RG2 - Twenty-Nine and a Half Reasons (15 page)

Neely Kate’s eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

She tilted her head and grabbed my arm. “Yes, you did. You said my flower girl’s gonna get chicken pox.”

My pulse pounded in my temples. “Did I say that?”

Her gaze pinned me down. “You did. Why did you say my flower girl’s gonna get chicken pox?”

I waved my hand and released a nervous laugh. “I have no earthly idea! I don’t know what’s getting’ into me today! I have to go now.” I pulled my arm out of her death grip.

“I guess…” She seemed unsure, but let it go. “You better get goin’. You’re gonna be late.

Gonna
be? I was long past late.

“See you tomorrow?” she asked.

I nearly cried with happiness. I hadn’t scared her off. Yet. I had no idea how she’d react when her flower girl actually broke out in poxes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” After a half-hearted wave, I walked into the afternoon heat.

Mercy, I had blown this every way possible. I was going to be late to work and maybe lose my job, and I hadn’t even accomplished what I’d set out to do. Not only had I failed to tell Mr. Deveraux what I knew about Bruce, but I’d ticked him off so much there was little chance of him ever listening to me. Even if I ever got enough nerve to try to tell him again.

I consoled myself with a twisted grin. In spite of everything, I’d gotten a few pieces of valuable information.

One, I’d learned that peach bridesmaids dresses were only a good idea if you wanted a candy-themed wedding. And two, Frank Mitchell had owed money to a bookie. Maybe things hadn’t turned out so bad after all.

Chapter Twelve

I’d never seen Suzanne so angry in the four years I’d known her. Not even after she’d found out the beauty school no longer offered fifty percent discounts on repeat-customer hair coloring. And that was saying something.

While her red face was a good clue something was wrong, the way she shook, starting with her chin and radiating out to the rest of her body, made a few of us think she was having a seizure. Martha called 911 but hung up when Suzanne realized what she was doing and started screaming at her.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if Suzanne had sent me home, but I suspected she’d come to her senses and realized there was a proper procedure to follow. The only path to instant dismissal in the Arkansas state employment system was trying to murder one of your employees. Then again, maybe she planned to follow our old boss’s footsteps.

Sitting down at my station, I stuffed my purse into my drawer, chanting, “Three more hours. Three more hours,” until the words blended into a garbled mess.

Other than my encounter with Neely Kate, my day had been relatively vision-free, so I wasn’t surprised when I had several right in a row. One woman was relieved but a little baffled that her purse was in her chest freezer. Another customer was none too happy to find out that his neighbor had been stealing his newspapers.

Visions were exhausting.

But my visions were a sharp reminder of how I got involved in the Daniel Crocker mess, which had led to Momma’s murder and my whole involvement in the Crocker predicament. My visions had been a blessing and a curse, but they ultimately helped me save Joe and bust Crocker.

To the best of my knowledge, Bruce Wayne Decker didn’t have his own visions to save him. The truth was, I probably was Bruce Decker’s only hope. To my shame and dismay, I’d let my temper get the best of me and ruined any chance of getting Mr. Deveraux to believe me. He was the one person who could drop the charges and I’d blown it. But crappy doodles, that man was exasperating.

I needed another tactic, a backup plan to get myself out of the ditch I’d dug. I didn’t have anything concrete to exonerate Bruce, but if I could get more information, then Mason Deveraux would be forced to listen. The problem was getting more information.

One of my customers gave me an idea when she plopped her paperwork on the counter to renew her plates.

“The address on that paperwork is wrong. Can you put my new one in the system?”

With a friendly smile, I told her I’d be happy to, but the gears in my head had already spun into motion. There was a good chance that Frank Mitchell’s address was still in the system. He’d died a year ago and it usually took longer than that to purge names. All I had to do was look up the address and just drive by poor Mr. Mitchell’s house. I was bound to spot a clue—or, at least, it was worth a try.

How innocent was that? You couldn’t get arrested for driving down the street, could you? But I could get in trouble for looking up his records. I’d just have to be careful.

A coworker locked the front doors of the DMV at five and I bolted for the rear exit, ignoring Suzanne’s shrieks that I better show up in the morning or not come back.

Once I climbed into my car, shifting my legs on the sticky, hot vinyl, I pulled Mr. Mitchell’s address out of my pocket. While the steaming air that blasted from the vents slowly cooled down, I stared at the yellow sticky note, the words scribbled in my haste.
If Suzanne had caught me
… But she hadn’t, and there I sat with the address of a murder victim in my hand. Well, his last known address. Who knew where he resided now. God rest his soul.

I briefly considered going home. Muffy had been locked up all day and needed out. Not to mention I had a half-painted bedroom waiting for my attention, but I convinced myself this was going to be a quick drive-by. Curiosity had gotten the best of me. I’d just check out his place, then head straight home. I also considered getting Muffy and bringing her along. But if what I was doing was wrong, it seemed irresponsible to make Muffy an accessory to a crime. Again. Sometimes I was sure she still resented being forced to help me steal Miss Mildred’s car when we went to save Joe from Daniel Crocker.

I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and clenched my teeth. That settled it. A quick run past his house and then home.

Frank Mitchell’s residence was in an older, rundown section of Henryetta. All the streets in his part of town had tree names: Maple. Oak. Elm. The homes in Forest Ridge were built in the 1930s and most had been neglected, Mr. Mitchell’s included.

I slowed the Nova as I approached his house, gawking through the passenger window. The front porch sagged a good couple of feet on one side. One of the shutters was lopsided, looking like it would fall off if someone blew on it. A good portion of the paint had chipped away. The yard was in desperate need of cutting and the bushes in front were so overgrown that they covered half the windows. By the time I’d passed the house, I hadn’t learned anything other than the house was falling apart. I needed another look.

After circling the block, I slowed down several houses before reaching Mr. Mitchell’s again. The dwelling looked abandoned. Surely, it would be safe to look around.

I parked the car at the curb, one house away. As I got out, my hands shook, making the keys rattle. What in the world was I doing? What did I hope to find? I had no idea, but the urge to walk up to his house was not only undeniable but impossible to ignore.

Trying not to look suspicious, I plastered a big smile on my face and strolled down the cracked and crumbling sidewalk, taking care to keep from tripping. How would I explain breaking my leg here of all places?
I should have brought Muffy after all
. I could have said I was walking my dog, but it was too late now. I was already in the middle of doing this crazy thing.

When I reached his house, I stopped on the sidewalk. Boards with rusty nails stuck up from the porch and I wondered how anyone went in through the front door. I moved to the driveway and started around the back of the house when I heard a voice behind me.

“What do ya think yer doin’?”

With a shriek, I turned to face the voice, stumbling backward. I really needed to stop doing that. Twice in one day was two times too many.

Staring into the face of an old man who was obviously missing most of his teeth left me almost speechless. “Huh?”

He hunched forward, his right hand cupping the top of his thick cane. The man waited for my response and he looked like a man who wasn’t fond of waiting.

“I was just lookin’ around…”

“It’s been sold,” he grunted, trying to straighten his back and, without success, to look taller.

“What?”

“I said it’s been sold. Sold! What are you, deaf?”

“No…err…” I mentally shook myself. I needed to get it together. Obviously, I wasn’t very good at this investigating stuff. “How long had it been for sale?”

“Which time?”

“How many times has this house been for sale?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Twice. First time right after Frank died and the second just this past month. It’s a cotton-pickin’ shame. Frank spent the last month of his life fightin’ off some guy who was using every trick in the book to get him to sell, but it was all for nothing. The damn house sold anyway.” He turned around and headed back to the sidewalk, muttering under his breath.

“Wait,” I called, hurrying to catch up with him. “Who was trying to buy his property? Why did they want it so bad? Was it one of the bookies he owed money to?”

The old man stopped and turned to me, leaning all his weight onto his cane as though he was too tired to stand anymore. “Yer just full of questions, ain’t ya?”

I didn’t respond, trying to figure out the right thing to say to get him to talk. Maybe I should have questions prepared the next time I snooped at some guy’s house.

“I don’t know who it was. Frank didn’t say, not that it was any of my damn business anyways. And as to why they wanted it, I don’t know that either. But I know they was givin’ Frank the hard sell even though Frank said he’d never move. It was his momma and daddy’s house, and it needed to stay in the family.” He released a throaty laugh that caused a coughing fit. When he hacking slowed, he cleared his throat and spit on the sidewalk.

I jumped out of the way, swallowing my disgust.

The man got a hard look in his eye and the right side of his top lip twitched as he stared at me. If I hadn’t known I could outrun him, I’d have been scared.

“You know what’s funny?”

I shook my head.

“All that energy wasted tryin’ to keep from selling it and his son goes off and sells it as soon as he gets the chance. What a waste.” He shook his head.

“You said the person tryin’ to buy his house was giving him the hard sell. What exactly was he doin’?”

He squinted up at me and his annoyance curled the corners of his mouth. “How in the Sam Hill would I know? Do I look like a mind reader to you?”

“No… but…”

He scowled, his wrinkled face twisting up like a prune. “Look, Frank was a private person. Kept to hisself. The only reason I know’d anything about it was because I found him drunk out back a couple nights before he was killed.”

The pieces of the puzzle were shifting as I put things together. “Do you think the person trying to buy his house might have killed him?”

“That pot-smokin’ fool didn’t have enough money to buy a house.”

My mouth dropped. “You mean Bruce Wayne Decker?”

He tried to stand taller again but tilted to the side. “Of course I mean that Decker kid. Who the hell else would I be talking about? That boy’s on trial for Frank’s murder right now.”

“But how—”

“Damn, yer a nosy woman.” He shook his head and grunted. This guy made me appreciate Mildred just a tiny bit more. “’Cause that Decker fool lived down the street.” Lifting his cane, he pointed down the street to the house on the corner. “Right there.”

The house was one of the nicest on the street. Fresh paint, a cut yard, flowers planted along the walk.

My confusion must have been evident. The man snorted. “He didn’t own that house. That’s his parents’ house. He lived there until a couple of months before Frank died. His folks finally wised up and kicked his sorry ass to the curb.”

“Oh.”

“Got any more fool questions?”

I shook my head, trying to make sense of that information. “No.”

He turned his back to me and hobbled to the house next door. “My baseball game’s on. If I miss something, I’m blamin’ you.”

Driving away, I slowed the car as I passed Bruce Wayne Decker’s parents’ house. I considered stopping and asking them some questions, but that wouldn’t work. I couldn’t very well knock on their door and say, “Hi. I’m Rose Gardner and I’m on your son’s jury, but I saw a vision in the men’s restroom that someone else killed Frank Mitchell so I believe your son is innocent and I’m trying to prove it.”

There was no way I could pull that off. I bet dollars to donuts that they’d never believe I thought he was innocent when everyone else was ready to have a public execution. Besides, I couldn’t risk it. I wasn’t supposed to be investigating.

On the drive home, I tried to make sense of what Mr. Mitchell’s neighbor had said. Who wanted to buy Frank Mitchell’s house? It was in such bad shape, and that kind of neglect hadn’t happened since Frank’s death. Decay like that took years. But Mr. Mitchell was a manager at the hardware store. While he wouldn’t have made enough money to get rich, he surely made enough to take care of his house. So where was his money going?

Anne in the paint department had said he’d owed money and Neely Kate said she’d heard he was in debt to bookies. I knew Joe would dismiss it as gossip, but the man had to be spending his money on something and it sure wasn’t fixing his house. Had the bookies wanted his house to pay off his debts? And when he refused, did they kill him?

Muffy was glad to see me and burst out of the house, running in circles before she finally took care of her business. After I made myself a sandwich for dinner, I realized I needed to pack for my trip to Little Rock.

My stomach twisted with excitement and anticipation. I’d never been to Little Rock before, even though it was only two hours away. Violet and Mike had been plenty of times and—

Oh, crappy doodles
. I hadn’t told Violet I was going. No matter how frustrated I was with her, I needed to let her know or she’d worry.