by Diane Morlan
“Yes, he is. Thank goodness he knows the story and you didn’t have to go through it all with him. Do you think you’re a suspect?”
Decker’s head jerked back as if he had been slapped. “No way! Jacobs knows I’d never do anything like that. I think.”
“Of course not,” I said, thinking that Jacobs was way too professional to drop a suspect without evidence that the suspect was innocent. “Okay, then, let’s get to work.”
I dug around in my purse and came up with my little notebook. “Whose names were on that list?”
Decker looked at my spiral notebook, grinned. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an identical one, except his had a blue cover and mine was red.
Decker showed me his list. I copied it into my notebook. “Here,” he said, “This is exactly how Whitney wrote it.”
g.cop pics $$$
dkr chi
jacsn lv chd 10$$$
l.vet aff $
oz bby $$
d.yng thf
“This looks sort of weird,” I said. “Are you sure it’s a list? It looks like it’s in code.”
Decker took the paper from my hand. “It’s sort of a code. Mostly she just left out some vowels. See, dkr, that’s me,” he said, pointing. “Chi is Chicago. I’m not sure how much each dollar sign represents, but I don’t have any money, other than a small savings account and my retirement. She must not know how little county cops are paid. Not that I’d have ever given her any money.”
“Jerry,” I asked, “What would you have done if she had asked you for money?”
“I don’t know, probably run her in. She really didn’t have anything legal on me, just rumors. I’d have been embarrassed but I wouldn’t have paid her off, that’s for sure.”
17
We both looked over the list. I wondered if Decker would have paid her off or not. Maybe he hadn’t been charged with anything and there obviously wasn’t any evidence that he had done anything to the drug dealer who had killed his wife and child. Could it have been more than embarrassing? He had already lost one job because of it.
“We need to figure out who all of these people are,” Decker said. “One of them could be Whitney’s killer.”
“I think this one is Olivia Zimmerman,” I said, pointing to the OZ on the list. “She hung around with Whitney in high school. There were four girls that were together in a lot of pictures in the yearbook.”
Decker looked at me and gave me that cute half-smile of his. “Well, haven’t you been the busy little bee?”
I could feel the warmth rising from my neck to my forehead. “Gee, Jerry, you know how curious I am. I was checking out her friends when she was missing to see if I could find her.”
“You just couldn’t wait to stick your nose into a police investigation, could you?”
“Hey, Decker, hold on. We’re on the same team this time! Besides, it wasn’t a police investigation. You guys didn’t even think she was missing until she turned up in my car.”
“Okay, I guess you’re right.” Decker squeezed my hand and giving me his most serious cop look, he said, “The person who killed Whitney is dangerous, Jennifer. Please work with me and be careful. We can figure this out together so, don’t go running off on your own. There is someone out there with a secret they are willing to kill to keep.”
He looked so serious; I nodded my head and promised to be careful. I had been looking at this as a puzzle to be solved, not thinking that I could actually be in danger if I got too close.
“This one is obviously Charlie Jackson,” Decker said, pointing to “jacsn,” the third name on the list. The “lv chd” could mean love child. Do you know about any kids he has?”
“I do. He has three boys. One from his first wife and two from the second.”
“How many times has he been married?”
“Just twice, and he’s not married to anyone right now. Maybe he has another kid out there somewhere. Heck, all the girls were after him when we were teenagers. Remember, he was our own hometown rock star.”
Decker made some sort of snorting sound. I’d heard it many times before, usually from teenage boys when I was in high school.
“Okay, how do you want to divide up the list?” I asked.
“I don’t think we need to talk to the people on the list right now. Jacob’s and his men will be all over them. I’m sure he won’t have any trouble figuring out who they are.”
“Then what can we do?” I asked.
Decker looked down at the list again and said, “We need to talk to people who know them. People who will be willing to tell us about them.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “One of the girls who went to the prom with Whitney and her friends is Pamela Frey. She’s Whitney’s cousin.”
“How do you know that?”
“Bernie told me.” I said.
Decker’s head jerked up. “You talked to Sr. Bernadine?”
“Of course I did. She asked me to look into it and see what I could find to clear Harold. She’s really worried about him.”
“Sister Bernadine is complicit in getting you involved in another murder investigation?”
“She appreciates my detecting skills,” I said. “Which is something you should do, since we’ll be working together?”
“Okay, fine. Just remember what I said. This is not a game!”
“Okay, I get it. So, what about the other names on the list? Do you think ‘l.vet’ could be Lisa Vetter? Is the name crossed off because Whitney got money from her?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Decker smirked at me. “You’ve had a thing about her since last summer.”
“I don’t have ‘a thing’ about anyone. I just think it’s unfair for her to blame me because her husband was questioned by the police.”
“Right,” Decker said. “Didn’t you go to school with them?”
“Just Randy. He was all head over heels for Bernie until she went to the convent. Even then he tried to prevent her from leaving.”
“When did he meet Lisa?”
“Not long after he started the auto mechanics course at Hermann Community College. Lisa was in the nursing program. She’s a little older than him and was a nursing assistant for a few years after high school. Then she decided to get her RN.”
“It looks like someone had an affair.” Decker pointed to the af after Lisa’s name—if it was Lisa’s name. “Maybe the person did pay up.”
I thought about that. “I don’t know. Lisa seems so protective of Randy. I can’t imagine she’d cheat on him.”
“Why don’t you see what you can find out? Stick that pretty nose of yours in the air and see what you come up with.” Decker tweaked my nose, which I hate. I slapped his hand away and pretty soon we were wrestling around and then we were kissing. We moved indoors from the front porch. No reason to give the neighbors a free show.
18
Wednesday morning I woke to the smell of fresh coffee. Pulling on my robe, I hurried out to the kitchen. In my little cottage, the kitchen was the area at the south end of the “great room.” My home was so small that it was more like a “good room.”
“Hey, where’s breakfast?” I asked.
Decker was leaning against the sink with my biggest coffee mug in his hand. His biceps rippled under his white t-shirt as he raised his cup to take a sip. “You don’t have any food here to make a breakfast.”
“Darn, I was looking forward to one of your terrific omelets.”
“You have a choice, either toast and jam or breakfast at the Dixie Diner.”
“No contest. Let me get dressed.”
We walked out the back door to the detached garage. Decker put his arm around me and said, “Can I drive your new SUV? I should check it out for you.”
Laughing, I looked into his twinkling brown eyes and said, “It doesn’t need checking out, but you’re more than welcome to drive.”
He gave me a little hug then he too
k the keys from my outstretched hands. “You never get all feminist about me driving all the time. I like that.”
“It’s got nothing to do with feminism. I’d just rather ride than drive. We live in a very pretty area and I love to look at the scenery.”
“Whatever the reason, I like it.”
We pulled into the parking lot of the Dixie Diner, crowded with eighteen-wheelers on one side and autos closer to the building. We waited for a grey-haired lady with a cane to be escorted to her car by an equally old man. They got into a shiny black Cadillac, the man’s head barely visible over the steering wheel. Decker pulled into the space they had just vacated and we headed for the diner.
We weaved our way through the shelves in the gas station, to the back where the diner was located. Surprisingly, we found an empty booth near the restaurant entrance. The waitress plopped down two thick ceramic mugs and filled them both with coffee. “I’ll be back in a minute for your order.”
“She’s fast,” I said, sipping my coffee. “This diner is one of my biggest customers.”
“They buy their coffee beans from you? No wonder it tastes so good.” Decker said. He picked up the menus that the waitress had left for us and handed one to me.
I shook my head, “Don’t need it. I know what I want.”
When the waitress returned to take our orders a few minutes later, I took the time to look at her. Her blue and white striped uniform couldn’t hide her curvaceous shape. Her dark hair was cut into an ultra-short pixie hairstyle reminiscent of the 1970s. When she asked for our orders, I said. ‘I’ll have the ham and cheese omelet, hash browns and a short stack of pancakes.”
“Make that two,” Decker said. He looked at me and asked, “How can you eat so much and stay so trim?”
“Trim?” I said. I’d never thought of myself as trim. At a little over five foot, 3 inches, I was definitely not a size 2, although I still could squeeze into single digit sizes. “Guess I have a good metabolism.”
We dove into our piping hot omelets as soon as the waitress plopped them down in front of us. “I know her from somewhere. Her hair was longer and she was a little younger. Does she look familiar to you?” I asked between bites.
“Who?” Decker asked, looking around. He stuffed a forkful of hash browns in his mouth.
“The waitress. I’ve seen her somewhere.”
“Besides here? I don’t know.”
“You come here a lot. Do you know her name?”
“Pam.”
“How do you know that?”
Decker carefully set down his fork. He folded his hands, smiled at me and said, “Jennifer, I looked at her name tag. It says ‘Pam.’”
“Duh, some detective I am.”
“See, Jennifer, that’s the thing. You’re not the detective, I am. You’re just a cute little snoop.” He reached across the table and patted my cheek.
“Thanks a lot. Hey, Pam! Pamela Frey. I knew she looked familiar.”
Who is Pamela Frey?”
“Whitney’s cousin. Remember! I saw her picture in the yearbook. She went to the prom with Whitney and her friends.”
“She doesn’t look like the type of person who would hang around with Whitney’s crowd. She seems nice.”
“You’re probably right. I understand that Whitney’s father ordered Whitney to include Pam in her activities.
When Pam returned to the table to refill our cups and see if we needed anything else, I said, “Pam, I’m sorry about your cousin.”
“T-t-thanks,” she stuttered.
“I wonder if I could meet with you. There are a couple things I’d like to know and I think you may have the answers.”
“I don’t know anything about Whitney’s death. I haven’t even seen her in weeks. I’m pretty busy.”
“I promise not to take too much of your time. Since you were her cousin, you probably knew her better than most people.”
“Are you a cop, like Jerry?” she asked, pointing to Decker.
“No,” I said trying to think of something that might persuade her to meet with me. “Sister Bernadine asked me to look into Whitney’s death. She’s afraid that one of the residents at the group home will be arrested and she’s certain that no one there would hurt anyone.”
“Sister Bernadine? She was my eighth grade teacher. Okay, I’ll meet you, but it has to be later and I don’t have much time.”
“Anytime, anyplace, you pick.”
“Sure, how about tomorrow? I’ll be at the library tomorrow afternoon. Can you meet me there around five o’clock?”
“I’ll be there. Thank you so much.”
“No problem,” she said, slipping the check under Decker’s saucer. Turning to the table next to us she said, “More coffee?”
“Nice work,” Decker said. “Does everyone respond to Sister Bernadine’s name like that?”
“I think so. Everyone loves her, always have. Even in second grade she was everyone’s best friend.”
“You’ve know Sister Bernadine since second grade?”
“We met when she tried to break up a fight between Megan and me. Been friends ever since.” I didn’t mention that the venerable Sr. Mary Francis ordered us to all be friends. Sister Mary was one scary nun—even to second graders.
We left the diner and walked toward the car. “So, Decker, what are your plans for the day?”
“I thought I’d go over to Charlie Jackson’s campaign office and talk to the people there. How about you?”
“I’m going to stop in at Whitney’s condo. Maybe I can talk to Henrietta before she gets too drunk.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Decker drove us back to my place. We smooched in the car for a little while before he took off in his big black truck.
I took a deep breath, slid behind the wheel, and drove over to Whitney’s condo. We were at the Dixie Diner so long that it was almost time for lunch. It was probably too late to find Mrs. Wentworth sober. When I got there, I saw cars lining the street in front of the townhouse. I finally found a space around the corner and trudged back to Mrs. Wentworth’s townhome.
When I got to the door, I realized that it didn’t matter whether she was sober or not. I wasn’t going to have a private conversation with Whitney’s mother. The place was full of people. The dining room table was filled with food. Several were on heating elements on the tale. In Minnesota, a casserole is called a “hotdish.” A half dozen Jell-O salads, along with plates and plates of brownies and other bars—some frosted, some plain—completed the buffet. I picked up a small brownie, even though I had just finished a huge breakfast, and munched on it. I listened to Whitney’s neighbors talking in hushed tones while they rearranged the food and replenished the coffee and paper plates.
“I know it’s not nice to talk negatively about the dead, but I can understand why someone might kill her,” said the brown-haired lady in a dress with purple flowers splashed all over it.
The other lady, in jeans and a sweatshirt said, “She was a nasty little bitch. Well, not that little, as a matter of fact. She’d park in my driveway all the time, and then get all pissy when I asked her to move her car. Sometimes I think she parked there just to make me mad.”
That conversation wasn’t going to be very helpful. I already knew Whitney wasn’t liked by many people. I walked slowly over to the china cabinet and peeked inside. Lots of dishes. It looked like a setting for twelve. They would never be able to have a sit-down dinner for twelve in this townhouse. I wondered, not for the first time, how Whitney must have felt working in the house that had been her home for most of her life.
On the second shelf were three framed pictures. Whitney and a guy were in two of them. I didn’t recognize him and wondered if he was from Hermann. It was the same guy in both pictures. The third picture was much like the one I’d seen in the newspaper. The same group of girls only they were standing next to a bright red Thunderbird.
I turned and walked into the living room. People milled around, talking to each other. Holdi
ng court in the corner of the living room was Mrs. Henrietta Wentworth. In one hand she held a goblet of red wine, in the other a hanky with crocheted lace edging. I wondered if Whitney had made it. I watched her sip the wine, and then pat the corner of her eye with the hanky. I’m sure she was in mourning for the loss of her daughter, one more loss in a short period of time.
Still, she was enjoying the attention. The whole scene looked like something out of a Victorian novel. I strolled over to the sofa and looked at the photo in front of a huge lamp with a fringed shade. This one showed Whitney and a different guy from the one in the pictures in the china cabinet. They were at a formal event, maybe a wedding or a dance. The background looked a little like the Hermann Country Club, but I couldn’t be sure.
I moseyed around the room, trying to pick up some information that might be helpful in finding Whitney’s killer. I heard about the outrageous price of gasoline, whose homes were being foreclosed, and whose teenagers were arrested at a party down by the river last Saturday night. No one in the room mentioned Whitney except when they paid their respects to Mrs. Wentworth.
After giving Mrs. Wentworth my condolences, II slipped out of the room. I was about to leave when I spotted someone coming from the kitchen with a platter filled with bread and buns.
“Oh, no,” I thought as Natalie Younger spotted me before I could get away. Natalie was Harold’s aunt and my tormentor since elementary school. She loved to gossip. I found it hard to escape once she engaged me in a “conversation.” Not that you could call her one-sided diatribe a conversation. I turned toward the front door, knowing I’d never make it.
“Jennifer! It took you long enough to get here!” she scolded.
Sighing, I turned around to face her. “I didn’t know I was expected.”
“Of course you’re expected. Bernie told me you were going to solve this mystery and get my little Harold off the hook.”
Little Harold? Who did she think she was kidding? Natalie had been avoiding the mention of his name for most of her life. She once called him “her cross to bear.” Good grief.
