Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky (23 page)

At the far end of the counter, Spencer sipped coffee and read
The Wall Street Journal
. Without being asked, Brandi put a steaming cup in front of me. “One Sweet ‘n Low, one Equal and one teaspoon of sugar, right?”

“You’re a whiz,” I said. “By the way, can I talk to you for a second?”

She drew an order pad out of the pocket of her jeans. “First tell me what you want. I’ll put it in and be right back.” She glanced at the wall clock over my head. “The next wave doesn’t arrive until about nine.”

I rattled off my order: egg sandwich on a grilled English muffin with sausage and cheese, jelly and honey mustard on the side. Brandi nodded and scooted off to the grill where Stella flipped eggs and pancakes. Ten seconds later she appeared before me. “Okay, what’s up?”

I kept my voice low. “It’s about Cassandra, the caterer you work for. Do you know her sister, who works for her, too?”

“Mary Lou? She works afternoons, three days a week. I don’t really know her because I work nights.”

“Do you know of any instance, while catering, where she might have interacted with Dr. Klinger?”

“Hmm. Now that I think of it, there was a luncheon Cassandra catered for the Visiting Nurses. It was called Hooray for Healers, given in appreciation for those who make a difference in the community. Dr. Klinger was one of those honored.”

“Did you ever hear Mary Lou say anything about Dr. Klinger?”

“Like I said, our hours don’t overlap. The only time I spoke to her was when I went to Cassandra’s house to pick up my check. Mary Lou was kind of snippy.”

“Okay. I won’t keep you any longer. Next time you work for Cassandra, ask the staff what they know about Mary Lou. See what you can find out.”

“You’re saying she didn’t like Dr. Klinger?”

“It seems she didn’t care for her at all.”

The next morning I found myself trapped in the recurring dream of being pursued by pigs while slogging through knee-deep sludge. I awoke when the phone rang, yanking me back to reality. In the tangle of blankets I struggled to reach out and croak a greeting. “Yeah?”

“Rose? It’s me, Brandi.” She was crying.

I sat up. “Brandi, what’s wrong?”

“He’s dead!”

“Who’s dead?”

“Rusty. They said he drowned.”

I kicked the blankets off. “Who said he drowned? Start from the beginning.”

She let out a shaky sigh. “This morning I was listening to Stella’s police scanner. They mentioned a forty-year-old man found that morning in the park, drowned in the fish pond. I thought it could be Rusty. I borrowed Stella’s car and got there as the ambulance was leaving. They wouldn’t let me get close or say who it was until they’d made a positive ID. I spoke to Cal, and he admitted it was Rusty.”

“But that’s a kiddie pond, not more than three feet deep.”

“Cal said it was probably an accident. He said Rusty had been drinking and fell and hit his head on the concrete embankment.”

“How do they know he was drinking?”

“They found a bottle near his body.”

The news was too much so early in the morning. I needed coffee and time to think. “Brandi, I’ll stop by later today, okay?”

Her voice was subdued. “I’ll be at Stella’s.”

I raised the shade. The sky was a dirty bowl overhead. Rain ran down the window panes. It was the kind of morning that made you wish you were retired… or a dog. After letting Chester out, I rifled through the freezer among the unidentified frozen objects and found a fossilized bagel. I put it in the toaster oven and dialed Cal’s cell phone. He answered right away.

“Hi, Rosie. Change your mind about dinner at my place?”

“Cal, Brandi Slocum called me earlier.”

“Uh huh. It’s a shame about Rusty. I got the impression Brandi doesn’t think his death was accidental.”

“I said I’d get back to her when I learned more.”

“There’s not much to learn. The toxicology report will be more specific, but it’s pretty obvious. Rusty was in the park. He got drunk and fell, hitting his head on the cement apron of the kiddie pond. Around six-thirty this morning, a senior citizens’ walking group called the Gab and Gaiters came upon the body. Not long after that the EMTs verified his death.”

“You don’t suspect foul play?”

“Rosie, you’ve been reading too many Robert Parker novels.”

“Cal, I’m in no mood for smartass comments. I just want to know the official cause of death.”

“Don’t get your undies in a twist. Doc Moss says it’s a subdural hematoma with secondary drowning. Maybe Rusty was feeding the fish. He fell hard, as drunks do. They lack the involuntary response of raising your hands and breaking the fall. The EMTs said he slammed the concrete.”

“Is it possible he was hit?”

“Everything’s possible, and at this stage everyone’s a suspect, including Brandi. Maybe they had a lover’s quarrel.”

“They weren’t lovers. Rusty was like a big brother to her.” Cal snorted into the phone. I ignored it and asked, “How about the street people who hang around the park? Will you question them?”

“In due time. Rusty pissed off a lot of people. There’s a group of skinheads, tough guys who ride skateboards near the Homer Frost statue. We get complaints about them all the time. They pee on the petunias and scare the squirrels. One day Rusty got fed up with the punks and kicked ass. Someone heard them threatening him.”

“Please follow up on that, Cal. Now before I let you go, do you know if there’s going to be an autopsy?”

“Rose, the chief is satisfied. We’ll interview people, but basically this is considered an accidental death.”

“But an autopsy would reveal more about the head wound.”

“It might, had we found him earlier. His head was in the water for several hours and, well, the fish did a thorough job of cleaning the wound.”

An image of a big orange carp surfaced in my mind. I put the bagel down. “You’re saying the department won’t pursue the issue?”

“What do you want me to do, request an autopsy just to satisfy you and Brandi? I don’t mean to sound heartless, because I liked Rusty. He was a great athlete at one time. He was also a drunk, an ex-con and a murder suspect as well.”

“So that’s how it works. Justice is meted out according to one’s standing in the community. One set of rules for the Rotarians, another for the riffraff.”

“Rose, honey, you’re letting Brandi influence you. I was there. I saw the body. I smelled the booze. Many nights I’d see Rusty staggering around in the park. What’s amazing is that he lasted so long.”

“I guess there’s no point in continuing this conversation. The chief’s got his loose ends all tied up in a nice bow. Mayor Froggett and the Chamber will be pleased Dr. Klinger’s murder is solved. Now there’s no need to try Rusty. Good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?”

There was no response for so long, I thought Cal had hung up. Finally, he said, “I’m not the enemy, Rose. I just do my best. In any case, after I’m done guarding Stella’s pigs, I won’t be working the streets anymore. I put in for a transfer, mostly to satisfy Marcie. I’ll be Director of Roads and Highways. So, if you find a dozen bodies in the fish pond, don’t call me, because I won’t give a damn.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say something like that, Cal Devine.”

“That makes two of us. Goodbye, Rose.”

By the time I reached the office, my mood matched the weather. Stewart was working on a story about Rusty, searching the archives for pictures and clips taken during his football years. “The guy was phenomenal,” he said. “I saw all his games—as a kid, of course.”

“Were you with your nanny?” I asked and immediately felt bad. Stewart didn’t deserve the fallout from my black mood. “Don’t mind me,” I said. “It’s been a rough morning.”

I got up to get coffee in the break room. A sign tacked to the wall announced that coffee had risen to seventy cents a cup. Stew is in charge of buying and making the coffee. While he claims it’s Blue Mountain, I suspect generic. Why else would he volunteer for the coffee job if not to make a few bucks to augment his trust fund checks?

I carried the mug back to my desk and listened to my voice mail. The first message got my attention. The voice was young and guarded. She said she was calling in response to my story about Stella’s pigs and what she perceived as the high school administration’s heavy-handedness toward the seniors. “I just want you to know we’re fighting back.” Before hanging up, she left a number.

I didn’t recognize the area code; most likely it was a cell phone. This was what I’d hoped for, a response from the seniors, a sign proving they weren’t all mainstreamers, that their spirit was alive and well.

I dialed the number. A young man answered. His voice, too, was guarded. After determining my identity, we made a date to meet at the high school in an hour. “Look for a red van,” he said.

After hanging up, I let out a whoop. It startled Yvonne, who’d just arrived, wearing a metallic rain poncho. “Yvonne, the pig story is taking off. I’m meeting with some high school seniors in an hour. They want to speak anonymously.”

She shook out her umbrella. “Under the circumstances, an anonymous source is fine. Plus, we have to pay attention to our young people. They’re our future readers.”

Stew piped up. “Was that the only response you got?”

“So far,” I said. “I haven’t listened to all my messages.”

I booted up my computer, determined not to let Stewart’s remark destroy my excitement. While the Gazette readers hadn’t responded as passionately as I’d hoped, I had reached someone. One must work with the raw materials at one’s disposal, or as my dad is fond of saying, “You can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit.”

Two hours later I found myself in the back seat of a red van parked in the high school lot near the bleachers. The two kids sitting across from me, Meggie and Seth, made me smile. I was reminded of myself at that age.

“They’re incapable of independent thought, “Meggie said, referring to the faculty. “There’s no flexibility, no thinking outside the box. Every week they make up new rules just to keep us in line. It’s senseless.”

“Do the students have any input regarding the rules?” I asked.

Seth, who wore a single skull earring, said, “If you have a perfect score in school citizenship you can participate in the weekly community meetings. Whoopee.”

“And the ones who have perfect scores are dweebs, just interested in having an impressive r?sum?,” Meggie said.

“Old people forget what it’s like to be young,” Seth said. “They’re afraid to be spontaneous. They might lose control. We’re not talking about a drug orgy, we’re talking about kidnapping a plastic pig. It’s a prank, for God’s sake. Now the principal has blown it all out of proportion.”

Meggie leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Two days ago his car was stolen. Now he blames our group. He says anyone taking part in Prank Night won’t graduate.” She rolled his eyes. “Who cares? I’ve already been accepted to college anyway.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“MIT.”

Seth turned to me. “What’s ironic is, in the beginning we were like, okay, maybe we’ll do something for Prank Night, and maybe we won’t. Then when Mr. Sheedy, the principal, banned it, we had no choice but to get involved.”

“It’s just the two of you?” I asked.

“There’s a couple others,” Seth said. “They used to be apathetic like the majority of students. Now they’re psyched for Prank Night.”

The school bell rang in the distance, too long and too loudly, as it had twenty years ago. Outside the van we shook hands. “Whatever you kids decide, be careful,” I said.

“Thanks,” Meggie said. “Want to hear our cheer?”

“Sure,” I said.

They leaned back and shouted “Prank Night, it’s our right!” leaping into the air and pumping their fists.

Heading back to the Jetta, I noticed the number of students’ cars in the lot. I wondered how they paid their insurance, considering the state’s high premiums for teenage drivers. I didn’t envy today’s young people. Life had changed in the decades since I’d been a student. Back then, misbehavior was often chalked up to youthful indiscretion. Today, the consequences were harsh with more to lose. I wondered if in future years Prank Night would be regarded as an anachronism, a pointless pursuit. Was keeping it alive a doomed mission?

I didn’t know the answer, but I knew whose side I was on. “Prank Night, it’s our right!”

On my way back to the office, I stopped at Stella’s. In the parking lot, a photographer crouched below the pigs. I hoped he was a hobbyist and not with the media. If word got out about Prank Night, it would spoil everything. So many good ideas are ruined by over-exposure. Look what happened to yoga.

The little bell over the door tinkled when I walked in. Distracted, I was stunned when Stella yelled my name, adding, “I wanna talk to you!” With her quivering jowls, she looked like an enraged bulldog.

“Me?” I squeaked.

She laughed and pointed her spatula at me. “You should see the look on your face. Just like my husband when I caught him sneaking out the window one night.”

“Really? What did you do?”

“He broke his neck. Drunker than a mule.” She grabbed a newspaper on the counter and opened it, pointing to her photo. “My brother says I look like a junk yard dog.”

I relaxed. “Then you’re not mad at me?”

“Nah. I know you gotta sell papers. I just want kids to get the message that my pigs are off limits. Touch them, and I assault their asses.”

“Don’t worry, they got the message.” I looked around. “Is Brandi here?”

Stella went to the back door and yelled for Brandi. Moments later she arrived, wearing jeans and a candy pink tee shirt. “Can we talk for a minute?” I asked.

She nodded and led me to a window table. The minute we sat down she asked, “Did you talk to Cal?”

“I did.” I hesitated, wondering how much I should say about Cal’s indifference to her murder theory.

“Let me guess. He thinks I’m crazy.”

“He didn’t exactly say that.”

“He didn’t have to. None of the cops take me seriously, especially Chief Alfano. When he didn’t return my calls, I decided to visit the police station, talk to him in person. I had something important to tell him about the bottle found next to Rusty’s body.” She leaned toward me. “It was Jack Daniel’s.”