“Over here,” someone from Brenda’s cabin called to the kid.
A man dressed only in a towel greeted the delivery guy and took the pizza and sodas, then he called back into the cabin. “Brenda, you got a couple singles? He doesn’t have enough change.”
The man went back into the cabin and returned a second later to pay for the pizza. I peeked around the shrub as far as I dared to get a better look. When the man in the towel turned to go back inside, the weak glow from the porch light caught his face. It was Grady Littlejohn.
The North Woods must be the local No-Tell Motel.
While I waited out the departure of the delivery car with nervous energy, I turned and scanned the area, looking for a quicker escape route than the road. It was then a slight movement at the other cabin, the one Tara had left, caught my eye. The blinds were parted and a man was looking out, the dim light in the cabin behind him creating a silhouette. He was watching Grady, same as I was. As Grady closed the door to his cabin, the man caught sight of me. I ducked back farther behind the shrubs. When I poked my nose out again, he was still there—still staring in my direction and making no attempt to hide from me. I just about peed in my pants.
Afraid that the man in the other cabin was going to call someone and report a peeper, as soon as the pizza wagon left, I started slinking my way from tree to tree in the direction of the exit. The phone in my pants vibrated, but I didn’t dare take the time or make the noise necessary to answer it. As soon as I felt it safe, I made for the road and Greg, hurrying before he called out the militia.
“Grady?” Greg shook his head. He had repeated the name in surprise several times since I’d returned to the car and sped out of the parking lot as if we were being chased by a T-rex. I’d filled Greg in while I drove, my mouth moving as fast as the car.
“Seems little brother isn’t as dumb as people are making him out to be.”
“So the legend about Leland Littlejohn’s money is true.”
“Seems possible. And from what I overheard, Mom was digging out fifty thousand dollars for Morgan. I’m assuming he meant Les Morgan, not Cathy.”
“Sounds like Cathy’s about to be dumped by a second Littlejohn.”
“Sure looks that way.”
We were back at the inn after picking up a pizza and sodas of our own for dinner. Greg had also wanted an order of fried zucchini sticks, but I insisted on a salad.
“Hold off on the fried food,” I told him. “Before we go home, I’m taking you to the Blue Lobster.”
“What’s the Blue Lobster?”
“Trust me, you’ll love it.”
We were eating in the kitchen at a small wooden table. I didn’t think Mrs. Friar would mind. It was less stuffy than the formal dining room. I’d pulled dishes and utensils from the cupboard. We were about to start eating when a car pulled into the driveway. I peeked out the window.
“It’s Clark,” I announced to Greg. I went to the back door and let him in. He didn’t seem happy as he followed me to the kitchen.
“Want some pizza and salad?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’ll take a soda though.”
I handed him a can and a napkin. He popped the top and took a long drink.
“We’re surprised to see you tonight, Clark,” said Greg as he dished up salad.
“Can’t get enough of us?” I joked.
“This isn’t a social call.” Clark was using the same tone he had used at the field. “I thought I told you to keep your nose out of things.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you telling me you did not go for a joyride around Tyler’s farm tonight?”
“Are you having us watched?” I stared at my half brother with indignation.
“No, I’m not. Though it might not be a bad idea. But that farm and field are being watched. A car with your plates was seen driving around the maze earlier tonight. When I received the call, I about blew my stack.”
“Calm down, Clark,” I told him. “I was just showing Greg the layout, that’s all.”
“Well, cut it out. Don’t go near that farm ever again. Got me?”
I agreed, then turned to Greg. “Doesn’t he remind you of Dev Frye, honey?”
“Yes, kind of. Just not as big.”
Clark eyed the pizza. “That from Rinaldi’s? I grew up on that stuff.”
I got up and retrieved another place setting from the cupboard. I slipped a slice of pizza onto the plate and held it out to Greg to add salad.
“No salad for me,” said Clark. “Should have tried the fried zucchini instead. Best anywhere.”
Greg cocked an eye my way.
“You’ll take salad and eat it,” I ordered. “Both of you.”
While we ate, I glanced off and on at Greg, using eye movement and facial gestures to ask if we should tell Clark what we found out. He was doing the same back at me.
Clark stopped eating and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Okay, you two. What’s up?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, reaching for another piece of pizza.
“You two either have contagious facial tics or you’re sitting on information. Out with it.”
I looked at Greg just as he stuffed his mouth with pizza and made gestures that he couldn’t talk with his mouth full. Yeah, right. I turned to Clark.
“You’re right, Clark, we did find out a few things tonight.”
“I thought you promised me to keep out of it.”
“I made that promise under coercion and police brutality.”
“What?” Greg asked, suddenly finding his voice.
Clark rolled his eyes. “Police brutality, my ass.” He put down his pizza and crossed his arms across his chest. “What in the hell am I supposed to do with you? Lock you up like that cop in California suggested?”
Greg took a drink of his soda. “Just go with it, Clark. It’s what I do. Life’s a lot easier that way.”
Clark glared at Greg. “And how are you any better? You’re riding right along with her on this. Hell, I’m surprised Willie isn’t here, adding to the problem.” He paused. “Or is he off doing his own investigation?”
I straightened in my chair. “He’s on a date, Clark. Just like I told you.”
“Clark,” Greg began, “it’s true, Odelia can’t seem to stay clear of murder and mayhem. I came here to keep her safe. That’s why Willie’s here, too. I’ve learned it’s more productive that way. If I tied her up and locked her in a room, I’d probably go to jail, and she’d divorce me. I don’t want the former and couldn’t live with the latter. Understand?”
Clark got up and went to the kitchen sink. With both hands on the edge of the sink and his back to us, he huffed and puffed his way through his thoughts. Greg gave me a raised eyebrow. I shrugged. Who knew what Clark was thinking, but I was now very sure we needed to tell him what we knew.
A minute or two later, he returned to the table and sat down. “Okay, shoot. What have you got? Although something tells me I’m not going to like it.”
He devoured three slices of pizza and two helpings of salad while I talked.
Greg was in bed reading. I was at the desk doodling names, listing possible motives, and drawing connection lines from one individual to another. It was beginning to look like a spider’s web. As soon as the clothes in the dryer were done, I was calling it a night.
Willie had come back to the inn to change before his date. When we got home, I had found a small stack of dirty laundry neatly piled by our door with Thanks! written across a piece of paper on top. He had called a few minutes ago to say he wouldn’t be back tonight and not to worry. He said he was doing some important undercover work, then he laughed. I asked him to check with Sybil about any gossip regarding Grady Littlejohn, Brenda Bixby, and Tara Brown.
We’d told Clark everything we’d found out—about Joan giving her son drugs the morning of the murder in the maze, and about Brenda and Grady’s relationship and what was said about the hidden money.
“Okay,” Clark said, trying to wrap his head around all the information. “Assuming Mom does know where that money is, why would she be giving fifty thousand dollars to Les Morgan?” Before we could say anything, he added, “The only reason to pay that kind of money to creeps like him is for blackmail.”
“If Les was working for the same outfit as McKenna,” I said, “then he knew about the Browns’ drug business. Those are his former in-laws. He might even have a grudge against them. And Grady, a cop, was going to marry his ex-wife.”
Greg added his thoughts. “Seems like a lot of people knew about that hidden money, or at least the rumor about it. Cathy could have told Les while they were married, and he remembered. She seems fixed on it.”
Clark shook his head slowly. “How ironic. Cathy’s been after the Littlejohn hidden treasure for years. Now Grady’s planning on stealing it and leaving her flat.”
He got up and paced the kitchen floor, running his hands through his hair. “Grady and I have never been close. Probably the age difference, but maybe not. He’s agreeable enough, just never seemed very motivated. Never finished college. Couldn’t keep a job. Always looking for the easy way out. Used his looks as far as he could. As much as I try to pass it off as him being kind of dull, he’s not. He’s just lazy. I’ve always covered for him, for Mom’s sake.”
“So you really do think he knows about the drug business?”
“Yeah. He’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to, living with Cathy as he is.” He shook his head. “I’m almost tempted to give him cash so he and his secret honey can leave town and start fresh. Maybe it’s what he needs.” Clark said it more to himself than to us.
“You know, Clark,” I began, not relishing bringing up my current thought, “it could be Brenda’s informant at the station isn’t Joan, but Grady.”
Clark looked at me, his eyes dull and lifeless. “Or both. Some chief I am, huh?”
After an awkward silence, I got up and moved the dishes to the sink for washing. “Okay, let’s say Les Morgan contacts Mom and tells her unless she pays up, he’s going to finger her fair-haired son for drugs. It would not only ruin his career as a cop, it could also endanger yours.” I ran some hot water into the sink and added dish soap that I had found under the counter. “If she had the money, she’d pay up, wouldn’t she?”
“Yes, especially after what happened with me in Boston.” Clark sat down heavily in his chair. “During a drug bust that went wrong, I shot and killed one of my informants. People said it was to cover up the fact that I was on the take from drug dealers. I wasn’t. The investigation cleared me, but that was a tough time for Mom. I’m sure if Les told Mom that Grady was involved in drugs, she’d do most anything to make sure it didn’t come to light.”
Clark looked at me with a sad grin. “As ornery as she is, Mom does love us all in her own way, including you.”
I swallowed hard and turned back to the dishes.
Greg rolled over to the sink, grabbed a dish towel, and started drying the dishes as I washed them. “That could explain why Grace was in the maze,” he said. “She was paying off Les Morgan.”
I stopped washing and turned to Clark. “But there was no money found in the maze that day, was there?”
“Not that I know of.”
“And that still doesn’t explain why Mom was erasing the prints on the pole or who killed Les Morgan.” I went back to washing, talking over my shoulder. “All we may know now is why Mom was there in the first place.”
“What about Marty and his mother?” The question came from Greg. “How do they fit into this?”
“Yes,” I said, “we seem to have forgotten about them. Why would Joan give dope to her space-cadet son on that particular morning, especially considering how hard she was trying to keep him clean?”
“Puzzles the hell out of me,” said Clark. “She had to have known he’d smoke out right away and be useless.”
Greg and I had finished the dishes, and I was wrapping up the leftover pizza and salad. “Unless,” I said, “she wanted to make sure he was useless that particular morning.”
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”
“Maybe Joan knew something was going to go down in the maze that morning. She might have thought that if her son was stoned, he wouldn’t go to work, keeping him out of harm’s way. He seems the type to just blow off a job, especially one like working the maze. But instead, he went to work and got stoned there.”
“That line of thought, if true, would mean Joan might be involved with the killing.” Clark said the words slowly, like each one was horrible and nasty to his taste. “Or knew it was going to happen.”
“If she was feeding Brenda Bixby information, why couldn’t someone have fed Joan information, maybe in an effort to keep her son out of the way?” I leaned against the kitchen counter. “I wish Mom would talk. I still think she knows a lot about all this.”
I looked around the kitchen, making sure it was as spotless as when we’d found it. “Either way,” I continued, “Marty saw nothing.” I paused. “Unlike Troy, who apparently is having nightmares. Makes you wonder what he saw, doesn’t it?”
Clark answered. “We’re not sure he saw anything except a dead body and our mother bent over it.”
“Clark,” Greg began, his face squeezed in concern, “do you think when Troy saw the body, he knew it was his father?”
“Cathy claims Troy hasn’t seen his father in several years. With the shock of seeing a body, especially one impaled like that, he might not have noticed the face.” Clark played with the salt and pepper shakers on the table. “We’ve asked him, but he says he didn’t know. But my gut tells me he’s lying, at least about something.”
Soon after, Clark said goodnight, but not before admonishing us to keep out of it. We’d helped enough and he thanked us for it, but he’d take it from here. It was police business, not ours.
Humph. Clark was forgetting something. This wasn’t just police business, it was family business. Therefore, it was my business.
Tapping my pen against one of the names on my list, I mulled over a thought. “Greg, Willie said that Frankie McKenna was a liaison between the drug supplier and the drug dealer. Would you assume that meant he picked up the cash from their retail outlets?”
“Retail outlets?” Greg gave me a strange look over the top of his book. “Jesus, Odelia, you’re making it sound like a Gap franchise.”
“You know what I mean. If the Browns are selling the drugs for a supplier, how would they exchange the money for more drugs?”
“I guess they would either go to the supplier or the supplier would send one of his people here.” He thought a minute. “So McKenna could have been the go-between. He could have delivered more product and picked up money. Sure.”
“Cathy said that Tara keeps the books for the farm and the stand. I wonder if she also keeps them for the drug money. I don’t recall seeing Cathy put that money in the same till, but Tara could still keep the books on it.”
“Sweetheart, I doubt the books on the drugs would be kept in the same ledger as the farm’s accounting.”
“Silly, I know that. And they wouldn’t be that extensive—just an accounting of outgo versus income and the divvying up of the profits. They would run all expenses through the farm for tax purposes. Anything from the drugs would be unreportable. But I’ll still bet that somewhere there is a journal of some kind tracking it. Just wondering if Tara kept that as well, or if someone else did.”
“If drugs are a family business, like the farm, she might keep the figures on both.”
“So the question is, what was she really doing in the maze? Was she simply taking her nephew through it early in the day before the crowds, or was she making an exchange of money for product?” I got up and sat on the edge of Greg’s bed. “Doesn’t it seem odd that the bookkeeper of the Brown family enterprise was one of the people who found the body?”
“You think she was there to make an exchange? Odd place,
don’t you think? That maze doesn’t run all year. Much easier to do it someplace more convenient, like at the stand itself.”
“I agree, the maze is an odd choice, but I doubt the Browns would meet with the supplier at their place of business. Too risky for exposure. I’ll bet the exchanges usually took place somewhere inconspicuous, like a mall parking lot or something like that. And don’t you think the Browns would use someone who could go virtually unnoticed for the exchange—someone like Tara, who, again, is their money person?”
Through our open room door, I heard the dryer stop. “Be right back.”
“Before you go, can you grab me my laptop?” Greg put down his book as I handed him the compact computer.
A minute later, I came back with the clean, dry clothes in my arms. After kicking our door shut with a foot, I tossed them on my bed and started folding and hanging. Greg had booted up the laptop and was maneuvering it, looking for something.
“Think about it,” I said as I folded one of Willie’s tee shirts. “The people here are nosy by nature. They know everyone and almost everything about each other. The farmers might be noticed and are busy with the farm. Cathy is busy with the stand. And people might take note of two cars meeting on a country road. But a housewife in the parking lot of a grocery store or mall, or someplace like that, would go virtually unnoticed. She’d be the perfect one to be the liaison on the Brown side.”
I put Willie’s clothing in a pile on top of the dresser and put ours in the drawers and closet. “If that’s the case, I wonder if Tara knew that it was Les Morgan and not Frankie McKenna she was meeting in the maze.”
“If she was meeting him in the maze. We don’t know that for sure. Maybe she was meeting her lover.” Greg continued to tap away at his keyboard.
“With Troy in tow, unlikely. And why would she have Troy tag along on a drug deal unless it was to provide cover?” I paused. “Seems like none of the Browns are concerned about Troy being exposed to all this.”
I’d told Clark that I thought I saw Tara Brown leaving a rendezvous at the North Woods. He didn’t seem surprised.
“I’m almost glad,” he’d said. “Clem’s been slapping her around for years. Although if he found out, he’d probably kill both of them. Did you recognize the guy?”
Corpse on the Cob Page 20
