A plus one for murder, p.13
A Plus One for Murder, page 13
Dottie waved her back down. “He’s fine. I supervised the placement of the screen myself. Anyway, in regard to the other three on your sheet, we need to find out what Mr. Hill’s connection was to all of them.”
“Like the way I told you he was asking the councilman questions about Sheriff Borlin?” At Dottie’s nod, Emma again scanned the gated enclosure for any sign of Scout. “Do we even know how he died yet?”
“No. And that’s likely something the police will hold back from the general public. But that doesn’t mean you can’t work your budding relationship with the deputy to get ahold of a little insider information.”
“There is no relationship, Dottie. Budding or otherwise.”
Dottie moved her head as if weighing Emma’s response. “That doesn’t mean you can’t fake one until we get what we need.”
“Dottie!”
“Stephanie is in the medical profession, dear. Which means she could read an official autopsy report should you be successful at luring it out of your deputy.”
“Budding relationship? My deputy? Where is this coming from, Dottie?”
“Do you want to solve Mr. Hill’s murder?”
“Not particularly, no. I’d rather the police do it since, you know, it is their job.”
“Then let me rephrase, dear. Do you want to be able to keep your house? Your car? Your dog?”
She knew where this was going. And, like it or not, the elderly woman had a point . . .
“Fine. I’ll see what I can find out from Jack.”
Dottie’s eyebrow shot up. “Jack?”
“That’s his name.”
“The deputy?”
“That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it?” At Dottie’s answering—and oh-so-smug—grin, Emma retrieved her tote bag from the ground and stood. “Scout, come! We’re leaving . . . now!”
Chapter Thirteen
“You weren’t kidding on the whole pot-stirrer label, were you, Jack?” Emma mumbled as she scrolled through one page after another of stories written by or about Brian Hill in just the past twelve months alone.
The articles themselves all followed what she’d come to realize was a predictable pattern. Something happened in Sweet Falls—a complaint made by a resident, an award won by a committee or a high school student, a major renovation at the library . . . The story was depicted in a picture or an article of some sort . . . And—wham!—Brian either contributed a bylined article in opposition, or penned an op-ed piece as a Sweet Falls resident. But regardless of the form it took, it always sought to expose an ugly counterpoint.
And if a resident or official sought to challenge Brian’s take on whatever the original topic had been, he’d come back again. Harder. No one and/or nothing had been safe from Brian Hill’s accusations.
He was, as Emma’s grandmother had been fond of saying, the type of person who’d argue with the devil if he could.
Relinquishing her hold on the mouse just long enough to help herself to the lone remaining potato chip on her plate, she moved her shoulders and her neck while she chewed. She hadn’t meant to still be at the computer nearly forty minutes after turning it on, but what had started out as the proverbial itch that needed scratching had turned into a laundry list of people who’d been on the receiving end of Brian’s need to cause trouble.
Granted, if it weren’t for Brian’s persistence where the various contractors and their bids were concerned, the library’s renovation would have cost taxpayers significantly more money than necessary. Likewise, when Brian found an off-the-beaten-path supplier for a supposedly obsolete part the fire department was using as its reason for needing an all-new (and crazy-expensive) fire truck for its fleet, he had done the town and its residents a favor.
But it was when he unleashed his expose-and-punish mentality on a class of kindergartners who embarked on a project Brian insisted was not eco-friendly—or pointed to aesthetics in his successful quest to have a local church cited for housing a food collection trailer in their parking lot—that he found himself in the crosshairs of many a person’s wrath. Including—
Rocketing upright, Emma stared at a headline halfway down the latest page of links visible on her laptop screen.
WIFE OF NEWLY ELECTED SWEET FALLS MAYOR ACCUSES BRIAN HILL OF BULLYING.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Emma returned her hand to the mouse, hovered it over the link, and clicked. In little more than a blink of her eye, a letter to the editor at the Sweet Falls Gazette popped onto the screen alongside one of the four pictures Brian had foisted on her before his death.
Dear Editor,
I was raised to have good manners. I was raised to respect my elders. I was raised to be kind. I was raised to lose with grace and humility. And I was raised on the mantra, if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say it at all. As the newly elected first lady of Sweet Falls, I’d hoped all residents would embrace and utilize the same rules of etiquette in their own lives. Sadly, I have learned that is not the case.
I realize there are people in this town who find comfort in what they know, even when what they know may no longer be what’s best. That’s why, when my husband won the mayoral election, I tried not to take it too much to heart when, in this very column, people acted as if Sweet Falls was doomed. I knew that, given time, my husband would prove the naysayers wrong, that they, too, would come to know what I—and clearly the majority of voters in this town—already know.
And they would come around to that, I’m certain, if not for the likes of the town bully, Brian Hill.
Brian Hill is the epitome of a sore loser. When something doesn’t go his way, he has a fit—only instead of doing it behind closed doors, he does it here in your paper, and you allow it, time and time again.
Why? I ask.
Aren’t we living in an age where bullies are seen for what they are? I thought so. Yet, still, you give him a pedestal on which to stand, allowing the more impressionable members of our community to be molded by his unfriendly and unwelcoming ways. And that is a shame. Because when the day comes that my husband has moved on to the next level of government, and then the level beyond that, and the level beyond that, people will look to the town in which he took flight and we should want Sweet Falls to be reflected well.
It is my hope that you and your staff finally stop giving this man space in which to blemish Sweet Falls and its people.
Sincerely,
Rita Gerard
The First Lady of Sweet Falls
“Huh . . .” Quickly, Emma speed-read the article a second time, her mind’s eye filing away bits and pieces even as she moved the cursor up to the printer icon and clicked. While it printed, she took a peek at the responses garnered by the so-called first lady’s letter. Some, like Rita herself, found Brian’s seemingly ongoing efforts to place a cloud over the town onerous. Others liked knowing residents had a watchdog keeping the town’s officials on their toes. In fact, after reading through the first fifteen or so comments, she was surprised to find a nearly fifty-fifty split between those who liked and disliked Brian’s whistleblowing ways.
Curious, she kept scrolling, the first sentence of every comment a clear indicator of the camp in which the reader fell. Those who appreciated Brian batted around words like whistleblower and townsman. Those who were sick of him and his ways preferred words like troublemaker and useless. Back and forth it went until it seemed the comments were more focused on battling each other than weighing in on the original letter.
She pulled her hand off the mouse, stretched her arms above her head in conjunction with a satisfying yawn, and smiled at the answering click of Scout’s nails on the hallway floor as he found his way back to her side. “Hey, boy. I was beginning to think you forgot about me.”
Scout rested his head atop Emma’s knee and gazed up at her in a way that left little doubt she was his world.
“Yes, sweet boy, I’m done in here for now. What do you say we go outside and play a little fetch?” At his answering wag, she returned her hand to the mouse and her gaze to the comments she’d grown bored of reading and—
“Whoa . . .” Leaning forward in her chair, Emma stared at the name of the next commenter.
Brian Hill
A check of the date next to his name revealed the comment, which had come in a solid month after the posting of Rita’s letter, was written less than a week before his murder.
The pot calling the kettle black. How very interesting . . . Do you want to address that, Rita, or should I?
“Wow. That’s awfully strong . . .”
She heard Scout’s quick bark and knew it was a plea to get her back on track for the promised outdoor time, but really it was just white noise against the whir of thoughts racing through her head.
Had Brian caught Rita in something?
Was that last line the threat it sounded like?
Had Rita seen it?
Returning her finger to the mouse, Emma moved her way down the page, searching for Rita’s name on any subsequent comments, but there was nothing. In fact, other than a handful of ads disguised as replies, Brian’s late response was the last pertinent to the original post.
Scout barked again, then followed it up with a whimper.
“Shhh. I know, I know. But this could be something, boy—something for our investigation and . . .” She stopped and shook her head. “Wow. Would you listen to me? Investigation. Ha!”
Still, before she clicked off the page and set her computer to sleep mode, she grabbed a sticky note and wrote down Brian’s comment. “Just because,” she said to Scout as she pulled a tennis ball from her desk drawer and stood. “C’mon. Let’s go have some fun.”
* * *
• • •
Dropping her hand onto her lap, Emma leaned back against the slate step and reveled in the feel of the late-afternoon sun on her face. There were weeds that needed to be pulled, laundry that needed to be done, and bills waiting to be paid. But in that moment, she just didn’t care. Those things would get done. They always did. This time with Scout, though? It was teaching her to slow down, to breathe, and to just be; and she was grateful.
Before Scout, she’d been all work and no play.
After Scout, she felt . . . different. Happier, calmer, and—
“Definitely wetter,” she mused as, once again, Scout dropped his soggy tennis ball onto her sandal-clad foot. Retrieving the ball for what had to be the thirtieth time, at least, she cocked her arm back and waited as her beloved rescue prepared for his next chase. “Are you ready?”
Scout’s tail wagged.
“Are you set?”
It wagged harder.
“Are you sure?”
It wagged harder still.
“Go!”
In a flash of fur and tongue and tail, Scout was off and running across the yard toward the oak tree that served as both his favorite shady spot to sit, and his favorite spot to mark at the end of every day. “Hurry . . . Hurry . . . Get it . . .” she shouted, only to transition into the wag-generating Good job, Scout! when he emerged from behind the massive trunk, victorious in his pursuit.
This time though, when he brought the ball back, she patted the empty spot on the step beside her and rewarded him with a chin and neck rub when he obliged. “I love you, Scout.”
She didn’t need words to know the feeling was mutual. It was there in Scout’s eyes as he cocked first one, and then the other, at her. Sighing, she draped her arm around his neck and led his gaze back to the yard for a verbal tour of their current view.
The car pulling into their neighbor’s driveway . . .
The teenager being paid to cut an elderly neighbor’s yard . . .
The lawn flag across the street blowing ever so gently in the—
The ringing of her phone through the screen door brought Scout’s eyes back to hers. “I know, don’t worry. I don’t intend to get trapped on the phone by anyone.”
Rising, she trotted up the last two steps to her front door, plucked her phone off the catchall table just inside the front entryway, and took in the name on the screen as she carried it back to her spot beside Scout. “Big Max?” she said, pressing the phone to her ear.
“Emma? Is that you?”
“It is, Big Max. How are you?”
“I guess that depends on your response to the question I’m about to ask.”
Her answering laugh earned her an adoring glance from Scout. “Are we going to another dance together?” Emma asked.
“Not this time, no.” A beat of silence was quickly followed by a steady scraping sound. “This time I was hoping you’d be available to accompany me to a party—a garden party. And guess who’s hosting it?”
“Who?”
“Beatrice.” The scraping slowed. “Which means I’ll have the opportunity to show her I’m not a one-trick pony.”
She dug her hands into Scout’s fur and slowly massaged the back of his neck. “A one-trick pony, eh?”
“That’s right. Last week’s dance at the senior center was all about showing her I’ve got moves. This garden party will be about demonstrating my ability to know a daffodil from a-a . . .” His words ceased in favor of what she’d bet good money was papers being shifted. “A dandelion!”
“Those are two very different things, Big Max. One is planted intentionally; the other is a weed.”
“I read that, but that don’t mean dandelions aren’t pretty. Why, you come across a field of ’em, it’s like looking at a sea of sunshine with all that yellow.”
She moved on to Scout’s head. “A sea of sunshine . . . I like that.”
“Maybe Beatrice will, too.” The scraping was back. “So? Can I hire you to go with me? I heard there will be food.”
“When is this party?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she repeated as her thoughts narrowed in on her calendar and the empty square she knew she’d find.
“About noon.”
“I—”
“I’ll pay you the same as I did for the dance: five hundred dollars. And I’ll even get you another corsage for your wrist.”
She smiled. “I’m pretty sure corsages aren’t needed for garden parties, Big Max.”
“Just dances?”
“Just dances.” Stilling her fingers atop Scout’s head, Emma strained to make out something in the background of the call that could identify the source of the scraping, but there was nothing. “What’s that scraping sound I’m hearing on your end?”
The sound stopped. “Scraping?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t hear any scraping.”
“That’s because it just stopped,” she said.
“Sounds do that, sometimes,” Big Max said. “They come and they go.”
The scraping returned.
“There it is again, Big Max!”
The scraping stopped for a beat before starting up once again. “You mean this sound?”
“Yes. That sound.”
“I’m refinishing a ukulele I found on top of someone’s bulk trash pile.” The scraping grew still louder and faster before ceasing completely. “There. Now all it needs is some fresh paint and some new strings and it’ll be good as new.”
“You know how to play the ukulele?” she asked, moving on to Scout’s ears and chin.
“I don’t, but I aim to learn. So? What do you say, Emma? Can I hire you to go with me tomorrow? Beatrice will be busy greeting everyone, I’m sure, but that don’t mean she can’t look over in my direction and catch me talking about flowers with you.”
“You sure you don’t want to ask one of those other ladies from the senior center? I mean, I know that one woman—Ethel, I think—seemed to have a real soft spot for you.”
“No. I’m a one-woman man, Emma, and Beatrice is the woman I want to be eating French toast with each morning, God willing.”
“What happens if Beatrice doesn’t like cooking, let alone French toast?” she asked, only to find herself backpedaling in the wake of his answering silence. “Actually, that was silly of me to say. I’m sure she loves French toast, Big Max. Who doesn’t, right?”
“Right.”
Her exhale of relief earned her a quizzical look from Scout. “Tomorrow at noon, you say?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“Do you want to just give me the address and we’ll meet there or—”
“Can you drive?” Big Max asked.
“I can.”
“Good. Then I’ll meet you at noon. Same spot as last time.”
Chapter Fourteen
Emma was just a little over a block away from the senior center, heading south, when she caught sight of the shiny white top hat making haste down the sidewalk. Taking advantage of the four-way intersection between her car and her meeting spot with Big Max, she allowed herself a moment to take in the spectacle.
Shiny white top hat . . .
White dress shirt with black suspenders . . .
Red-and-white-striped knickerbockers . . .
White tube socks, trimmed in thick red . . .
Giggling, she waved another car through the intersection in an attempt to buy herself a little more stationary time and then looked back at the sidewalk and—
“Big Max?”
A horn behind her forced her hand off her mouth and back onto the steering wheel for the remaining half block to the bus stop. To her left on the opposite side of the street, a man walking his dog was so taken by the sight he nearly walked into a streetlamp, and a pair of schoolgirls fell against each other, laughing and pointing. On the road in front of her, in both directions, drivers were slowing—and in some cases stopping—to rubberneck.
