Puzzling Ink

by Becky Clark

  Maybe not. That grease fire didn’t faze him a bit.

  * * * *

  The parking lot was practically empty, so she didn’t think anyone would be honking at her for her space. Again, she fired up the engine and blasted the air-conditioner. She’d ask Jake about the catalog later. For now, she dialed the first name on the list of cater-waiters from the screenshot.

  “Is this Paul Sothern?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand you worked at a fundraiser for the governor recently.”

  “I already told the cops everything I know.”

  “Just a quick follow-up question. Did you serve, or ask anyone to serve, a special request plate with mushrooms to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember Jake Szabo, the guy cooking that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ask you to do anything with a plate of mushrooms?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know any of the others you worked with that night?”

  “Nope. Not that I remember. And that was four questions, exactly what you guys asked me before.”

  “That was a test. Cops—uh, we—do it all the time to make sure you’re telling the truth. You passed with flying colors, by the way. Thanks for your time.”

  Quinn called the other names on the list, even the two women, despite Donnie’s description that it was a man who asked him to deliver the plate to Emmett. They all gave similar statements, including Brittany, who spoke at length about how dreamy Jake was and how it was a shame what had happened to that poor man. Quinn wasn’t sure if she meant Jake or Emmett. When Quinn asked if she knew any of the others she worked with, she said, “I’ve seen the guy with the dimple before, but I don’t know him.”

  She couldn’t give any better description than that, so Quinn called the other men back and asked each if they had a dimple. Paul Sothern and Ahmed Mehta claimed they had no dimples but Jimmy Kane told her, “Do you count the one on my butt?”

  “No, probably not.” Unless he was wearing just a pair of chaps, Brittany probably didn’t see his butt-dimple. How does he even know he has a butt-dimple? Quinn wondered what was on her butt she’d never know about.

  This seemed like another dead end to her. None of the cater-waiters claimed to have touched the plate of mushrooms, but Donnie clearly told her that one of the waiters asked if he’d do a solid and deliver it for him. Maybe Donnie had a better description of the cater-waiter, now that he’d had a chance to mull it over.

  Quinn called the Chestnut Station PD. Chief Chestnut answered. She disguised her voice, making it deep and gravelly, and asked to speak with Donnie.

  When he got on the line, she forgot to change her voice back. “It’s Quinn. I wanted to ask—”

  “What’s wrong with you? You sound terrible.”

  Quinn cleared her throat and spoke normally. “Frog in my throat. Can you describe the guy who gave you the plate of mushrooms to deliver to Emmett?”

  “Haven’t we been over this?”

  “Did he have a dimple?”

  “A pimple?”

  “No, a dimple.”

  “Do you really think guys notice stuff like that?”

  “That sounds a little homophobic, Donnie. Besides, I thought police were trained to notice things. A dimple is a thing.”

  After a pause, he said, “No dimple,” and hung up.

  Quinn looked over her dashboard at the Crazy Mule. She turned off her ignition and went back in. When she saw Kelli filling glasses at the drink station, she went over.

  “Can I ask you something else?” Without waiting for an answer, Quinn held up the screenshot for Kelli to see. “Do any of these guys have a dimple?”

  Kelli glanced at the photo, then quirked an eyebrow at Quinn, reality dawning on her. “You’re not looking for a job, are you?”

  Quinn shook her head.

  Kelli thought for a minute. “I don’t remember any dimples.”

  “Is it possible that one of these cater-waiters has a dimple that nobody saw?”

  “Usually you only see someone’s dimple if they smile,” Kelli said. “Working a fundraiser isn’t a laugh-fest.”

  “I guess not. Thanks again.”

  Either somebody was lying, or some guy snuck into the fundraiser to poison Emmett. What about that ex-employee of Jake’s who keeps hanging up on me?

  Back in the car with the AC blasting, Quinn called her dad. “How’s it going?”

  “Like a well-oiled machine.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it never ran that way when Jake was there.”

  “I guess your mother and I will just have to give him some additional training once he gets back.” Dan spoke to Georgeanne in the background. When he came back on the line he dropped his voice a bit. “Your mother is having the time of her life today. Thank you for letting her do this.”

  “Dad, I didn’t let her do anything. I begged you guys to help me out of a jam. I owe you big-time.”

  “Potato, potahto. And you don’t owe us a thing.”

  Quinn laughed. “Then I need another favor. In Jake’s office are a bunch of old employee files. I need you to pull out the one for Michael Breckenridge and give me his address.” After Dan rattled it off to her she said, “Are you sure everything is okay? I still have a couple things I need to do.”

  “Take your time. Everything is perfectly fine here.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Dad. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Quinn left the Crazy Mule and headed for the address back in Chestnut Station her dad had given her. If Michael Breckenridge won’t talk to me on the phone, I’ll have to make him talk to me in person.

  On the drive back to Chestnut Station, Quinn decided to go undercover and had a great cover story all ready, but the woman who opened the door recognized her.

  “Quinn Carr! I ran into your mom at the store the other day and she told me you were back in town. How are you? Haven’t seen you in ages. Come in, come in! Have some tea.”

  Undercover work was impossible in a small town.

  “Is Michael Breckenridge your son?”

  “He sure is. Are you a friend of his? Come inside so we don’t let all the cool air out.” Quinn followed the woman inside, but declined tea.

  “I can just stay for a minute. Actually, I was looking for Michael. I’m having trouble talking to him on the phone.”

  The woman nodded knowingly. “He doesn’t return my calls either. I don’t know if it’s because he’s too busy or too lazy or something else. You just missed him, though. He mowed my lawn this morning. Brought me this lemon pound cake he baked. I was just going to have a slice. Would you like some?” When Quinn declined, she said, “I can’t imagine why Michael wouldn’t call such a pretty girl back right away.”

  Quinn blushed and left with Michael’s address, on the new side of town. She drove over and parked a few doors down, but with a view of his front door. Quinn was afraid to go ring the bell. Despite how sweet his mother was, he still might be a murderer or something. Moms sometimes had no idea what their kids were up to, whether they were teenagers or adults, like Michael. She considered calling Rico or even Donnie, but what would she say? Some guy who used to work for Jake wouldn’t take her calls? And even though he just mowed his mother’s lawn and baked her a cake, he might be a dangerous murderer? The idea was ridiculous, but still.

  She hadn’t decided how to proceed when she saw a man come out of the house with a young girl. Quinn felt safer knowing there was a kid there. She sent a quick text to Rico giving him the address, then sauntered up to where they played in the yard.

  “Hi.”

  The little girl ran over and said, “Hi!”

  The man called her back. When she returned to his side, he held her hand.

&nb
sp; “Are you Michael Breckenridge?”

  “And you are…?”

  “My name is Quinn. I work at the Chestnut Diner, where you used to work.”

  He abruptly picked up the girl and returned to his house. To get a gun? Probably not to bring me fresh-baked lemon pound cake. Quinn ran for her car and locked the doors. She stomped on the gas pedal and twisted the key in the ignition, but the engine didn’t turn over. A car that didn’t start created the same panic as a computer that wouldn’t start. She only knew to put the key in and turn it, maybe give it a little gas. At least with a computer she could reboot it, if turning it off and on didn’t work. And turning the car off and on was decidedly not working. In her haste, she realized she’d flooded it. She let her car regroup while she repeatedly snapped her rubber band while counting all the trees she could see. She reached fifty-seven before she ran out of plants, realizing there were probably some shrubs included as well. This was not the time to learn botany.

  Michael Breckenridge stomped out of his house, down the driveway, heading right toward her.

  She frantically turned the key again, willing the engine to roar to life. It took two tries, but it finally did and she stepped on the gas.

  Michael Breckenridge stepped in front of her, blocking the street. She had no choice but to stop.

  He came to her window, waving cash, and talking. She cracked open her window a bit to hear him.

  “I only have fifty-five dollars.”

  “Okaaaay…”

  He pushed the bills through the window. Quinn scootched over as far as she could. The money fell in her lap.

  “Now will you quit bothering me?”

  “Um…”

  He stared at her angrily through the window.

  Quinn stared back. What was happening here?

  Finally he broke eye contact. “Fine. I’m sorry. It was a crappy thing to do.”

  Was he confessing to Emmett’s murder right here on the street? Quinn didn’t want to spook him by calling Rico, but had to know. “What was a crappy thing to do?”

  “Stealing that money from Jake.”

  “When?”

  “Back when I worked for him.”

  Quinn relaxed. Michael Breckenridge was confessing to an entirely different crime. “You stole money from Jake?”

  “From the cash register, technically. Fifty-three dollars. Tell him I’m sorry.” He turned and walked back to his house.

  Quinn collected the bills from her lap, smoothed and counted them. “Two bucks interest? Pretty cheap conscience.”

  She left Michael Breckenridge’s house and headed to the diner. The parking lot wasn’t very full even though it was well into what should have been the lunch rush. There was no billowing smoke to be seen or crowds of curious gawkers, so she rolled slowly past, squinting through the car windows into the diner. Everything seemed okay. Jethro was sacked out on the sidewalk in front of the door and almost lifted his head as she passed by. He followed the slow-moving car with his droopy eyes.

  “I’ll be right back. Gotta go talk to Jake real quick.”

  * * * *

  Quinn went to the jail, where she was met by Rico. Quinn still felt iffy around him because of all the drama between them lately.

  Rico watched her snap her rubber band. “Is that helping anything?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Ignoring your problems won’t make them go away.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Quinn shoved her hands in her pockets. “You just worry about yourself and this case. Where have you been, anyway?”

  “Chief’s got a bug up his butt about re-interviewing some people, so I’ve been doing that all day.”

  “Like who?”

  “Loma, Margosha, and Michael Breckenridge.”

  Quinn was beside herself with joy that her crossword plan worked with Chief Chestnut. She was anxious to tell her parents—the only people she could—but it would have to wait until she had some time alone with them. They were the only ones, aside from Vera, who knew she made the crossword puzzles. But would they understand that she was helping with the investigation? Quinn snorted. Of course they would. “You can forget about talking to Michael Breckenridge again, because I just talked to him.”

  “You were talking to Michael Breckenridge?”

  “Didn’t you get my text? Fat lot of good it does me to let you know my whereabouts in case I get into trouble if you never even know it.”

  Rico checked his phone. “Ringer was off.” He clicked it back on. “Now what’s this about you being in trouble?”

  “It was just a precaution. I went to talk to Michael Breckenridge and wanted someone to know where I was.”

  “What on earth were you talking to him about?”

  “I’ve been trying to talk to him on the phone, but he kept hanging up. There was something weird about him.”

  “Weird how?” Rico’s jaw tightened.

  “Weird because he wouldn’t talk to me. So I went to his house.”

  “Quinn…”

  “I know, I know. But it was really his mother’s house.”

  “So his mother was there when you talked to him?”

  Quinn wrinkled her nose. “Not exactly. But she said I was pretty and gave me Michael’s new address, so I went over there.”

  “You are really starting to annoy me.”

  “Relax. Everything turned out fine. He didn’t attack me and I didn’t run over him with my car.”

  “Was that an option?”

  “Kinda seemed like it at the time.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Little bit.”

  “I really wish you would just cut to the chase here. What happened?”

  “Fine. Turns out that Michael Breckenridge stole fifty bucks from Jake’s cash register back in the day. He wouldn’t talk to me on the phone because he thought that’s what this was all about. Like I was a collection agency. What would the interest be on fifty bucks over ten years or so?” Quinn saw the impatience on Rico’s face, so she continued: “So when I showed up, he threw some money at me and told me he was sorry for stealing it.”

  “Why did he steal it?”

  “I don’t know. But it couldn’t be anything too important if it was only fifty bucks. The upshot, though, is that now you don’t have to talk to him again because it’s pretty clear the reason he was acting suspicious was because of the guilt of this petty theft hanging over his head for so long.”

  Rico had been clenching and unclenching his fists during their conversation.

  Quinn finally noticed. “What?”

  “You’re acting reckless.”

  The anxious sound of his voice made Quinn’s stomach tighten up, so she tried to lighten the mood. “The only reckless thing I’ve done is stay too long away from the diner.”

  A horrified look crossed Rico’s face. “You haven’t been to the diner yet? Jake is gonna freak.”

  “He’s going to freak more when he hears that my mom and dad have been handling it all day. Can I go down and see him?”

  * * * *

  Rico watched Quinn walk downstairs to the jail. He didn’t mind her talking to Jake in the lockup as much as she had been, but wasn’t sure the chief would be so amenable. Rico almost told Donnie to keep Quinn’s visits quiet, but then he realized Donnie barely cared when and whether she was there. No conversation necessary.

  Despite what Quinn said, she was being reckless, whether she knew it or not. And he was fairly certain she knew it.

  Rico dropped his head back on his neck and rolled it, then hunched his shoulders in a useless attempt to alleviate some stress. He thought he’d moved past it, but he kept coming back to his original assessment that he’d wished he’d never agreed to let her help with this investigation. She was
still snapping that ridiculous rubber band and had added in all those other tics. Her compulsions. Maybe other people didn’t notice, but he did.

  It was interesting that Quinn had spoken with Michael Breckenridge just before I was going to interview him. Did she have some sort of insider knowledge I should know about? I shouldn’t be surprised. She had a knack for figuring things out, finding people to talk to and get information from. A sixth sense about investigations, which I should support.

  Rico was conflicted. If he wanted her to pursue the police academy again, he felt he should help her more than he had been. Maybe this time instead of being a problem, her OCD would help her. Rico thought about her snapping that silly rubber band on her wrist. If she could learn to live with it, that is. And that was a big if.

  * * * *

  “Back from Denver so soon?” Jake asked.

  “Yeah, I didn’t want to leave Mom and Dad alone too long.” Quinn grimaced, then backed away a bit from the bars of the cell. She decided that ripping off the bandage was the best course of events.

  Concern etched Jake’s face. “Your parents? Are they okay? What happened?”

  “Chris and Kristi happened. They moved to Idaho.”

  “They what?”

  Quinn flinched. “Not to worry. My mom and dad are at the diner.” She added an extra-chipper nonchalance to her voice. She wanted her words to come out standard Times New Roman, but was pretty sure they ended up being Comic Sans.

  “Your mom of the cumin cupcakes? Is that really a good idea?” Jake’s voice, on the other hand, was Arial, all caps, 24-point, bold.

  Quinn straightened her spine. She took one step toward the bars, but thought better of it and stepped back where she had been. She tried to speak evenly and calmly. “Listen, Jake, I don’t know if you realize it or not, but you’re in there and I’m out here—”