Liberty shrugged. “I’m sorry, Coop. I know you were hoping for…well, really anything other than stained glass windows, floral arrangements, and books.”
I scowled. “Books?”
She nodded toward the stack in my hand. “Yeah. The last two were of a couple books next to each other.”
I pulled them out. One showed the cover of two notebooks. No words, just 1977 stamped on front. The books were open in the other picture. The pages filled with columns and rows. Dates, numbers, and weird things like memorial fund, expenses, deposits, were written in different columns. I closed my eyes and sighed. “What a waste.”
Miss Ruth’s voice floated from the kitchen.
Justice looked past my shoulder and down the hall. “We better go. If your mama catches us still here, you won’t be the only one grounded.”
I dragged myself upstairs, tossed the folder on my desk, then flopped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling. I pounded my bed with my fists. Stained glass window and flowers? Seriously? Sure, the stained glass windows were pretty. And I guess women liked to take pictures of flowers. But books? Why those? I pushed myself up and sloughed through the pictures on my desk until I found them.
I had no idea what the numbers all meant. The only one that made sense was the date, Wednesday, March 23. That was the day before she died. Muttering, I added the photos to the case closet. Maybe they’d make sense later.
* * *
That night, after dinner and after Gramps had gone to his room, I got on my laptop and typed in words from the book photographs. Expenses and deposits. My screen filled with articles on accounting, balance sheets, and ledgers. I scanned them and clicked on the article that had a photo of a book kinda like the one from the camera.
A ledger. So that’s what the books filled with columns and numbers were. Interesting. I read on but the article didn’t mention why someone would keep two different ledgers for the same year. I typed my question into the search bar.
A half-hour later I flopped back against my chair and let out a huge breath, then grabbed my phone and called Justice.
“Put me on speaker so Liberty can hear,” I said. “But keep the volume low. I want to keep it secret.”
“Shut my door, Lib,” Justice said.
“We’re good,” Liberty called. “What’s up?”
“I researched those weird photos with the columns and numbers—ledgers, actually.” I said. “You won’t believe this, but I think someone was doctoring the books.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Justice.
“It means someone was embezzling. Stealing money from the”—I ran my finger ran up the description column of the ledger photo—“Memorial Fund.”
“Stealing? From the church?” Liberty swore under her breath. “Who’d do that? How can you tell?”
“Remember how there were two ledgers for the same year?”
“Yeah.”
“I compared them. There are different amounts in the same account. One of the ledgers is the real one. It shows how much money the church actually received—that’s the one the crook usually keeps. The other one is fake—that’s the one everyone else sees.”
One of them whistled. Probably Justice, which was what he did whenever math confused him.
“What are you going to do now?” asked Liberty.
“If we can find out who the bookkeeper for the church was all those years ago, maybe we’ll discover the thief. I’ll email Pastor Joel and see what he knows. I’ll let you know what he says.”
I said goodbye and wrote a short email to Pastor Joel at Windy Bottom Baptist. I didn’t want to wait until Sunday.
Hi Pastor Joel,
Random question: Who was the bookkeeper at church 40 years ago?
Thanks—Coop Goodman
Then I grabbed my list of questions and a pen. Now I had three mysteries to solve.
7. Who was stealing from the church’s memorial fund?
8. Who was the bookkeeper at Windy Bottom Baptist forty years ago?
9. Did Gran’s death have anything to do with the stolen money?
Chapter 20
Thursday’s sunrise pierced through the kitchen curtains as Mama stood by the sink in her pajamas and washed out her coffee mug. “The dishwasher hose at the bookstore needs replacing, Harley. Mr. Gordon said the dang thing leaked all day yesterday.”
Gramps nodded. “I’ll handle it. I want that contraption in working order, since Coop will be all but married to it today.”
“After my haircut,” I reminded him, dropping ice cubes into my own steaming cup of coffee. “And who knows, Burma may be real busy. Might take him a while to get to me.”
“Don’t you wish.” Gramps grunted and hurried off to his room.
“Oh, Burma’s will be busy,” said Mama, handing me an apple turnover.
Cake for breakfast still wasn’t an option, but apparently the fire in her anger had been doused enough to share a pastry.
“I’ve no doubt every chair will be filled with people sharing what they know, what they’ve heard, or what they’ve invented. Sending you into his shop is like sending Daniel into the lion’s den,” continued Mama. “But there’s no hope for it. You look absolutely ragged, and you don’t want me cutting your hair. ’Sides, at least it will show everyone that life goes on and we’re doing all right.”
* * *
The late morning air was warm and the sun perched above the newly painted Dollar Daze sign as I walked down Willow Avenue toward Burma’s Cut ’N’ Curl. I rounded the corner of the bank and almost ran into a line of customers that stretched out the door of A Latté Books—something that hadn’t happened since its grand opening a few years back. Mama hadn’t been kidding when she’d said people would be coming out of the woodwork. Especially now that Gramps was the prime suspect.
On the other side of the long line, the door to Burma’s shop stood open, letting the morning air in and the gossip out. I didn’t want anyone stopping me, so I tugged my baseball cap farther down and I hurried on.
I peered through the front window of the Cut ’N’ Curl. Mama was right—every seat was full. Not that Burma had a lot of seats, but still. Willy the postman stood in the waiting area jabbering with Old Elmer, who sat with his cane in the swivel chair closest to the counter. Burma stood behind the other swivel chair and snipped at the few pieces of hair Gunner Creedy still had left.
Miss Velma and Mrs. Alcott, their hair wound into pink rollers, rested under hair dryers, shouting at each other to be heard over the hum of the machines. A stranger might mistakenly think Burma had opened his doors an hour ago in order to have two ladies already under dryers plus a man in the chair, but us town folk knew different. Miss Velma and Mrs. Alcott were known to roll their hair at home and then spend the morning under Burma’s dryers shooting the breeze. And as long as a paying customer didn’t need to dry their hair, Burma was happy to oblige.
Snippets of conversations rode the shampoo-and-perm-scented air onto the sidewalk to where I stood.
“…heard poison was what done her in. And the police…”
“…never did think she ran off…leave a baby?”
“—that’s a load of hogwash. Millie said…”
“…anyone seen Earl lately? Rumor has it…”
“Yes, but Wendell mentioned… And ’sides…”
“—think about it. Tabby, Steven, now Doc…bad things…family’s cursed.”
I’d been counting on the fact gossip would flow at Burma’s Cut ’N’ Curl. Hopefully, I’d learn something. But now, hearing it made the excitement that had been burning in my stomach turn to ash. I didn’t know if I was embarrassed or angry they were talking about Gramps and Gran. Probably a bit of both.
But I had to go in—not only for my haircut, but to try to clear Gramps’s name.
I stepped through the doo
rway and the talking continued. As soon as I took off my cap though, the conversations fell to the floor with a thud.
Only the hair dryers continued to drone on. The ladies’ faces matched their pink rollers. I wasn’t sure who was more red, them or me. But the heat I felt in my cheeks could’ve dried everyone’s hair.
“Morning, Coop.” Burma looked up from Gunner’s head. “Come on in.” He paused. “How’s Harley holding up?”
“Fine.” I forced myself to smile.
Old Elmer swiveled his chair to face me and jabbed his cane toward my feet. “The police any closer to finding out who done it yet? Do they have any other suspects besides Doc?”
“When’s the funeral?” Miss Velma bellowed over the dryer’s whir.
“Mama and Gramps are still working on it,” I hollered back.
Gunner stretched out of the chair. “Nice shiner, Coop.” He pointed to my eye. “I heard of all the people to wallop, you chose Beauregard Knapp.” He examined his wisps of hair in the mirror. “Go big or go home, right? Or in your case you went big and you went home.” He laughed at his joke and wandered out the door after leaving money on the counter.
I turned to Burma. “I need a haircut. Mama’s orders.”
He gave me the once-over and nodded. “Well, there’s Willy and then Elmer—”
“No, no—let Coop go first.” Willy pushed me into the empty chair. “We can wait, can’t we, Elmer?”
“I’ve nowhere to go but here. Now”—Old Elmer repositioned himself to face me and spoke to my reflection in the mirror—“how are you doing?”
“Yeah.” Willy sidled up next to him. “Anything…uh…new?”
Miss Velma reached up, turned off her dryer, and lifted the top.
Mrs. Alcott did the same and shook her finger at Willy and Elmer. “A gossip’s mouth is the devil’s postbag.”
Willy spun around. “There’s no need for you to act high and mighty. We all heard you gabbing on just now. Devil’s postbag.” He scoffed. “Devil’s handbag more like.”
“Harrumph.” She wrenched open a magazine but didn’t turn her dryer back on.
Miss Velma popped herself out of her chair and joined Elmer, Willy, and Burma. The four of them stared expectantly at me in the mirror.
I gulped.
Burma tsk-tsked as he wrapped a strip of tissue paper around my neck, which was almost as scratchy as any loose hair would’ve been.
“At least let me ask him about his hair before y’all start pummeling him with questions.” Picking up his scissors, he chuckled. “Mind you, I’m a mite curious myself. Same cut as last time, Coop?”
I nodded. “Burma, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” He grinned and leaned over. “You got girl troubles?” He winked at me in the mirror.
I snorted. “No. It’s about Gramps.”
He looked at my reflection. “I hope you’re not worried, son. Your gramps is a good man.”
Suds nodded. “He don’t drink, don’t smoke. Don’t cuss, either. Not unless you count that time the leaf blower caught fire.” He patted my shoulder. “Based on the slew of swear words that flew from his mouth I wasn’t sure if he was even allowed to be a deacon at church anymore.”
Mrs. Alcott lowered her magazine. “That doesn’t mean he’s perfect.”
Miss Velma shushed her.
I focused my attention on Burma. “It’s just that for someone who’s practically like my dad, I don’t know much about him from before we came. He’s not one for talking about the past. Y’all have known each other for years, right?”
“Best friends growing up.” Snip, Snip, Snip.
I knew that. “Yeah. I just meant…”
“We were downright inseparable until he left for college.”
“And after college?”
“Well… Things got mighty tense for a bit when he came home.”
“Really? What happened? Y’all had a fight?” I blurted. At least it was a better blurt than did you kill his wife?
Willy nudged Old Elmer and grinned. “Did they fight?”
Burma chuckled. “It was the only fight Harley and I had, but it was a doozy. Almost destroyed our friendship.”
Willy leaned in. “They both loved the same girl.”
Wait. What?
I gawked at Burma in the mirror. “Nah-uh.”
Miss Velma’s rollers jiggled as she nodded. “Yes—it’s true.”
“Wait—you loved Tabby too?”
Burma ran the comb through my hair and trimmed the ends.
Willy grinned. “Oh, son, I don’t mean your grandma. She came on the scene later.”
Elmer shifted in the chair and poked my arm. “Ruth Feather.”
My jaw dropped. “Shut the front door!”
Elmer eyed the door, puzzled. “It is shut.”
Burma placed both hands on my shoulders and looked at me in the mirror. “My sweet Ruth was in love with your gramps, much to my dismay. Nearly ruined our friendship.”
“That woman’s one rocking chair short of a front porch,” muttered Old Elmer.
Burma shook his scissors to him. “You’re just jealous she bakes lemon pound cake for me and not you.”
Old Elmer grunted.
“So,” I cleared my throat. “What happened?”
He smiled. “I first laid eyes on Ruth Feather when I was fourteen years old. Her family had just moved to Windy Bottom.”
“Poorer than church mice too,” piped Mrs. Alcott from behind her magazine.
Willy thumbed toward Mrs. Alcott. “Devil’s handbag,” he mouthed.
“I didn’t care about that.” Burma scowled. “The three of us became good friends, but I could tell she had a thing for your gramps. Harley was a looker, smart, and destined for big things. She was smitten with him.” He poked me in the shoulder. “Pay attention to that. You can tell a lot by the way a girl looks at you.”
“Yes sir.” No girls were looking at me so I didn’t need to know. I wished he’d hurry up and get to the important stuff.
“Harley gave her his word they’d marry when he got back from medical school. He—”
Miss Velma nudged Burma aside. “He even got on his knee and gave her a promise ring.”
“What’s a promise ring?” I asked.
Her brows pinched together. “Well, dear, it’s like an engagement ring, sort of.”
Gramps had promised to marry Miss Ruth? Whoa. I’d always kind of viewed her as a grandma of sorts. But if she had married Gramps, she really would’ve been my grandma.
“Anyway,” Burma moved to my other side and continued snipping, “she got her teaching degree and returned to Windy Bottom and waited for Harley. Then one day, he returns with a doctor’s degree in his hand and a wedding ring on his finger.”
“And a city girl on his arm,” added Mrs. Alcott. She dropped the magazine into her chair and marched over to us. “The news was enough to make people forget to sweeten their tea.”
Burma nodded.
Gramps had jilted Miss Ruth?!
Miss Velma sighed. “Poor girl was inconsolable. And Meriwether.” She shook her head. “Well, she was fit to be tied, wasn’t she? You know how protective she can be.”
Willy chuckled. “A mama bear with a hunted cub looked tame next to Meriwether.”
Old Elmer grunted. “If you ask me, Ruth’s bolts got turned that day and she hasn’t been right since.”
Could sweet old Miss Ruth have been capable of murder all those years ago? Sure, I could see Miss Meriwether having murderous tendencies…but Miss Ruth?
Burma ignored him and continued. “Vowed she’d never love another. I was furious with Harley for treatin’ her that way.” I could see his lips pinched together in the mirror as he leaned over to trim my neckline.
Okay, wait. Maybe B
urma was the murderer! “What did you do?” I croaked.
“You wanted to knock him clear ’cross Tipton County.” Willy slapped his arm across Burma’s back and wheezed out a laugh.
Burma straightened up. “I’m trying to cut his hair, not his neck!”
“Sorry.” He stepped back.
Burma grinned. “Love can make you do some wild things.”
“Like what?” I breathed.
“Nuthin! Whaddya think, I punched him? I realized your gramps had done me a favor, and maybe now I had a chance with Ruth.”
“Not likely,” muttered Mrs. Alcott.
“Crazy bat,” said Old Elmer.
I stared at him for a second, trying to figure out if he meant Burma or Mrs. Alcott.
Miss Velma nudged Burma away again. “But Ruth took the high road. She made it a point to befriend your grandma, even though it must’ve been difficult for her to see Doc each day, knowing what could’ve been.”
“You mean what should’ve been.” Mrs. Alcott huffed. “He broke his promise to her.” She turned broke into a two-syllable word.
Burma placed both hands on Miss Velma and scooted her off to the side.
“What about you and Gramps? Did y’all ever set things right?”
He nodded. “Yuppers.” Snip. Snip. Snip. He stood back and admired his handiwork. “It’s hard to be mad at someone just because they fell in love.” He unfastened the cape and whipped it off me. “Done! ’Sides, I’ve had years to woo Ruth, and I think she’s finally beginning to see what a fine catch I am.”
Old Elmer shook his head. “You’re as loony as she is.”
I stretched out of the chair. “Thanks, Burma—for everything.”
I’d walked in wanting to find out what was going on back then, and, boy, did I ever.
Chapter 21
Gramps closed his toolbox as I came through the back kitchen door of A Latté Books.
“Perfect timing.” His arm swept to the counter behind him. Racks filled with dirty plates and mugs were stacked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. “We’re almost out of clean dishes, and there’ve been so many people, we’re on our last gallon of milk. Mr. Gordon had to run to Piggly Wiggly to get more. He just got back.”
Coop Knows the Scoop Page 10
