She owed a lot to him.
Walking up close to her, the uniformed man placing his hands on either side of her shoulders. “I didn’t want to have to bring you out here either, but this time, I need your help—at least finding the body.”
She simply shrugged, avoiding eye contact. This close, even with the constant stream of rain, she could smell his musky, yet surprisingly pleasant, scent coming off his body.
“Look, the truth is I’m worried. With all these random murders lately . . . I just don’t know what to think. Maybe if I was simply concentrating on my job,” he paused, an awkward smile spreading across his face, “instead of being occupied by . . . other things, maybe none of the murders would happen.”
Sonja looked down, feeling red with embarrassment behind her tears. “You can’t blame yourself,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” he iterated. “I just care,” he admitted hesitantly.
Shrugging him off, she stepped away. Now was not the appropriate time for romantic advances—if that was in fact what this was—and it bothered her that he was even trying.
“Forget I said anything,” she muttered. “Let’s try to act like professionals,” she groused, instantly feeling bad for the comment. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, walking through the rain.
“Don’t,” he insisted. “Don’t apologize.”
“This way,” she said, avoiding Sheriff Thompson’s eyes. Pushing through the same thick brush they came to the location where the body lay. Sure enough, there were the feet sticking out from under the bush. “Here he is.” Sonja pointed shakily.
Squatting down near the body, the sheriff carefully lifted the branches. “It’s Lincoln all right.”
The sheriff looked around the body, examining the mud and the foliage nearby. A few droplets of blood clung to the bush’s leaves, in spite of the rain.
Finally shaking off her tears, Sonja steeled herself, finding her inquisitive and persistent side buried within the day’s emotions. She looked over the crime scene while the sheriff finished doing an initial examination of the body.
He looked up, realizing Sonja was still there. “You need to head back to the event center,” he instructed. “I’ll call one of the deputies to come escort you. You should probably head home and shower and change clothes, too. I can come find you there when I’m ready for your statement.”
“It looks like he was dragged,” Sonja noted, ignoring his instructions.
The sheriff turned back toward the body. “You’re right, dragged by his feet.”
“Which means this probably isn’t where the murder happened.”
Sheriff Thompson cocked his head to one side, most likely realizing he was getting caught up in a discussion with an unauthorized civilian once again. Sonja didn’t know why she seemed to have this persuasive power over him.
“Sonja,” he commanded firmly, “No more snooping. Just wait until the deputy comes and he’ll make sure you make it back safely.”
“Forget it,” she muttered. “I’ll walk myself.” Taking a short step backward Sonja felt something hard and sharp poke into the bottom of Alison’s shoe she was wearing. “Ouch,” she mumbled.
“What is it?” the sheriff pressed.
“I stepped on something,” she replied, taking a step back to look in the mud.
“Please, just wait until the deputy gets here,” he pushed. “I don’t want you hurting yourself.”
“No, really,” she insisted. “Look at this.”
Raising an eyebrow, the sheriff moved over to where Sonja stood and examined the piece of wrought iron sticking out of the earth. Using a handkerchief from his pocket, he slowly lifted the item from its resting place, a classic fireplace poker. “I think you found the murder weapon.”
CHAPTER 8
Sonja insisted on seeing herself back to the community center, despite the sheriff’s protests otherwise. Before he could make his radio call to one of his deputies she was already on her way, an action she was sure had frustrated Sheriff Thompson to no end.
On her way back to the event center, Sonja kept an eye on the muddy trail created by the body being dragged. Usually, the rain water would have washed the trail away. This time, the rain had turned the trail into a little stream, running down where the body had come through. It ran all the way down to the community center where it pooled near the back door of the building near a dumpster.
“This is where the murder took place,” she whispered to herself. She was soaking wet and cold but had grown so accustomed to it after being in and out of the rain for the past hour, that she hardly noticed at all.
Her initial instinct was to turn and run back to tell the sheriff, or at least find one of the deputies and tell them, but she stopped herself. A lightbulb went off in her head. This was her chance to investigate the crime scene before the sheriff, and before anyone else knew about it.
A logical part of her told her she shouldn’t, that she should leave it up to the authorities, but it simply wasn’t in her curious nature to let things be. She had talked to Lincoln and his son only an hour or so earlier—and now Lincoln was dead. She had to find out why.
Speaking of Lincoln’s son, where the heck was he anyway, in all this commotion? Shouldn’t he have been at his father’s side the whole time, or if not, at least at the award ceremony to see his father win?
No, something was fishy here—and it wasn’t just the smell of the dumpster.
The rain made it difficult to really see anything, having washed away much of what could have potentially been clues at the scene of the crime, but Sonja was determined to find something.
First, examining the muddy area near the double doors, it was clear that there had been some sort of struggle. While much of the ground seemed like nothing more than a smeared mess, squatting down closer to the mud, the amateur detective could just make out a few shoe prints. One set was slightly larger than the other.
She was no expert, but it seemed as if the larger set of prints walked up behind the smaller and maybe grabbed the person from behind. That meant that the smaller set of prints probably belonged to Lincoln.
If the person tried to initially hit Lincoln on the head, it was apparent that the old war veteran had not gone down easily. The prints seemed to dance around, back and forth near the dumpster, until finally there was a deep puddle—most likely where the body fell—just near where the trees began. That’s where the little river ended, thus meaning the body was dragged from that very spot.
Sonja took her phone out of her pocket, carefully holding her arm over it to keep it from getting too wet, and photographed each stage of the struggle.
Suddenly, she realized the footprints of the murderer had to have come from the back door of the building. Walking over, she pulled on the door handle. Both doors wiggled slightly, but they didn’t open—both were locked shut.
She wondered if it was locked from the other side as well, but she doubted it. Anyone could have left the event room and exited through those doors.
Shrugging, Sonja lifted her phone and snapped a picture of the doors as well, just to be thorough.
“Okay,” she muttered to herself. What else could be here? Perhaps the murderer dropped something or left some other incriminating evidence behind. Making a circle around the area, Sonja carefully checked every possible inch of the mud—unfortunately finding nothing.
Sighing and putting her hands on her hips—she decided there was probably nothing else for her to find, and that the professionals could go over the scene with a fine-toothed comb to find any traces of hair, blood, or any other clues inaccessible to her.
About to turn and leave, she finally noticed the large dent in the side of the dumpster. Carefully stepping over, not wanting to disturb the existing footprints, she realized the scuffle moved over toward the dumpster before the body finally fell near the woods.
Either Lincoln or the killer had slammed into the side of the dumpster—unless the indentation had always been there. Some
how, Sonja doubted that.
Examining the dent, she did notice a small amount of blood, still clinging to the metal handle on the side of the dumpster. She shrugged her shoulders and pushed open the large square lid, propping it against the wall. Peering into the receptacle, it appeared to be mostly empty except for a few odds and ends. The amateur detective sighed—another dead end.
Closing the lid, the entire dumpster shivered, sinking slightly into the mud. As the wheels sucked into the earth something small and blue surfaced nearby.
“What is that?” she wondered aloud.
Crouching down she picked up the small item, careful not to touch any of the larger flat surfaces, turning it carefully over in her hand. Despite being dirty, having a slight crack down the middle, and appearing somewhat corroded, Sonja realized she was holding an SD card.
* * *
“I’ve found where the murder happened,” Sonja said into her phone when she was passed off to Sheriff Thompson’s voicemail. Either he had the phone turned off for the ceremony or he had purposefully ignored her.
She still felt a little miffed, but mostly hurt, by their earlier confrontation. While he had apologized to her, she was ultimately at a loss for what would compel a grown man, a man who she had considered a friend, to act in such a rude and unjustifiable manner.
No matter what jealousy or frustration was present, he had no right to disrespect her in that manner.
“Near the dumpster and the back door of the event center. You better head down here before the rain washes everything away.”
Hanging up the phone, Sonja fingered the SD card through the cloth of her pocket attempting to decide whether she should turn it over to the police first.
Moving her hand away from her pocket she decided she would hold onto it for the time being and check out its contents, if the card still worked, to see what information or files might be present. But first she wanted to find Shamus Bidwell and interview him, before Sheriff Thompson got to him.
Walking around the building, she stepped inside and walked over to the table. Alison was working away at cleaning things up. “Sonja,” she exclaimed, boxing up a waffle iron. “The mayor is shutting down the picnic, but Corrie is fighting it—as if a murder of a respected town member isn’t enough for her.”
“Hey, have you seen Shamus Bidwell?” she asked, simply getting to the point.
“Oh no,” her friend protested, walking over and placing her hands on Sonja’s shoulders. “You’re not going snooping today. You’re a mess, you're soaked to the bone, and you’re shivering. You need to go home and rest.”
Sonja shook her head. “I’m fine, Ally. Really,” she replied, despite clearly shivering. She had ignored the chill in her body for a little bit—the anger at Sheriff Thompson having warmed her—but now it was coming on stronger, and colder, than before.
“No, you’re not, Sonj’,” Alison commanded. “And you’re going home.”
“Well, I can’t very well take the van, now can I?” she reminded. “You’ll need it to get everything back to the diner at the end of the picnic.”
Alison squinted, thinking a moment. “I’ve got it,” she exclaimed, letting go of her friend and disappearing into the crowd.
Sonja shrugged, unaware of what new, devious plan her friend had in mind.
After a minute or so, Alison reemerged from the crowd, Benjamin in tow. Sonja’s heart thudded and her body grew colder than ever—the anxiety drawing whatever warmth was left away from her extremities.
“Benjamin said he’d gladly drive you home.”
“Y-you did?” the shaky and pale woman managed to stutter.
“Come on,” he ordered kindly. “You need to go home—just for a little bit.”
Sonja sighed, “Okay, fine, but as soon as I’m done showering and changing I’m coming right back.”
Benjamin laughed, “All right then.”
The two ran through the rain through the parking lot to Benjamin’s van—the same one he had previously used during his time as a TV cameraman. Opening the passenger door like a gentleman, the smiling man helped Sonja in and closed the door.
Hopping in the driver’s side, he started the engine. The car smelled of dirt and freshly picked produce. Stacks of empty crates and a few pieces of farm equipment—a shovel, spade, and a rake—rattled in the back as they pulled out of the parking lot.
“So, about your earlier question,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’d love to.”
Perking up in her seat, Sonja beamed. “Really?”
“Sure, so long as you and that Sheriff friend of yours aren’t an item.”
“I wouldn’t say he is real dating material,” she replied bitterly. She realized she was partially lying because of her own frustration with Frank. While she enjoyed Frank’s company, she still had a hard time considering him in a romantic sense.
“Well, he seemed friendly to me—at least earlier today.”
“Well,” Sonja replied, rubbing her arms to keep the goose pimples away, “he isn’t always a summer peach.”
Benjamin leaned over and turned on the heat.
Leaning in to feel the heated air as it was released through the vents, Sonja thanked her suitor.
“Anyway, I just don’t want to cause any trouble if you like him, or he likes you,” he reiterated. “I’m not much for drama.”
“Me either,” Sonja admitted, “but my life seems to be overwhelmed by it.”
Benjamin laughed, “It does sound like you have a habit of stumbling on dead bodies.”
She folded her arms. “It’s not funny,” she mumbled, sliding down in her seat.
“I’m sorry,” the handsome driver replied sincerely, smiling afterward in penance. “So what did you need to do? Before you left, I mean. Seemed like you were determined to stick around for some reason.”
Sonja shifted in her seat, feeling slightly embarrassed. Alison knew Sonja was always curious, always looking into mysteries—she wasn’t so sure Benjamin did, and she wasn’t too keen on having him believe she was a nosy woman.
“I was trying to find Shamus Bidwell,” she admitted quietly.
“Shamus? Isn’t he the son of the guy who died?”
Sonja nodded, “Yep.”
“Oh, well, Mr. Hinkley said he saw him take off just before the award ceremony.”
Intrigued by this new development, Sonja sat up straight in her chair. “Really? Why?”
“Well, Sam says Lincoln was arguing with his son about something. Says he didn’t catch much of the conversation. However, Shamus ended up stomping off toward the parking lot. I think Lincoln might have followed him, but I’m not sure. Sam was trying to help customers at the same time.”
“Wow,” the amateur sleuth whispered, staring out the window at the buildings as they whizzed by. “They had an argument? They seemed so close.”
“Wait,” Benjamin interjected, catching onto Sonja’s thought process. “You don’t think Shamus killed his dad, do you?”
Shrugging, Sonja fingered the SD card in her pocket. “It’s possible.” She hoped the SD card might help give some more clues to the case. “Do you think Shamus went home?”
“Where else would he go? It’s a small town, after all.”
“Maybe to a bar?”
“Doubt it. It’s not like I know the guy really well, but he just didn’t seem like the drinking type.”
“I want to stop by,” she said, “by his house.”
“Wait,” Benjamin smiled mischievously. “You mean to question him?”
“I guess,” Sonja said shyly, a hint of pink in her cheeks.
“Like a private eye,” Benjamin exclaimed. “I’m in.”
“Oh,” Sonja muttered, taken aback. “You want to come along?”
“Sure, it will be like when we worked together to catch Spook’s killer. Benjamin and Sonja,” he declared loudly, waving his hand through the air as if he were reading the names off a sign, “private eyes.”
“Alright,”
Sonja agreed, starting to pick up on the excitement. A whole afternoon with Benjamin was more than she could have ever asked for at this point. “Turn here,” she instructed, pointing up the road to her house. “I’ll get showered and changed as fast as I can.”
CHAPTER 9
Sonja had thrown on a fresh pair of jeans, a sky blue V-neck t-shirt, a black cardigan, and a pair of flip-flops—not really date material, but if she was potentially going to be running around Haunted Falls all day looking for clues, she wanted to be comfy. She just hoped Benjamin understood, and according to his reaction, he did.
“Wow, you clean up nicely,” he commented, clearly giving her the one over.
Sonja felt herself blush and instantly felt like a foolish schoolgirl. When she had graduated high school over ten years earlier, she assumed all the silliness in romance would automatically disappear—she was quickly finding she had been wrong.
“Thanks,” she said, feeling awkward for getting a compliment on a normal, boring outfit. Still, it excited her. Luckily, the rain had finally let up and Sonja no longer had worry about getting soaked or muddy.
Her excitement quickly vanished when she spotted her mother walking up the drive. “Oh no,” she whispered, “oh, no, no, no.”
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“My mother,” she muttered.
“Oh, I’d like to meet her. Formally, I mean. I didn’t get a chance to really talk to her earlier.” Benjamin said, much to Sonja’s dismay.
“Sonja,” her mother called. “Honey? The deputies told everyone to go home, too many people to keep stranded at the community center while they did interviews, I suppose. Took our names instead so they could interview us all over the next few days.” The strain of worry disappeared from her face as she stepped up to the bottom of the porch steps, and instead turned into a look of curiosity. The daughter could read her mother’s emotions like an open book, and she knew exactly what was coming next.
“Oh,” her mother exclaimed, brushing her own face with the back of her hand. “Hello. Benjamin, was it?”
The Wayward Waffle: Book 4 in The Diner of the Dead Series Page 6
