty Cummings.”
“Cummings? A Joan Cummings works at the police station. Wonder if she’s any relation.”
“That’s his mother. When I asked around about the kid, someone told me his mother worked at the PD.”
“Are you lying to people again, Willie, telling them they might get their names in the paper?”
“Hey, if something works for me, I stick with it. But here’s the interesting thing. One of the other kids working at Tyler’s told me Marty wasn’t in the tower that morning like he was supposed to be.”
“So he wasn’t the one who spotted the flags and called for help.”
“No, someone on the ground saw them and heard the screams.”
My feet stopped moving. Paused in the road, I concentrated on remembering the configuration of the maze and the area around it. “So where was this Marty kid if he wasn’t at his post?”
Willie laughed. “They found him in the port-a-john, stoned out of his mind.”
“Potted in the potty?” It struck me as funny and would have been funnier had someone not died that morning.
“There’s more. The other kid told me Marty had a nice, plump bag of weed on him when he was found, but out of deference to his mother and her position, the cops ignored that little fact and just questioned him. Farmer Tyler, on the other hand, fired the little sucker.”
Drugs again. And now the puzzle of Joan Cummings’ outburst made sense. It was her son who had been nabbed for drugs and handcuffed in front of everyone. No wonder she was on the verge of going postal that morning. I put my feet back to work, using the rhythm to keep my thoughts focused.
“Willie, I paid a visit to the produce stand this afternoon, and something funny is going on down there. My gut tells me it’s drugs.”
“Why not? It’s organic.”
“I’m serious, Willie.” I filled him in on my observations about the drive-through customers who received special corn in special bags and how none of that money appeared to be going into the general till. I also told him about Cathy’s fight with the driver of the white sedan and my not-so-cordial greeting by Clem Brown.
“Certainly sounds fishy. Why don’t I drive over there and check it out?”
“You going to pose as a customer?”
“Not exactly. Most likely, she has a specific client base. A stranger wandering in and asking for a little something special immediately would make her think ‘undercover cop.’ But don’t worry, I’ll come up with something.”
I glanced at my watch. “Do you want to meet up at the inn later? Or should I go straight to the hospital instead?”
“Let’s meet at the hospital in about two and a half hours. That will be right about dinnertime for most folks. My contact says there are few visitors at that time. Most come earlier in the day or after their dinner. The patients themselves eat pretty early.”
“You have a contact at the local hospital?” It boggled my mind.
“I do now.” I could hear his smirk through the phone.
After hanging up from Willie, I repocketed my cell and threw myself into my walking, pumping my arms and pushing my chunky legs like steady pistons. I kept it up for another ten minutes, then crossed the street and started back, keeping up the same steady pace. Pushing my body harder, I tried not to think about meeting my mother in a few hours.
Not very far from the inn, I saw a car approach. As the distance between us closed, I noted that it was a dark blue, late-model Honda. It slowed down. As soon as it passed, the car made a U-turn and pulled up next to me. I glanced over to see the driver was the reporter from outside the police department yesterday morning, the young blond.
“Mrs. Stevens, may I have a word with you?” she called from her vehicle.
I kept walking, wondering how she got my name. The car kept pace with me. “I gave my report to the police. I have nothing to say to you.”
“Mrs. Stevens, as I told you yesterday, my name is Brenda Bixby. I’m a journalist.”
“I remember.” In spite of being tired, I moved my legs a little faster. “Still have nothing to say.”
“I’m working on a special story involving yesterday’s murder, and I need your help.”
I ignored her.
“You see, I don’t think the murder is the real story. I think the real story is you.”
I stopped in my tracks and stared at her. The car pulled ahead a few feet before it also stopped. Brenda Bixby stepped out of the car but didn’t move towards me. She was dressed in slim, snug-fitting jeans and a tight green sweater, both showing her figure off to its best advantage. Her long blond hair was loose around her pretty face. Studying her now, I could see she was much younger than I had thought the day before, perhaps
only in her mid-twenties.
“I know you’re Grace Littlejohn’s daughter, Mrs. Stevens. And I know you haven’t seen your mother in a very long time.” She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it behind an ear on one side. “Tell me how it feels to finally come face to face with her over a corpse.”
“Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“It’s no joke, Mrs. Stevens. Our viewers will eat this up. Mother goes missing. Years later, daughter finds her—but when she does, Mommy is covered in a dead man’s blood. It’s sensational.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “How could you know all this?”
Brenda Bixby shot me a smug look. “I have my sources.” She took a small step towards me. “Since yesterday, I’ve done quite a bit of digging on you, Odelia Grey Stevens. Married to a paraplegic. Reside in Seal Beach, California. Paralegal at the same law firm for many years. Why, you’re even a notary.” She took another step in my direction. “More importantly, you have a nose for murder.”
“Cripes.” I stomped my right foot in frustration. “Has the whole freaking world Googled me this week?”
She laughed. “I didn’t Google you. I’m a journalist. I have information sources most people don’t.”
Geez, now she was sounding like Willie.
“What do you want, Ms. Bixby? I have to get back and get ready for an appointment.”
“You going to see your mother?”
“Not unless Chief Littlejohn says she’s up to meeting me, which doesn’t seem likely.”
“Give me your story, Odelia. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“That’s Mrs. Stevens to you.”
At first, Brenda looked surprised by my snappish comment, then her facial features melted back into her former smug demeanor. “I can always write it without you, based on the information I’ve already dug up.”
I started walking away. “Be my guest,” I shot over my right shoulder. “Just be careful of slander. I have my sources, too. Legal ones.”
“Maybe I’ll even throw in a few hints that you and mommy weren’t so estranged after all. Maybe the two of you did Frankie McKenna in, and you’re letting Grace Littlejohn take the fall.”
I stopped short, my anger bubbling inside like a pressure cooker with a faulty valve.
“Seems awfully strange that you’d find her on exactly the day she chose to kill someone, doesn’t it?” Brenda’s tone was haughty and taunting, grating on my nerves, bringing up awful memories of being teased and bullied when I was in elementary school, an age when kids made fun of you to your face, before they learned to hide it in giggles produced from behind cupped hands, then graduated to blindsiding you on rural roads.
No, Odelia, I told myself. Don’t rise to her bait. Keep walking. I continued to put one foot in front of the other, putting distance between me and Brenda Bixby with each step of my size 9 sneakers. Up ahead, I could see the Maple Tree Bed and Breakfast. I was almost up to a jog.
“Whatever it is you and your mother are hiding, Odelia,” Brenda called from behind me, “I’ll find it. Trust me—I have a nose for a red-hot story.”
Three Rivers Community Hospital was located on the banks of a river just outside of Holmsbury. It was a tidy, modern, two-story facility that served the general needs of the communities around it. It was also small—so small that it could have fit into the parking lot of Hoag Hospital back in Newport Beach. Its size, and the fact that the local people all seemed to know one another, was going to make it difficult to get in to see my mother without rousing curiosity.
Just as I pulled into the hospital parking lot, my cell phone rang. It was Willie. I tapped the button on my earpiece to answer.
“Where in the hell are you?” he asked. “You’re late. Did you get cold feet?”
“I’ll explain later. I’m pulling into the parking lot right now.”
It had taken me forever to drive from the inn to the hospital because I was paranoid that the journalist from hell was following me. I drove up and down country roads, got on the interstate, got off the interstate—I even drove to a mall and had a cup of coffee before finally making my way to the hospital through the magic of the GPS. Brenda Bixby swore she’d get to the bottom of whatever I was hiding. Well, I wasn’t hiding anything, unless you counted Willie. The last thing I wanted was for her to do her gold-star digging on him.
I spotted Willie’s SUV parked between two pickups on the far side of the building. I started to head for it, but he stopped me.
“Don’t park near me,” he warned. “But don’t park close to the entrance either—that’s where the chief would park. I was told he’s already been here today, but you never know. Do you see his vehicle anywhere?”
I scanned the parking lot for Clark’s car but didn’t see it. There weren’t any other official vehicles in evidence either.
“Nope. No police cars either.”
“Good.”
After parking, Willie gave me further instructions. “Your mother is in a room on the second floor in the back. There doesn’t appear to be any special watch on her, which makes me think the cops don’t link her to the actual killing of McKenna. Otherwise, there would be a guard.”
“So I can just saunter in?” It seemed too easy, but I’d take easy over difficult any day.
“Not so fast, slick. I’m sure the nurses are keeping an eye out for reporters and will question anyone not instantly recognized as a family member. Clark might even have them keeping an eye out for you specifically.”
I was keeping my eyes peeled for reporters, too. “So what can we do?”
“Don’t worry, I have it all set up.”
As Willie directed, I parked my car and walked into the hospital like I knew what I was doing. Once there, I was to hang a left and walk to the end of the corridor. I followed his instructions and found myself in the hospital chapel. Up front, a woman knelt in prayer. The chapel was small and dimly lit, the only sound being the woman crying through her mumbled supplication. I sat in a pew near the back and off to the side and waited.
It wasn’t long before the doors to the chapel opened, and there she was—my mother. She was being pushed in a wheelchair by a young African-American man in an orderly uniform. When he spotted me, he directed the chair in my direction. My mother’s head was slightly down and her eyes appeared closed. She was dressed in a hospital gown and thin cotton robe. Across her lap was a light blanket. Her short, permed hair had been brushed away from her face, and her glasses rested low on her nose. She looked old and shrunken. She didn’t look up until her chair stopped in front of me. When she did, she didn’t look surprised at all.
The young man nodded to me and told my mother he’d be back in fifteen minutes to get her. Then he went over to the woman praying. “Mrs. Collins, Mr. Collins is awake now, if you’d like to see him.”
The woman looked up, her wet, swollen face full of hope. After crossing herself in front of the altar, she followed the orderly out.
The first words spoken to me by my mother in over thirty-four years were, “I knew you’d come.”
“Really? How could you know that, especially since you hardly know me at all.” I kept my voice low out of respect for my surroundings. My tone, however, was another story, as I struggled with the emotional rumblings inside me.
“I know you, Odelia, better than you think.” She gave me a short nod and a half wink. “Clark told me you’d changed your mind, but I didn’t believe him. You never were the type to give up easily. I knew once you’d found me, you wouldn’t leave without saying what you’d come to say.”
Okay, so she does know me. And obviously Clark doesn’t or he never would have lied. What’s more, why would he tell her that unless he was confident he could keep us apart? He must think I’m a docile fool—that I would go along with whatever he and Grady cooked up to tell me. It only made me more determined to get to the bottom of things.
We stared at each other, my mother and I, neither speaking. I felt the weight of time ticki
ng away. How could I say what I had to say to this woman in under fifteen minutes?
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I killed Frankie McKenna? Everyone else has.”
“Of all the questions I do have for you, Mom, that isn’t one of them.”
“No?”
“I’ve never thought you killed him. And I don’t think the police think you’re the killer either. If they did, there would be no way they’d let you out of your room without a police escort. You’d be under constant surveillance.”
She looked at me with greater interest. “That’s right, you’re some sort of modern Miss Marple, aren’t you? I read about you on the Internet.”
“You Googled me?” I raised my hands in surrender.
“Every year on your birthday since I got my own computer. At first there was nothing, then some interesting things started showing up.”
A doozy of a headache was forming behind my left eye, giving me a lopsided squint.
Grace Littlejohn scanned me up and down. “I see you never lost your baby fat.”
“No, Mom. As much as I tried to duck it, it just kept finding its way back.”
She chuckled softly. “I remember how you used to love those mint Girl Scout cookies. Me, I always liked the shortbread, but every year you’d beg me to buy the mint ones. If I didn’t watch you, you’d eat the whole box. You still eat those things?”
“Every chance I get.” I said the words with defiance and a jaw set in concrete. “You don’t happen to have any on you now, do you, Mom?”
My sarcasm went right over her head. “It’s September, Odelia.” She shook her head as if I’d just declared a belief in purple-spotted aliens. “Who in the world would have Girl Scout cookies this time of year?”
“Geez, how about me? I have at least six boxes in my home freezer and two in my desk drawer at the office.”
She laughed again, then stopped short like someone pulled her plug from a wall socket. “You’re serious, aren’t you? No wonder you’re still as big as a house.”
The headache marched to my other eye, advancing on it without mercy.
“A girl’s got to find comfort where she can, Mom. You found the bottle. I found cookies.” I watched the meaning of my words seep into her skull like ink on a blotter, but she gave no indication of its impact.
Corpse on the Cob Page 11
