Corpse on the Cob

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  While Greg kept watch, I continued down the narrow dirt road, driving slowly over the uneven terrain in the rental car. No one seemed to notice or care. The fair across the street was in the midst of being broken down. People were busy packing trucks and vans with everything from tables and chairs to products that didn’t sell.

  The road took a sharp turn to the right, then turned left at the border of the maze. It was a service road, dividing the maze from the unplanted field next to it. Down this far, there was no yellow tape warning people to keep out. I took the left and followed the road until I reached the end of this side of the maze. The road ended just short of the river, giving us the choice of turning left and following it behind the maze, or turning right alongside the empty field. We turned left.

  “It looks like it circles the maze, doesn’t it, Greg?”

  “Yes, and I noticed a couple of small openings cut into the maze on these sides. Probably additional exits.”

  The wall of cornstalks to my left stood straight and tall like soldiers in close rank, while the smell of corn and earth, mixed with the loamy scent of the river, drifted through my open window.

  “You know, Greg, it would have been easy for someone, anyone, to have slipped in here Saturday morning unnoticed.” Not paying attention to my driving, the car hit a pothole. Both of us bumped up and down inside as we went through it. “In fact, this is a perfect place for a murder.”

  “Or a secret rendezvous,” Greg added. “People could have easily slipped in and out of there before the thing opened.”

  “Then why the pole in the first place? If someone slipped in from one of the back exits, why would they need a flagpole?”

  “Does seemed kind of silly. Those are used to help people find their way out, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, the flags help the maze people keep track of how many people are in the maze and are devices for people in the maze to call for help. Although,” I began, taking my eyes off the bumpy road just long enough to glance at Greg, “Cathy told me tonight that Les hated corn mazes and suffered from claustrophobia. Maybe he’s the one who had the first flag.”

  We continued along the road, turning left at the end of the back of the maze.

  “You thinking he took it when no one was looking?”

  “Could be he grabbed it as a safety net so that after his meeting he had a way to get out, just in case he couldn’t find one of the exits on his own. Willie was told that poles sometimes get misplaced, so maybe no one cared when flag number one wasn’t there when they opened.”

  Greg craned his head to get a good look at the barrier of corn outside my window. “If what Cathy told you is true, Les Morgan had to have had a pretty compelling reason to throw his fears to the wind and enter this thing.”

  When we reached the end of the far side of the maze, the road went past the area where the concessions and picnic tables stood, then forked again. To the right, the road led to farm buildings. To the left, it headed back towards the entrance and parking lot. We turned left again and completed our circle.

  I pointed out the car window at the lookout tower. “That’s where Marty, Joan Cummings’ son, was supposed to be that morning.”

  “That’s the kid who was found stoned, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonder where he got the pot?”

  I cocked at eyebrow at my husband. “What?”

  “The pot. Was Marty a customer of the Browns, or did he have another source?”

  “You think there might be drug turf issue in this small town.”

  “Could be, but I’m thinking more along the lines of who actually gave it to him. Was it something he already had or was he recently given it? You know, sweetheart, someone might have slipped him some fresh weed to get him out of the way that morning—after all, everyone knew he did drugs, right?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” I leaned over and gave Greg a quick kiss. “You’re getting good at this.”

  “I had to be a quick study to keep up with you.”

  “Willie tried to talk to Marty, but he wasn’t here yesterday. Maybe one of us should try to locate the kid, preferably without his mother around.”

  Greg rubbed his beard. “Troy told me he starts back at school tomorrow. Marty probably does, too. He in high school or college?”

  “Clark said he dropped out. We might have to track him down at his mother’s while she’s at work, or find out where Marty works, providing he has a job.”

  “Too bad you can’t ask that reporter. I’ll bet she’ll know, but it would tip her off.”

  “Yeah, the less she’s involved, the better.”

  I turned the car back up the dirt drive towards the street. A small group of older teens was coming into the parking lot from the fair area. Greg asked me to stop.

  “Hey, man,” he called out the window to two boys walking together. They were joking around and laughing. “Hey,” Greg called again, “I was wondering if you could help me.”

  One of the boys broke away and came up to our car. “If I can.” He was tall and thick, with meaty arms poking out from his tee shirt.

  “I’m looking for a kid named Marty Cummings. Know where he is?”

  “He’s not here, mister. Old Man Tyler fired him yesterday.”

  “Know where I can hook up with him?”

  The kid thought about it a minute, then turned to his companion, who I recognized as the pimply faced boy who’d directed me in the parking lot on my first visit to the farm.

  “Hey, J.P.,” he called to his friend. “You know where that loser Cummings is?”

  J.P. came up to the car and scratched his head in thought. “Hard to say, but he might be at work. He’s been working nights at that new home improvement store over on Bank Street.”

  “Got the name of the place?” Greg asked.

  “It’s one of the big chains, not sure which one,” J.P. told him. “Only one like it in the area. It’s on the corner of River Street and Bank in Thomasville, just off the main highway. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks, guys.”

  The boys walked away to join their friends at a small cluster of vehicles still left in the parking lot.

  Greg grinned at me. “Who says men don’t ask for help.”

  “Shall we head for Thomasville?”

  Greg answered by punching the intersection and city into the GPS. After a short search, it came up with directions.

  The store was still open, but the parking lot was nearly empty. Greg and I entered the huge building stacked with everything from toilets to drill bits, plants to paint, and looked at each other for the next step.

  “Might be difficult to find him.” Greg rolled into the main aisle and glanced up and down it.

  “I sort of remember what he looks like. A tall, skinny kid, straight brown hair on the long side. About eighteen to twenty years old.”

  “Should we have him paged?”

  “Might scare him off. I also don’t want to bring any more attention to him than necessary.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Greg came up with a plan to divide and conquer the space of the warehouse-sized store. I went to the large horizontal middle aisle and started at one end. He stayed in the front horizontal aisle and started at the other end. From opposite directions, we walked down our respective aisles towards the center with our cell phones connected to each other. It was clear that the place was operating with a lean sales staff. Along the way, I saw someone helping a customer with paint chips, and a husband and wife deciding on kitchen cabinets, but no Marty Cummings and no alert from Greg.

  I was starting to think Marty wasn’t scheduled to work when I heard Greg say through the phone, “Hey, man, can you help me with something?” I trotted past a couple more aisles and finally spotted them both, Greg and Marty, halfway down the aisle containing electrical fixtures.

  As I approached, Greg introduced me. “This is my wife. She has some questions.”

  One look at Marty, and I knew
he was stoned. Maybe not fully baked, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to pass a urine test. He shifted from foot to foot in a blatant display of lack of attentiveness and over-relaxation, waiting for me to ask him something about home improvement, which I doubted he knew much about.

  I didn’t mince words. “Who gave you the drugs Saturday morning, Marty?”

  His mouth fell open enough for me to catch sight of fillings. “What?”

  “Saturday morning at the corn maze. Did you have those drugs on you when you went to work, or did someone give them to you?”

  “Who the hell are you?” The question was laced with wonder, not anger.

  “Friends, Marty,” Greg added. “We just need to know who hooked you up with the pot. We heard from J.P. it was great stuff.”

  At the sound of a familiar name, Marty gave us a lazy smile. “The best. Better than the shit I usually smoke. Can’t afford the good stuff, you know.”

  “Where’d you get it?” Greg pressed. “We were told you were the man to help us out.” Greg was doing such a fine job of communicating with the druggie, I was impressed and worried at the same time.

  “The old lady gave it to me.”

  Old lady? Did he mean Mrs. Rielley? From the way Greg looked at me, I knew his brain had made the same leap.

  “What old lady, Marty?” Greg asked.

  “You know, my old lady.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “Nah, dude, my mother.”

  I held up a hand, index finger pointed at him. “You’re telling us that your mother, Joan Cummings, gave you the pot on Saturday?”

  He gave us a sloppy nod. “Yeah, ain’t that the shit? She bitches at me all the time. Yakkity, yakkity.” He made talking movements with one hand. “Always on my back about not doing drugs, then shows up with a bag of primo weed and tells me to knock myself out. Says it’s a special day.”

  Greg moved closer to him. “The stuff you’re on tonight—get that from your old lady, too?”

  “Same stuff. Cops confiscated my stash, but I didn’t take it all with me Saturday.” He gave us a slow half-wink. “I ain’t stupid, you know.”

  We thanked him and started to leave when an idea hit me. I went back to the kid. “Marty, do you know Brenda Bixby?”

  “Bren, sure. She’s smokin’.”

  “I heard she was in town. Is she staying with you and your mother?”

  He shook his head. “No, says I’m a creepy perv.” He snorted. “Just because last time I sneaked a peek at her in the shower. I’m a guy, for crissakes.”

  “Okay, thanks again.” I started to walk away.

  “Try the North Woods Motel over on Spencer Street in Derek’s Grove.”

  “Excuse me?” I turned around.

  He shrugged. “Bren came to the house to see Ma. Could’ve sworn she said something about the North Woods. It’s over by the Kettle.”

  “The Kettle is where Willie went tonight,” I told Greg. “That’s where Sybil works. If he wasn’t on a date, I’d call him and have him check out the North Woods Motel.”

  Greg was fussing with the GPS. “Guess we’ll have to do that ourselves.” He tossed me a grin.

  “You are starting to enjoy this stuff way too much.” As he chuckled, I started the car.

  Derek’s Grove was a tiny town located two towns north from Thomasville and one town east of Saxton. If you blinked, you’d miss it. Following the GPS, we maneuvered through a web of country roads that turned into streets through small-town business districts, then dissolved again into sparsely populated roads until the next small town presented itself. None of the roads we traveled were straight but meandered, curving around bends, up rises and down hills, until we saw a small sign announcing Derek’s Grove, founded in 1790, population 862. We arrived just as the sun went down.

  We had keyed the GPS for the North Woods Motel. Once in Derek’s Grove, the device took us through the middle of the town’s small city center with its picturesque town hall and few businesses. We followed the directions around a small rotary that spit us out on the other side, onto Spencer Street. Shortly after that, the GPS mechanical voice alerted us that our destination was a mile on the left. About a hundred yards before the North Woods, we spied the large lit sign for the Kettle on the right. The bar was larger than I expected, and the parking lot held a good number of cars. As we drove by, Greg pointed out Willie’s SUV.

  The North Woods Motel wasn’t really a motel at all but a cluster of tiny cabins scattered throughout a wooded grove with a narrow drive going through it. The cabins and their surroundings were a bit on the shabby side, but not horribly so; “rustic” might be the better word. I counted ten cabins. About half appeared occupied, with lights on and cars parked in front. The office was located in a large cabin nearest the road. It was well lit, and a neon sign announced vacancies, but I couldn’t see anyone through the window. The manager or owner could have been in the back watching TV. With today being the last day of the long weekend, I doubted that the North Woods expected any new guests tonight, and it wasn’t like it was located on a busy highway.

  Just past the motel, I pulled the car into the driveway of a closed auto repair shop. “What do you think?” I asked Greg.

  “Did you notice Brenda’s car anywhere?”

  “No, but she drives a dark blue Honda. Might be tough to see in the dark, especially with all those trees.” I unbuckled my seat belt.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to check out the cabins, see if I spot her car.”

  “Don’t, Odelia. We can just drive slowly through the road that goes through the property.”

  “She knows my car, Greg.” I started to get out. “I’ll only be a minute. She’s probably at dinner anyway.”

  “And if you find her, what then? You going to question her?”

  I thought a moment. I really didn’t want to leave Greg alone in the car. “Maybe I should drive to the Kettle and park there; that way, you can wait for me with Willie.” Greg looked skeptical. “Honey, you can’t come with me, and I need to find out if that’s where she’s staying. I can come back tomorrow and talk to her.”

  Greg reached out to grab my arm, but before he could I was out of my seat.

  “Ten minutes, Odelia. If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m calling Willie.”

  “Make it fifteen.”

  “Fifteen, but take your cell. Put it on vibrate.”

  I switched my phone to vibrate and stuck it into the pocket of my jeans. I heard Greg swear as I quietly shut the door.

  It took me just a couple of seconds to cover the few yards from the car to the motel grounds. It was much darker in the bosom of the property, which was sprinkled with low-level security lights that did little except mark the progression of the private drive. Counting on this darkness for cover, I tiptoed my way to the first cabin with a car. Not Brenda’s. Then to the next. Again, not hers. I made my way deeper into the property. The next two cabins both had two cars parked next to them. As I started for the closest of the two, something small scurried past me in the dead leaves at my feet. I nearly died of fright, but at least I didn’t shriek like a schoolgirl.

  Making my way as quietly as I could over the crunchy autumn fallout, I finally reached the first cabin with two cars—a silver minivan and a black truck. Neither vehicle was familiar to me. Just as I started for the next cabin, the door to this one opened. I ducked behind a couple of large trees and waited, knowing that my precious time was ticking away.

  A man came out first. He looked up and down the road before the next person followed him out. It was a woman of average build, with shoulder-length hair. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t be sure. They walked to the driver’s side of the minivan and kissed long and hard before opening the door. As the woman got into the van, the light inside illuminated her face. I wasn’t positive about her identification, especially since she wasn’t screaming hysterically at the moment, but I could have sworn it was Tara
Brown. Interesting.

  As soon as the minivan left and the guy went back into the cabin, I made for the next cabin with two vehicles. It appeared to be the last one on the property. One of the cars was a dark-colored Honda that I recognized as Brenda Bixby’s.

  All the cabins had a shallow porch in front with two plastic chairs and a nice-size window. The shades to the front window of the cabin with the Honda were closed, as were the shades to the cabin next to it. Slinking around the side of the cabin, I made my way to the back. There was a small, high window in the back wall, and it was open. Through it, I could hear water running, a shower, and two voices—a man’s and a woman’s. The woman’s voice morphed into giggles. It was Brenda, and she was obviously with a close friend. I pressed myself against the wall to the cabin and strained to listen.

  “We’re almost there, baby,” the man said. The voice sounded familiar, but it was difficult to tell over the sound of water. I dug into my brain to see if the other car I’d seen out front, a late-model SUV, was one I’d seen before, but came up empty. A few seconds later, the shower stopped. “Soon we’ll be long gone from this dump.”

  “You’re sure about the money?” I heard Brenda ask.

  “Yep, the old lady led me right to it when she took out that fifty grand for Morgan. Never saw me, but I saw everything. Looks like a whole lot more is there. Just have to wait until the time is right.”

  “Goody for us.” Brenda’s words were followed by noisy moaning and kissing.

  I was hoping to hear more when a car pulled into the drive and stopped in front of the cabin. Using the sound of the car’s engine to hide my footsteps, I slid alongside the cabin walls to the front. A few feet away was a large, thick stand of evergreen shrubs. I darted behind it to get a better view of the new arrival and the porch.

  The car that had just pulled up was a beat-up subcompact with a magnetized sign on the door announcing Rinaldi’s Pizza. A kid got out of the car and retrieved a large pizza hot sack from the back seat and a six-pack of soda. He looked from one cabin to the other, unsure of which was his destination. He was about to head for the other cabin when the door to Brenda’s opened and a dim yellow porch light was switched on.