A Roost and Arrest

by Hillary Avis

  “You are an angel.” Ruth beamed at me. “Let me take you to lunch. I have an hour until Tammy comes in for her root touchup, and those kids need food. Boys!” she called, the energy returning to her voice. “Let’s go eat!”

  Dylan and Ollie popped out of the back room like jacks-in-the-box, and Ruth groaned. “I forgot about the marker on his face. We can’t take them out like that.”

  “You call their dad and leave him a message,” I said, swiping the box of nail polish remover wipes from Tambra’s station. “And while you’re on the phone, I’ll cure this case of Sharpie pox.”

  Chapter 6

  “What do you kids like?” Ruth asked, ruffling Ollie and Dylan’s little blonde heads. “Chicken nuggets?”

  “Grilled cheese!” Dylan chirped.

  “That’s all he ever wants to eat.” Ollie, now with only the faintest purple flecks on his forehead that could almost be mistaken for freckles, frowned. “I don’t want grilled cheese. I want pancakes.”

  “Lucky for you two, the diner has both,” I said, keeping my voice as jolly and grandmotherly as I could. I hadn’t had much practice at grandmothering—my twin, three-year-old grandbabies, Isabella-Sophia and John-William, lived in Chicago. I hadn’t seen them since Christmas when Andrea brought them out to visit my farm for the first time. “Let’s go eat.”

  Ruth took Ollie’s hand and I took Dylan’s, and we walked the few blocks over to the diner. Housed in a tiny building not much bigger than a drive-through coffee stand, the restaurant had a huge spoon on top in lieu of a sign with the business’s name. Spindly, hand-painted letters on the bright blue front door advertised “GOOD EATS.” Out-of-towners sometimes called it Good Eats, but locals knew it as the Greasy Spoon—or often, just as “Ed’s.”

  It’d been Ed’s for fifty years even though Ed Wynwood, Jr., had only been running it for the last ten, since he got back from serving in Afghanistan. He’d taken over when his dad, the original Ed, retired. I hardly knew what the new Ed looked like, since all I ever saw was the back of him while he worked the flat-top grill. The real face of the Greasy Spoon was Jillian, his twenty-year-old niece, the same Jillian who’d ridden in my Porsche yesterday. She was the diner’s only waitress and handled it with the poise and confidence of someone much older and more experienced.

  I waved to her as we entered. She raised her eyebrows when she saw the boys with us and motioned to a four-top near the counter. We took our seats and, once she put in another table’s order, she brought coloring sheets and crayons with our menus. Instantly, the boys grabbed the crayon cup and began arguing over who got to use which color first.

  “Is it OK if I give them lollipops?” Jillian asked me, with an uncharacteristic frown creasing her pretty face as she reached into the pocket of her bright blue half-apron. “I just feel terrible about what’s going on with Tambra.”

  Ollie paused. “Why? What’s wrong with Mom?”

  Ruth patted his hand. “She’s fine, honey. She’s just”—she looked at me briefly—“on a little trip. She’ll be back real soon, though.”

  “On a little trip,” Jillian echoed. She pulled out two lollipops.

  Dylan stood up on his seat and tried to grab them. “I want the cherry!”

  I swiped them out of her hand before he could reach them. “No sugar before lunch,” I said, giving up on grandmotherly but aiming more for Mary Poppins than the Wicked Witch of the West. When I put the lollipops in my purse with the remainder of the parade candy, Dylan and Ollie groaned in unison. I grinned smugly at them. “You can have them back after you eat.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin their appetites,” Jillian whispered. She looked like she was about to cry right there at our table.

  “Are you OK, honey?” Ruth asked, concern creeping into her voice as she darted a glance at the boys to see if they were paying attention. They were back to arguing over the crayons, so she continued. “I know yesterday must have been a lot for all of you. I’m sure Ed would understand if you needed to take time off.”

  Jillian passed a hand over her face as though she could rearrange her feelings and gave her shoulders a little shake. “No, no. I’m fine. Or I will be. Do you know what you’re having?”

  “Grilled cheese!” Dylan crowed. Apparently, he was paying attention after all.

  “And pancakes,” Ollie added. “Extra syrup.”

  “Regular syrup,” I amended. Ruth and I placed our orders for omelets and decaf, and then leaned our heads together once Jillian left the table.

  “She’s not doing well,” Ruth said. That much was clear. Jillian’s hand had trembled when she jotted down our simple order.

  “It’s understandable,” I said in a low voice. “Her friend was killed less than twenty-four hours ago and her mentor is in jail for the murder.”

  “I’m not sure they were friends.” Ruth’s eyes narrowed shrewdly as she watched Jillian put in our order at the counter. “They seem like different kinds of girl, if you know what I mean.”

  I wasn’t sure I did—both of them were bright, pretty in that bland, all-American way, about the same age, and involved in the pageant world. Sure, McKenzie’s talent was hula hooping and Jillian’s was playing the flute, but otherwise they seemed cut from the same cloth.

  Before I could ask her to clarify, Jillian returned with our coffees in one hand and a little creamer pitcher in the other. She set them down on the table and forced a smile. “We’ll have your food out in a jiffy.”

  “Congratulations, by the way,” Ruth said swiftly, before Jillian could move on to the next table.

  Jillian’s face swam with confusion. “For what?”

  “You’ll be crowned Miss Honeytree now, won’t you? As the runner-up?”

  At Ruth’s question, Jillian’s chin wobbled, and I thought her knees might give out. I nudged Ruth under the table, but she just blinked innocently at me and slid a chair from another table over to ours and patted it. “Sit a minute and catch your breath. I didn’t mean to fluster you.”

  Jillian sank into it obediently. “Sorry. I hadn’t thought about it. The crown, I mean. I still can’t believe what happened.”

  “What happened?” Ollie asked, peering at Jillian’s face.

  “My friend got hurt,” Jillian said softly.

  “See, I told you they were friends,” I said to Ruth, nudging her with my foot again.

  “We weren’t, not really,” Jillian said miserably. “I mean, we spent a lot of time together because of—” she broke off, glancing at the boys, and I could tell she was going to say Tambra. “I should have been a better friend to her, though. Then maybe none of this would have happened.”

  Ruth reached out and squeezed her forearm. “It’s not your fault, honey.”

  Tears spilled down Jillian’s cheeks. I handed her my napkin and she scrubbed them away. “I know. I just wish there was something I could do.”

  “There is, actually.” Ruth’s eyes were shining, and I realized this was the reason she’d coerced Jillian into sitting with us in the first place. “If you know anything about what McKenzie was doing at the festival, it could really help clear things up. Who was she with? Was she upset with anybody? Did she have any arguments?”

  At Ruth’s line of questioning, Jillian paled, darting a panicked look at the boys. “I can’t—”

  “Order up!” Ed called from the counter, interrupting her, and Jillian sprang to her feet.

  “I have to get back to work,” she said hurriedly. She returned moments later with our food balanced on her arms, hardly making eye contact as she slid the plates in front of us and dashed off to attend her other tables.

  “She knows something,” Ruth said matter-of-factly as she speared a pan-fried potato onto her fork.

  “Like what? Do you think she knows her times tables?” Dylan’s words were hardly distinguishable around his giant mouthful of grilled cheese sandwich.

  “Of course she does!” Ollie said derisively, emptying the entire pitcher of syrup
on his pancakes. “She’s way older than me, and I know them. Well, some of them.”

  “I agree.” I nodded to Ruth and watched as Jillian circulated, refilling coffee mugs, doing her best to nod and smile at the other customers. Her expression was brittle. Ruth had rattled her. Friends or not, Jillian knew something about what had happened to McKenzie last night. Could it be a detail that would exonerate Tambra? I ate my omelet pensively, barely tasting the velvety melted cheese.

  I was only halfway through my meal when I noticed Jillian take off her apron and hang it on a hook. “Rush is over. I’m taking ten,” she said tersely to Ed, who nodded and went back to scraping the grill.

  “Be right back.” I gave Ruth a meaningful look and pushed back my chair. I followed Jillian outside and found her leaning against the building by the dumpster.

  “Smoke break,” she said when she saw me.

  I joined her, bracing my back against the rough bricks. “I didn’t know you were a smoker.”

  “I’m not. I used to be.”

  “But...?”

  “But smoking is against the comportment clause.” Jillian rolled her eyes. “You know, a pageant thing. I had to quit or I couldn’t compete. It’s silly.”

  “Ah. I take it you don’t agree with the rules?”

  “McKenzie says—” Jillian stopped abruptly, snapping her mouth shut as her cheeks reddened. “Never mind.”

  “What? I’m curious. What did she say?”

  Jillian gnawed her thumbnail for a few seconds before she answered. “It’s nothing. She just thought the rules were old-fashioned. She said if it’s legal, we should be able to do what we want in our spare time.”

  “Like smoke?”

  “Or drink or whatever,” Jillian agreed. “The rules were written, like, fifty years ago. They say we have to wear hose. Who even says ‘hose’ anymore?”

  I gave her a rueful smile and made a mental note not to say “hose” anymore. “So what happens if you don’t wear hose?”

  “Tambra is all over you.” Jillian grinned at me. “The funny thing is that she doesn’t even care. I mean, she doesn’t wear hose in July, does she? But she says, ‘respect yourself, respect the rules.’ And you better believe she’ll kick you out if she finds out you aren’t.”

  Was this the reason McKenzie keyed Tambra’s car? Had she flaunted the comportment clause and been caught? I suspected Jillian wouldn’t tell me, but I asked anyway. “Did Tambra catch McKenzie breaking the rules?”

  The corner of Jillian’s mouth turned up wryly. “She didn’t exactly hide it. I saw her in the beer garden at the festival.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Wearing her crown and sash?!”

  “She’s twenty-one,” Jillian said defensively. “She’s allowed to have a glass of wine. It’s not like she was staggering around.”

  I sighed. So this was what Jillian had been hiding, a detail that didn’t exonerate Tambra—it pointed to her. “That can’t have made Tambra happy, though. Did Tambra say anything to you about it? Did you see her reaction?”

  Jillian just shook her head, her face slack and somber. I could only imagine what must be going through her head. Her friend—at least, her colleague—dead, her mentor seemingly responsible. It was a heavy weight to carry for such a young woman.

  “You should be proud of yourself,” I said. “I mean that you had the self-control to quit smoking. You’ll be a wonderful Miss Honeytree.”

  Jillian shook her head again, her eyes trained on the pavement. “I’m probably going to decline.”

  “Don’t be silly. It comes with scholarship money. You should take it. McKenzie would want you to.”

  Jillian smiled tightly at me with tears in her eyes. “Are you sure about that?” Then, without waiting for my reply, she wiped her eyes with the inside of her T-shirt collar and strode briskly back into the diner.

  Chapter 7

  Ruth stopped me when I reached for my wallet to pay her back for lunch. “No—let me treat you for taking them this afternoon.”

  “You sure?” I glanced at Ollie and Dylan, who were bouncing along hand-in-hand in front of us as we walked back to the Do or Dye, licking the lollipops that I’d finally relinquished to their greedy grasp. “It’s no trouble. I’m just going to let them chase the chickens around for a few hours.”

  “Of course. Oh, I almost forgot. They have swim lessons at two-thirty. You can pick up their trunks from Tambra’s house. She has a key under some fake dog doo in the front yard.”

  My poor chickens would have to stay cooped up even longer. My dismay must have shown on my face, because Ruth added, “It’s only an hour, though. You don’t have to do anything, just hang out until they’re done. Are you sure you want to take them? I can cancel my afternoon...”

  “No, no. I’ve got it. Come on, boys, pile in.” I held open the door of my Suburban and helped Dylan buckle the lap belt while Ollie did his own. I wished I had a booster seat for Dylan, but surely Eli wouldn’t fault me for lacking a car seat that was in evidence in a murder investigation.

  Still, I drove like a Girl Scout for the few blocks to Tambra’s house. Precious cargo and all. I hoped Dylan and Ollie would have their mom back soon, but a tiny seed of fear was sprouting in my chest. If Tambra couldn’t beat these charges, the boys might never see her again except on TV or behind bars.

  As we approached the duplex that Tambra rented, I saw the left side was swarming with state police. There was no way I could take the boys there without them noticing something was wrong—really wrong.

  “Cherry pits,” I cursed under my breath, steering the Suburban past the driveway and around the corner, where the house was hidden behind a row of Italian cypress that had grown together like a hedge.

  “You said a bad word!” Dylan announced gleefully from the back seat.

  Ollie socked him on the arm. “She did not. She said ‘pits,’ not—”

  “That’s enough, you two,” I said. I twisted to look at them in the back seat. “Wait in the car while I run in and grab your swimsuits.” If the cops will even let me, I didn’t add.

  “We’re not supposed to be in the car by ourselves,” Ollie said, fixing me with a rebuking stare.

  All this modern parenting. I pasted on a smile. “Not usually. But this time it’s OK. I’ll just be a second. Watch your brother.”

  I slid out of my seat and hustled back toward the duplex. I doubted these uniforms were going to let me in the door unless...I scanned the street. Yes. Eli’s SUV was parked across from the house. I sent him a quick text and held my breath: “I’m out front.”

  I only had to wait about five seconds before he stuck his head out the front door. “What’s up?” he asked. To the concerned-looking state police officer blocking my way to the porch, he added. “It’s OK.”

  “I’m watching the boys and they need their swim trunks,” I said as the officer stepped aside. I jogged up the steps and a smile spread across Eli’s face, his eyes definitely wandering south of my chin. I smacked him with the back of my hand. “Behave.”

  “I’ll escort you in. But don’t touch anything unless I say,” he warned. “And let me do the talking.”

  “Fine.” I rolled my eyes and followed him through Tambra’s tidy kitchen and living room and into the room the boys shared. It was decorated with a wilderness theme, with plaid comforters on the rustic bunk beds. A plush moose head hung on one wall and a pile of teddy bears was mounded on the lower bunk. Dylan’s, probably. I grabbed the one that looked most loved. “Can I take this, too?”

  Eli nodded and opened the top drawer of the dresser, then closed it again and opened the one underneath it. “Pajamas,” he announced. The third drawer held socks.

  “They need all those, too, if you don’t mind grabbing a couple of each.” While Eli collected undies, socks, and PJs, I slid open the closet and found the swim trunks and two rolled beach towels in a basket on the shelf. I took the whole thing, added the items from the dresser, and balanced the teddy bear on to
p. Eli led the way back to the kitchen, but before he could open the front door for me, his way was blocked by a tall woman in a blue state police uniform, her hair slicked back into a low ponytail underneath her Smokey-the-Bear-looking hat. She carried herself like she was in charge.

  “What’s she doing here?” she snapped, pointing at me.

  “She’s caring for the children,” Eli said calmly, glancing back over his shoulder at me with a look that said don’t mess this up. “She’s just picking up a few necessities.”

  The woman’s eyes slid to the basket in my arms, lighting on the teddy bear. “That doesn’t look necessary.”

  “He’s six!” I protested.

  “Well, you’ll have to sign out each object personally, Sheriff.” She pulled the basket from my grasp and marched over to the kitchen table, where a logbook lay open.

  “I’ll just take a second,” Eli assured me over his shoulder. “Wait there.”

  At his directions, my skin crawled with irritation, even though I’d delivered nearly identical words to the boys in the car. But that was just it, though—I didn’t need to be treated like a child.

  “I’ll wait on the porch,” I said, and moved toward the door. But something on the otherwise-clear counter caught my eye on the way by. It was a small, red, leather-bound volume with the title stamped on the cover: Rules Governing Pageants: A Guide. The corner of a folded piece of paper peeked from between two pages. I darted a look at Eli and his officer friend. They were both bent over the table, engrossed in their paperwork, so I took the opportunity to flip the book open to the marked page.

  Clause 21A: Comportment.

  I bit my lip, scanning the old-fashioned language as quickly as I could. It amounted to what Jillian had said: no cursing, smoking, drinking, drugs, or dating allowed. Any infractions called for immediate disqualification.

  No dating? And they expected this of women ages eighteen to twenty-one!? I almost laughed, then caught myself before I drew any attention. Tambra must have seen McKenzie at the beer garden, too, and looked up the rules to read the exact wording.