by Anna Drake
“I’ll get the coffee.”
I sank into the chair and pulled the book to me. The banking records remained in the center of the table, still wrapped up in plastic. Wendy and I had decided to let them go until later. For now, we were intrigued with the book.
I let my gaze wander across its cover. “Should I open it? See what’s so precious that it had to be hidden deep in the folds of a comforter?”
“Oh, yes. Please do.”
“I’ll wait until you return to the table.”
Wendy soon arrived with two coffee mugs in her hands. “Oh, this is almost like Christmas.”
“We don’t know what’s in here yet,” I cautioned her. “It could be welcome news, or it could be something you’d rather not know.”
She raised her chin, “No matter what the news is, I’d rather know than not.”
“Okay, then. Here goes.”
While Wendy viewed the exploration of this book with high anticipation, my feelings trended more toward dread. I thought the book might be linked in some way to Barnaby’s mysterious source of cash. And whatever link that might be, I doubted it was an honest one.
I flipped back the cover and studied the first page. “It’s a list of names,” I said.
“Whose?” Wendy asked.
I let my gaze trail down the page, but I didn’t recognize any of the people listed there. “I don’t know,” I said. I moved on to the next page and had the same result. So I plowed on, turning one page after another and another until finally, on about the fifteenth page, I encountered a name I recognized. It belonged to none other than Harold Sparks. And I immediately realized when I met at the restaurant that day with the man he had obviously lied to me. His differences with Scroggins had obviously run much deeper than he’d confessed.
Below his name came another one I knew, that of our new restaurateur, Roger Bradley.
“What is it?” Wendy asked. “What have you found?”
“I’m not sure.” But the uncomfortable memory of Ginger’s suggestion of blackmail drifted into my mind. It was not a suspicion I wanted to share with Wendy. “Let’s look at the bank records. Let’s see what they say.”
I slipped on a pair of gloves and pulled the bank records from their plastic sleeve. Dividing the stack of paper into two sections, I slid one half to Wendy along with another pair of latex gloves. “What are we looking for?” she asked.
“Anything unusual.”
She leaned forward and studied the papers closely, taking her time and reviewing one page after the other. “I don’t understand this. I’m seeing regular deposits into his checking account. I can’t imagine where this money came from.”
I studied my stack and found the same pattern. “He obviously had an outside source of income. One you knew nothing about.”
Wendy’s stared at me perplexed. “How could he? He didn’t work.”
“Did you give him any cash?”
“From time to time. But nothing I gave him came close to these amounts. And to think I felt sorry for him... more fool me.”
“Don’t blame yourself. How were you to know?”
Wendy studied me, her grey eyes sad. “Do you know where this money came from?” she asked.
“I’ve heard a guess, but I’d rather not repeat it until I know if it’s true.”
“Whatever it is, it can’t have been honorable.”
‘Let’s wait and see.”
Later, upstairs, in my bedroom, I grabbed my cell phone.
“Ginger?”
“Hello, Melanie. What do you want?”
“Breakfast.”
“Now?”
“In the morning. Meet me?”
Ginger sighed. “How early?”
“How about nine?”
“That’s a whole world better than seven. But this still better be important.”
“I need your opinion.”
“On what?”
“I’d rather not say on the phone.”
“That’s intriguing.”
“What’s heading your way is rather eye-opening, yes.”
~~~
“This is so cute,” Ginger said, flipping through the pages of Scroggins’ little book. “What’s it mean?”
The hum of fellow breakfast diners drifted past us. It was another cold day, and even this late in the morning, the Shopping Basket contained a good number of diners wolfing down scrambled eggs and sausages.
“I think it proves that your suggestion was correct.”
Her gaze jerked back up to mine.“ Blackmail?”
“That would be my guess.”
“But I’ve never heard most of these names,” she protested.
“I know. I think the early names are from where he lived before he returned to Cloverton.”
“So he’s been at it a long time?”
“That would be my guess. And apparently with the addition of two local names on that last page, he was still at it.”
“Bradley,” she chortled.
“Oh, come on, just because you don’t like him….”
“Well, I’ll allow that he makes good hot chocolate. but seriously, what kind of sins do you think these people committed?”
“Who knows?”
“Was Porter in on this?”
“Since he’s dead, I think he must have been, either as an active participant while Scroggins was alive, or by trying to take over the business after his partner died.”
“But what could any of these people have done that they’d pay big money to hush it up? You did say the deposits in Scroggins’ checking account were hefty.”
“That’s right.”
I thought of Sparks, a man who’d obviously had grand plans for himself. He might indeed shell out money rather than see his career slip even lower that it was. And Bradley, I wondered? What could he have done? He hadn’t even lived here for much more than six months. Plus, it was possible the killer was from out of town. Perhaps one of the men listed in the beginning pages of the book came here and killed Scroggins.
“So what do we do now?” Ginger asked.
“You, nothing. Me, I’m going to have a long talk with Roger Bradley.”
“I am right, aren’t I? “ Ginger asked. “This about all but clears Agnes?”
“Just about,” I agreed.
Twenty
Back in my office, I flipped a coin as to which man to investigate first, and Harold Sparks lost. Besides Dad, my most ready source of background information on local businessmen was our sales woman, Lillian Whitcomb. Every day — rain, shine, sleet, or snow — Lillian was out there, pushing ads, and raising the money that kept our operation afloat. She lived, breathed, and ate the local business happenings.
But with darting in and out of the building all day selling ads, Lillian was a tough person to catch. So I was nearly stunned when I buzzed her office line and she answered.
“Lillian,” I trilled.
“Who else?” she asked.
“Do you have a minute?”
“For you? Always.”
I set off for her office at a dash.
While Dad, Betty, and I all had clear views of each other from our desks, Lillian had the only office with four solid walls. She’d requested an office without a view into her neighboring worker’s space when she signed on, saying she liked her privacy. And with her record for bringing in advertising, Lillian got just about whatever she asked for.
“Howdy,” she said as I stepped through her doorway.
Tall, slender, and gorgeous, even at thirty five she remained unmarried, and none of us had heard a word about how she entertained herself on her own time. Lillian apparently liked solid walls surrounding more than just her office.
She looked up and smiled at me. “Please, take a seat.”
Lillian had started working for us about a decade ago, bringing with her a stellar record for sales from a local radio station. Dad had figured anyone who could sell radio ads would excel at a newspaper. And so far, his asses
sment had been spot on.
“How can I help you?”
I seated myself in the small chair in front of her large desk. “I’d really love it if you could give me the lowdown on Harold Sparks.”
She laughed. “Really, you should set your sights higher.”
“Come on,” I countered. “You know what I’m asking.”
“Right. Let me see. What can I tell you about dear Harold?” Her gaze drifted to an art poster on my right. It was a bold thing, saturated with vital, pounding colors. “First of all, he’s married. He has a couple of older daughters, both off in college, I think. He’s a member of a Thursday night bowling league, and his wife believes the sun rises and sets on him.”
“Oh come on. Can’t you come up with something more interesting than that?”
“There are rumors.”
“Such as?”
“There’s a sweet, young thing. She waits tables out at the Roadside Cafe. She’s said to have a soft spot for the big man.”
“Really? He’s half bald and in his forties.”
“What can I say? She’s a poorly done bottle blonde and desperate.”
“What about income? Does he make enough that he could pay somebody off if they threatened to destroy his domestic bliss?”
“Not him, his salary, maybe, just about covers their daily expenses, but his wife apparently inherited a fisfull of cash. Why?”
“No reason.”
Sometimes, it terrified me to hear how much we all knew about each other.
~~~
Roger Bradley wasn’t able to free up time to meet with me until about two that afternoon. And upon entering the restaurant I found most of the tables empty. A foursome, who looked to be a road weary group, were wolfing down burgers and fries at a corner table.
Roger spotted me and came rushing over. “Sorry to have put you off, we’ve been swamped today, but there’s almost always a break about now.”
“No problem.”
“What can I get you?”
“Coffee would be good.”
He raised a beckoning hand and a waitress trooped over and then scurried off for the coffee. I found myself wondering, as she hurried away, if this young blonde woman was the one who was simply wild about Harold?
Bradley ushered me toward a table.
“You’ve done a good job with the place,” I said, as I took a chair facing the door.
“Thank you, I try. How’s Ginger?” He asked sitting opposite me.
“She’s fine.”
“So what brings you my way?”
“Roger, there’s no nice way to put this. But I’ve found a diary that looks suspiciously like it might have belonged to a blackmailer, and your name is in it.”
Our coffee arrived, We both fell silent.
As I watched the man take in the meaning behind my statement, I wondered if I’d taken the best approach with him? A part of me suspected that I should have waited until I’d learned more before laying my case out in the open like this. It whispered that this man could be dangerous. That he could be the victim who rose up and took Scroggins’ life. But I didn’t believe it.
Although Bradley might be a talented restaurateur, and on top of every aspect of his highly competitive business, there was something decidedly puppy-dog-like about Roger. In the way he tried to win favor by giving away hot chocolate, or how he followed Ginger around despite her obvious disinterest.
I could not see this man summoning up enough anger to kill anyone. Whine, maybe. But kill? Never. So what could this mild mannered man have done to warrant inclusion on a blackmailing list?
And now, he sat facing me, his face pinched, his cheeks pale. “Ah….”
“It was Scroggins wasn’t it? He was blackmailing you?”
Bradley’s shoulders slumped. His jaw sagged. “I didn’t kill him. You have to believe me. I might have paid him off, but that’s all I did.”
And there it was, I thought, confirmation that Scroggins had indeed been a blackmailer.
“My only crime,” he went on, “my only shame, really, is that my ex-wife is in prison. She was put there for embezzling money from the local charity she ran. Apparently the boyfriend she was seeing on the side was an expensive toy to keep. I was embarrassed. My manhood felt threatened. So I paid whatever I could to keep that story from following me here.”
“Roger, knowing what your ex did doesn’t change my opinion of you one iota. Your ex-wife’s doings are her responsibility. They have nothing to do with you.”
“You won’t tell Ginger, will you? My wife made such a fool of me.”
“No, Roger. I won’t.”
~~~
Snowflakes were drifting past my nose as I walked up to Ginger’s front door that night. I’d stopped off on my way to buy wine. I didn’t know what she was serving, so I’d bought one bottle each of red and white wine. I figured one of them was sure to be okay.
“Oh,” Ginger chirped upon spotting my gifts. “Aren’t you the dear one?”
“I aim to please,” I answered, stepping through her doorway. “Something smells good.”
“You must be kidding. I’m cooking steaks, and I haven’t put them on yet.”
“Ah…. “ I had no idea what else to say.
“Toss your coat on the couch. I’m headed to the kitchen.”
I dumped my stuff and joined her. There, I walked to the counter and stuck my nose over a bowl. “What’s this?”
“A rub for the steak.” She gave me a perplexed look. “What’s gotten into you? You don’t usually pay any attention to my cooking. Why now?”
I tried and failed to smother a grin. “Because I’ve been taking lessons.”
“Cooking lessons?”
“Yes.”
“From who?”
“Wendy.”
“Well, you sly son of a gun. Will you move into her empty apartment?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then what gives?“
When we were sitting around my first night there, she asked about Dad. His cooking skills are well known around here, you know?”
Ginge sighed. “I do.” She thought I made too much of the man. “So what all have you made?”
“Poached eggs, lasagna, and fried chicken,” I said with a self-satisfied nod.
She pulled a face. “Not bad.”
“I know,” I said, my head bobbing rapidly up and down.
She grinned. “Have a seat. I’ve got everything under control. Although I suppose you could open the wine on the way to your chair. Let it breathe and such?”
“Fair enough.”
I did as instructed and pulled two wine glasses from her cupboard. “I didn’t know you ate red meat.”
“I don’t often, but I enjoy a steak once in a while.”
“What’s in your seasonings?”
“You’re really getting into this cooking thing, aren’t you.”
“Why not?”
“Okay, there’s some smashed garlic, salt, pepper, a little thyme and a healthy dose of paprika.”
“Sounds good.”
“It is.” She turned and lit the burner beneath the grill pan. “Does your Dad use one of these?”
“Nope. He’s a purist. When he wants to grill he does it outdoors, whether it’s snowing, or raining, or freezing, or hotter than can be believed.”
“I should have known.”
“I suspect I’d come down on your side, though. What fun’s cooking if it leads to frostbite?”
“My sentiment exactly.”
“So how long will you cook the steaks?”
“If I remember correctly, you like yours medium rare?”
“Yup.”
“About four minutes to a side, then.”
I filed the information away for later use.
Ginger glanced up from setting the table and watched me pour the wine. “So what brings you my way tonight? You said you had uncovered interesting stuff. Pray, start interesting me.”
I turn
ed and leaned back against the counter and studied the rosy liquid in my wineglass and brought her up to date with my session with Lillian and the information she’d given me. After that story ended, I moved on to my report on Bradley.
Ginger gave me a puzzled glance. “What could Scroggins have on Bradley? He doesn’t seem the sort to do anything to make waves?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”
“Why not?”
“I felt it was his business. He was honest and open about being blackmailed. I decided to let it stand there. The bottom line, I guess, is that I like the guy.”
Ginger snorted. “A soft spot for a fella with a past, huh. Some judge of horse flesh you are.”
“Actually, I think a woman could do a lot worse than teaming up with Bradley. He young, he’s handsome, he’s ambitious.”
“Successful people are usually an ambitious sort. And there are a lot of things they’d do to reach their goals. I should know. I’m a member of the same club.”
“Are you suggesting Bradley’s the murderer?”
“I’d say it’s possible.”
“You’re ambitious and successful,” I countered. “Have you ever thought of killing someone?”
Ginger flushed. “Hey, you’ve seen my temper.. But fortunately, the urge passed.”
“What would you have done if you had acted on your impulse,” I teased.
“I’d have felt so guilty, I’d have probably sat down and drained an entire bottle of booze. What about you?” she asked. “Have you ever considered putting together a hit list?”
“Not me,” I answered. “I’m morally superior to you greedy merchant types.”
Ginger laughed and threw a kitchen towel at me. “You’re lying. You’re probably even more ambitious than I am. You’re only hanging around here so you can take over the newspaper when your dad retires.”
“Hey. It’s the family paper. If not me, who?”
Twenty One
I thought a lot about Ginger’s comment on my way to Wendy’s house that night. It was true that I wanted to carry the newspaper on under the family name someday. And I was willing to pay the price to do so. It had already cost me my college boyfriend. He’d broken up with me rather than face a future in Cloverton. Not everyone could endure living in a small town. No museums. No concerts. No bright lights or hot clubs.
