by Anna Drake
“No. Barnaby never talked to me about that.”
I sighed. She might have been physically close to Scroggins, but his business had apparently remained solidly his own.
“Someone has told me Scroggins grew close to Samuel Farmer last Christmas. Do you have any idea why?”
Agnes’ head swung first left then right. “No. This is the first time I ever heard anything like that.”
“You think it’s unlikely?”
“Maybe. They didn’t exactly run in the same circles, did they?”
~~~
“I don’t think you learned much helpful,” Ginger said after having escorted Agnes out the front door. I was still in the kitchen, still facing down those darned cookies. “But at least you didn’t chase her out of the job on me. For which I’m grateful, by the way.”
“I’d have traded offending her for learning more about the murders,” I responded.
“More coffee,” she asked.
“Yes, please.”
“So what do you think?”
“About Anges?” I asked.
“About all of it,” Ginger said,
“Off the top of my head, I’d say somebody’s lying.”
“You’d better not be pointing that remark at my Christmas elf.”
“I’m not pointing it at anyone specific. But if we believe everything we’re being told, things don’t add up.”
“Like what things?” Ginger asked testily.
“I don’t know. I mean we have a huge business venture that had very little chance of success. Then, there’s Porter, who appeared to be lucky to have two dimes to rub together, convinced he was going to be part of the business deal of the century. Then, we have the alleged mastermind of the deal, who had no meaningful employment, announcing he was about to come into a massive amount of cash.”
“And?”
“And then we’ve got Agnes, who according to Valerie Farmer, was in dire need of money, and her son who ran errands for Scroggins and insisted his tasks were all honest and above board.”
“In other words,” Ginger chimed in, “you can’t see the killer yet for all the suspects.”
“Exactly.”
Ginger’s eyes flashed. “Well as far as Agnes goes, I think you can rule her out. I like her. She’s not a killer.”
“And I’ve met her son, and despite his rough edges, I like him.”
“Doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a killer.”
“No, you’re right. Nothing is ever that simple. For either him or his mother,” I added pointedly.
“Maybe we’re overlooking someone. What about Sparks? I never followed up on him.”
“I did. I met him for lunch this afternoon. He didn’t stand out as the likely killer, either.”
“Oh sure, one lunch and you’ve got the guy all figured out, right?”
I pulled a deep breath. “Ginger, we’re both tired. I know I am. Let’s sleep on it. See how we feel in the morning.”
“Suits me just fine. But you keep your hands off my elf.”
Eighteen
It was nearing five thirty when I arrived at Wendy’s house. The first thing that struck me when Wendy opened the door was the absence of a home cooked meal. I wondered if I’d missed something this morning. Had Wendy told me I was cooking tonight. If so, I didn’t remember it.
“I’m so glad you’ve arrived,” she said, closing the door behind me. “I’d have hated to start without you.”
“Start what?”
“Fried chicken. You’ve told me how fond of it you are and how your father dislikes making it. It’s tonight’s lesson. Follow me.”
Oh, great. A dish my father was afraid to tackle, and Wendy expected me to whip it out? And I was exhausted. My session with Ginger and Agnes had left me drained and discouraged.
“I’ve already marinated the chicken in buttermilk for you. It’s fantastic that way. Now, all you need to do is bread the pieces and fry them.”
“I hope you’ve got a backup plan in case I mess this up.”
“Nonsense. You’ll do fine.”
I shimmied out of my parka and scarf, deposited them in the closet, and followed Wendy into the kitchen.
A large implement sat, center stage, on a near counter. Wendy caught the drift of my gaze. “Go ahead,” she said. “Start up the fryer.”
I walked up to the thing. “This?” I asked resting a hand on its top.
“Yes, please set it for three hundred seventy five degrees.”
I peered down at the contraption and did as asked. “Done.”
“Good. Now, come over here.”
I sidled up beside her. She pointed to a large bowl. “Now, you’re going to put flour, cornmeal, thyme, paprika, salt, and pepper in this bowl. When you’re finished, take a fork and mix them together nicely. The measurements are all written down here.” She pointed to a pad of paper next to the bowl.
While I was assembling the dry stuff, she crossed to the refrigerator and returned with a collection of chicken pieces, all marinating in a large, plastic container. This she placed next to my bowl of dry goodies.
“Okay, now we’re going to walk the two bowls over to the fryer. When it reaches the proper temperature, you just pick up a piece of chicken from the buttermilk bowl with a pair of tongs. Then, you dip that piece in your dry mixture and lower the coated piece into the fryer.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I waited until the fryer reached the specified temperature and then did as instructed.
Wendy said, “Just a few pieces at a time will do quite nicely. We don’t want to overload the fryer. That might drop the temperature of the oil too much. So take care of these, then we’ll do more batches.”
“Okay.”’
“Don’t forget to set the timer.”
“Ah… for how long?”
“We can start checking them at eight minutes. Then, you flip the pieces over and continue cooking until the juices run clear.”
“Juices run clear?” I muttered darkly. “What does that mean?”
“It means when you stick a fork in it, blood doesn’t run out.”
Oh, ugh.
“It’s really not difficult,” Wendy said. “Now, while those first pieces are frying, we’ll grab a baking tray and put a rack on it. That will keep the cooked bits warm while we finish frying the rest of the chicken.”
I reached up with my forearm and wiped perspiration from my brow. I was beginning to see why Dad didn’t care to fuss with this dish.
“Now,” Wendy said, “let’s start the potatoes.”
“Potatoes?”
“Yes, I like mashed potatoes with my chicken. How about you?”
“Who’s making them?”
“You are.”
“Right.”
“I’ve already peeled them for you.” She showed me a bowl filled with water and naked spuds.
“Thank you.”
“And I’ve already salted the water and have fired it up on the burner there.” She pointed to a pan sitting at the front of the stove. “When it comes to a boil, you add the spuds, and voila.”
“Right.”
“Let’s check the chicken, shall we?”
“Sure.”
So after about a half hour of blood, sweat, and toil, I carried our perfectly cooked dinner to the table.
It all looked and smelled fantastic. And if I say so myself, it even tasted like it’d been produced by a cooking pro.
I collapsed into bed that night, exhausted by my early start to the day with the news of Porter’s murder, and ending that night with a taxing bout in the kitchen. I only hoped tomorrow would prove more normal.
~~~
Wendy and I made do with bowls of cereal the next morning. She had offered to make potato pancakes from the leftovers. But I’d declined her kind offer. I intended to eat nothing but lettuce leaves for weeks to come.
And if overconsumption hadn’t already dampened my appetite, today’s
edition of the Times certainly might. Their coverage of Porter’s murder loomed large above the fold on their front page.
The timing of the discovery of Porter’s body meant their murder story and ours would come out the same day. I felt the pressure. I’d be hard pressed to top their coverage.
All of which served to remind me that I’d shorted my work duties to pursue a killer. Where, I wondered with a sigh, were my priorities? I’d have to watch that tendency in the future.
“More coffee, dear?” Wendy asked.
“Please.”
I was going to need every drop of energy I could muster if I intended to do a decent job on Porter’s murder story. And all before the Gazette went to press shortly before noon.
~~~
I arrived at work early that day, leaving me plenty of time to handle routine news tasks and to put finishing touches to Porter’s murder story. After having called the police departments and fed a couple of obits into the system, I turned my attention to the murder write up, going through it several times. With mind bending concentration, I checked facts and details, style and pace. But it wasn’t until my third time through the story that I realized there was an important part missing.
I rubbed my temples and pondered what I saw as a problem. How had the police known there was a murder to be investigated inside a dark house at three in the morning? How had they been informed?
I picked up the phone and punched in Gossford’s number.
“Melanie,” he said as a greeting.
It always startled me. Someone on the phone knowing who I was before I could announce my name. “Hi,” I managed to respond.
“You’re calling early.”
“Yes, but don’t worry, I’ll come back at you before deadline.”
“Lucky me.”
Since I wasn’t quite sure how he meant that last line, I decided to overlook it. “I’ve come up with a question, I hoped you’d answer for me.”
“And?”
“What sent you to Porter’s house yesterday morning?”
“Well, that’s easy. We got an anonymous tip.”
“You’re kidding. Who would know there was a body to be found there at that hour? No one usually goes calling at three or four in the morning. So who found the body and how did they do it?”
“Since the call was anonymous, I guess we’ll never know.”
“Was the caller male or female?”
“The dispatcher said the voice could have been either.”
Terrific, I thought. That certainly narrowed it down.
“Melanie?”
“Yes, I’m still here. I was thinking, that’s all.”
“Any thoughts you’d care to share with me?”
“Not really. There’s nothing I actually know yet.”
“You aren’t doing it again, are you?”
“Doing what?”
“Messing around in my murder investigation.”
“No. Not at all.”
Ugh. I hated lying. But if he hadn’t picked on poor Wendy, I’d be well outside this mess.
“I’m glad to hear you’re keeping out of it. It’s safer that way. And I have saved a bone for you.”
“You have?”
“Yes. The Times doesn’t have this yet.”
“What?” I asked, nearly salivating at the prospect of besting the competition. I grabbed my pen, eager to make note of the information.
“There were signs of a break in. The glass on the home’s back door had been shattered. But nothing inside the house was missing.”
“So you’re ruling out a burglary?”
“Yup.”
“Of course,” Gossford continued, “there wasn’t much in Porter’s place worth stealing if you want my humble opinion. Which isn’t, I might add, for publication. The opinion part, that is.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, go do what you do best.”
“What’s that?”
“Write.”
And so I did. The story I ended up with that day was passable. Not award winning, maybe. But it was good, serviceable writing containing a number of good, hard facts. And it came with the lovely little bonus of having a smidge of information not covered in the Times’ story. I really owed Gossford for that.
Nineteen
While what I’d done at work that day was logical and helpful, my actions that night were driven by pure desperation. But I wasn’t alone in my pursuit. Dear Wendy had opted to come with me.
So that’s how it was, that at about eleven that night, Wendy and I crept out her back door and headed for the carriage house. The world we walked through was frigid. My breath frosted over beneath my nose. The cold penetrated my jacket. But although I was chilled, Wendy and I moved slowly and cautiously toward our destination, hopeful that no one would notice us.
We’d done our best to blend in with the darkness around us. Wendy wore a black coat, and slacks, and shoes. She even had a black stocking cap on with her white hair tucked up tightly beneath it. Fortunately, my parka, though not black, was a dark color. And I’d pulled its hood up to provide additional camouflage. My jeans were a deep indigo, which was, I figured, close enough.
At least Mother Nature had smiled on us, I thought. Cloudy skies blocked the light from a full moon, and it was as dark and inky a night as any burglar could wish for.
“You’ve got the key?” I whispered at Wendy who was creeping along beside me.
“Yes, dear. I told you that before we left the house.”
“I only wanted to check.”
“We could return to my place. It isn’t too late, you know.”
“No, but maybe you should.”
“Nonsense. Barnaby might have died in that apartment, but I own it. If anyone has a right to break into it, it’s me.”
“I’m not sure the police would see it quite that way.”
“Oh, shaw. What do they know?”
“Okay,” I said, putting my foot on the first step leading to the apartment. “Here we go.”
Once we reached the top of the stairs, I made short work of ripping off the crime scene tape and unlocking the door. And with Wendy pushing me on from behind, we tiptoed into the darkened apartment.
After closing the door behind us, I paused and listened to Wendy gasping for air. I suspected this gambit of ours was more taxing than she cared to admit. “You don’t have to stay,” I said. “You can go home anytime you please. I’ll be fine.”
“I might,” she replied, “But for now, I’m alright.”
“Promise me you’ll leave if that changes?”
“Yes, dear. I will.”
“Good.”
I grabbed a deep breath. The air filling my lungs seemed stale and tasted of dust, while in the distance, I heard the rumble of a furnace coming to life. Reminding myself of my task, I moved quickly to the living room window. I snapped the blinds shut and switched on the flashlight. Then turning, I followed its narrow beam back to the small desk in the corner — to the drawer holding Barnaby’s bank records.
As Wendy and I had earlier agreed, I snatched them up. We wanted to remove the papers, so we could take them back to Wendy’s place to examine them closely. I sighed with relief as I slipped the documents into a plastic bag. One goal accomplished, I thought.
“What next?” Wendy asked softly. She stood firmly entrenched inside the front door.
“I’m going to check the bedroom. You wait here.”
“Yes, dear,” Wendy responded, ”I think that’s a very good idea.”
I smiled and understood her discomfort. I wasn’t even entirely sure why I was pressing on deeper into forbidden territory like this. I’d never considered myself a brave person, and at this moment, I felt I was pushing my limit. But I quietly pressed on down the hallway.
After a second or two,Wendy called out softly from behind me, “Are you alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” I was almost to the bedroom door. It offered me hope that this o
rdeal might soon end.
“Melanie,” Wendy said in a stage whisper. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to stand outside the door.”
“That’s fine. Why don’t you go home. There’s nothing for you to do here.”
“No, I refuse to run off on you. It’s just that I feel I can’t breathe in here.”
“I understand. But if you see any movement or anything suspicious, run for the house.”
“No, dear. I’ll alert you first, then run.”
Biting back a smile, I heard the door click softly shut, and I switched off the flashlight. This was a crime scene. Even in this room I needed to take precautions to keep light from spilling forth and alerting others to my presence. Slowly, feeling my way in the dark, I pushed on toward the window. After closing the drapes tightly, I flipped the flashlight back on.
Pausing a moment, I forced myself to breathe evenly while I studied the objects around me. Nightstand. Chest of drawers. Closet. Pillows. Bed. The space beneath it. Which hiding place would Scroggins have chosen, that is if he had indeed hidden anything in this room?
I shook my head. I didn’t even know what I was searching for let alone where to find it. I only hoped I’d recognize the thing when I saw it — whatever it was. Deciding to start with the nightstand, I plowed through its single drawer swiftly. Found nothing. Then, I moved to the dresser. And there, in the bottom drawer, folded into the depths of a large comforter, I discovered a tiny diary. I could see how previous searchers might have missed it. Only someone as desperate as I would have searched the dense folds for such a small object.
With a trembling hand, I pulled the little book free. I couldn’t imagine what information its pages might contain. But I had no doubt this was the object I sought.
Tucking it safely inside the plastic bag with the bank records, I turned and fled the room.
~~~
“What do you suppose is inside it?” Wendy asked. Her trembling hand reached out and stroked the soft cover of the little black book.
We were safely back inside Wendy’s kitchen, and I for one was glad of it. I only hoped this little gem was worth the risk we had taken to get it. “I guess we won’t know what’s inside until we open it.”
