Death among the Roses: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (11 page)

A
t the office the next morning, I sat at my desk still obsessed over Treadway’s fixation with Cordelia. Ginger believed she had sources to scope out the information we needed on the man. But I felt duty bound to come up with a little on my own.

But how? Treadway didn’t live locally. I didn’t know any of his friends. And from what I information I had tracked down, his family had moved away from Cloverton at least a decade ago.

I leaned forward and fired up my computer and pulled up our high school reunion list. A lovely woman had handled the hard work of organizing the affair, but Dad and I had volunteered to keep the data on our news office computers so we could send the invitations out on our dime. It was my personal contribution to the reunion committee’s effort.

Scrolling through the screen, I found Treadway’s name complete with home address and telephone number.

Yes!

Now I needed to figure out a way to make use of this information. I thought about using a reverse telephone directory. The listings were by house numbers and not names. With it I could scope out phone numbers for Treadway’s neighbors. Ginger and I could call them. But to what purpose? We could hardly ask if they knew if their neighbor came down to Cloverton recently and killed a friend of ours?

People would hang up on us and possibly phone their police department to scream about these strange women calling them with strange questions. Maybe it would be better if we drove up to Chicago. Visited Treadway’s neighborhood. Showed our faces while we asked our questions.

We’d need a cover.

I shook my head. The idea couldn’t possibly to work. I couldn’t think of any excuse that could cover our bizarre set of questions.

I rubbed my forehead in response to the nagging signs of a blossoming headache.

My phone rang. I scooped up the receiver. Ginger’s voice greeted me from the other end of the line. “Treadway was in Cloverton last weekend,” she announced without preamble.

“How in heaven’s name could you have learned that fact this quickly?”

“It was dead simple. I called my beautician buddies. They called all their friends who work at motels, and voilà. Treadway was spotted at the Happy Traveler Inn over in Hammitsville. He arrived Thursday night and didn’t check out until Sunday morning.”

“That’s amazing.”

“I’m good, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t really my doing. It’s called networking. You should try it some time.”

I do, I thought.
I just work with a different set of contacts.

I put my elbow on my desk and cradled my aching forehead in my hand. “This saves us a lot of phone work.” I managed to spit out, although the effort cost me. I know it’s petty of me, but it killed me to think that Ginger had outperformed me – again.

“So what’s next?” she asked.

I lifted my head and gave her question some thought. “Since Treadway was in Cloverton the weekend of the wedding, the next step is to see if we can figure out exactly where he went. Did he sneak up close to you to lift your cell phone? Was his car was seen anywhere near the church? I’d be even more encouraged if we could place his car in that alley where we think Gary was killed.”

“I’ll get back to my gal. She, or rather, her friend at the motel, might have seen Treadway’s car. If so, she may remember its make. I can’t think of a way to help you with the alley, though.”

“What about his license plate number? Would she have that?”

“I’ll ask.”

“Why don’t we get together after supper tonight?”

“At your place?”

“Are you kidding? Dad would be all over that. He’d listen to every word we said and ground me for life.”

“Dearie,” Ginger responded, “You need a place of your own.”

“The idea has merit, but the simple truth is. I can’t cook.”

“There’s always peanut butter and jelly and bread.”

“Do you have any idea of what kind of food I dine on around here?”

“Oh, that’s right. Your dad’s supposed to be good in the kitchen.”

“Good doesn’t come close.”

“How about you team up with Bella’s son? He’s worked in a restaurant all his life. I bet he could whip up a tasty dish or two.”

“Right. That’s such an appealing thought.”

Ginger laughed. “My place then? Say seven-ish?”

I checked the calendar. Luckily, I didn’t have anything that needed to be covered for the paper. That didn’t surprise me. Friday night’s were usually free. “Seven it is,” I told my fellow crime fighter.

***

I arrived at Ginger’s house right on time that night. She opened the door for me and then ushered me to the kitchen. “Sorry about the mess,” she said as we trooped through the living room. “The cleaning lady was a no show today.”

I wondered if that was why Ginger had suggested holding this session at our house? I glanced around. Her home looked perfectly fine to me. And I was used to living with my father’s extremely high standards. So I
knew
clean when I saw it.

But her tables gleamed. Her pillows were fluffed. I couldn’t spot a speck of dust on anything. From everything I could see, the place was sleek and trim just like its owner. And believe me, I took a good, hard gander.

Arriving in the kitchen, Ginger nodded me toward the table. She proceeded on to the counter where a coffeemaker was emitting a fragrant scent. “Black no sugar?” she asked. She dragged a pair of coffee mugs from the overhead cabinet.

“Perfect,” I said.

“Sorry about the lack of snacks, but as I said, my slacks are getting tight.”

“You’ll hear no argument from me.”

Ginger trotted over with two coffee mugs, steam billowing from their tops. “Thank you.” I lifted the vessel and blew across its rim. “So did you learn anything about more about Treadway’s movements this afternoon?”

“Yeah.” Ginger pulled out a chair and joined me. “Your idea about the license plate panned out. The gal had made note of it, Treadway being a handsome stranger and all.” Ginger fed the number to me. “What are you going to do with the information?”

I withdrew a pen and small notebook from my bag and scribbled the precious number down. “I have a friend in law enforcement. I’ll run the plate past him.” I slipped my reporter’s equipment back inside my purse. “Cops spend a lot of time tracking what cars are parked where and when. Maybe my guy spotted Treadway’s vehicle around town sometime during the weekend.”

Ginger nodded with satisfaction. “See? I knew you were tight with Gossford.”

I scoffed. “My man isn’t Gossford. This fellow is with the county. He’s a hands on cop, who spends his shift driving local roads and keeping crime down.”

“Huh. I figured you for hanging out with bigger players than that.”

“You’d be surprised how good a contact he is for me. Patrolmen know a lot about what’s happening on their turf, and this guy covers the entire county. He keeps his nose to the ground.”

“You think he can help us?”

“I can ask. The odds are long but at least we have a source to check. He’ll keep us from having to resort to a Ouija Board. For the moment, at least.”

“So who is this cop friend of yours?”

“Sorry, I can’t tell you. He insists on anonymity. And for a very good reason. His boss would have his hide if he knew about us.”

Ginger picked up her coffee cup and rolled her eyes. “Mysterious.”

“Not from where I sit.”

“So what else can we do?”

“Josh mentioned something after dinner about having contacts in New York City. He thought since his pals are also accountants one of them might know something about Stepich’s family business. He may discover something for us.”

“There you go banging on Stepich again.”

I raised an eyebrow and scowled.

Ginger grunted. “Okay.  As long as we’re looking at other suspects, too, I guess it makes sense to pursue Stepich. But I can’t see what his motive would be. He and Gary were best friends.”

“Who says best friends never kill each other?”

“Boy, you sure take a dim view of people.”

“I think we have to suspect everybody.”

“Even Josh?”

“Even him,” I replied uncomfortably.

“What about Cordelia? I overheard a heck of a row between her and Gary one night.”

“I can’t believe you of all people would ask that question.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cordelia loved Gary. She’s still reeling at his loss. Besides, you know what it feels like to be mistaken for a murderer. I don’t know how you could believe Cordelia could be capable of such a deed.”

Ginger sighed. “I thought most murders were committed by the spouse.”

“Gary and Cordelia weren’t married yet.”

“Near enough,” Ginger answered, her mouth downturned. “Besides, I don’t really think she killed Gary. I just thought the argument should be looked into.”

Now, who’s being hard-nosed, I thought. “Since we’re tossing suspects around, how would you feel about Bella?”

Ginger laughed. “Bella? That scrawny old woman? Kill a full-grown man? I mean the rumor on the street is that Gary was strangled.”

“The rumor is correct,” I said. Gary’s image from the rose bed flashed before my vision. I sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Ginger said, her face offering me sympathy. “I forgot you saw the body.”

I waved her apology away. “I’ll survive the experience. Anyway, Bella sure picked up on whatever it was that happened at that bachelor party.”

Ginger snorted. “You want to be the person who asks her what she was talking about?”

“I’d rather not, no. But since we’re looking into Gary’s murder, maybe we’re going to have to push ourselves beyond our comfort zone.”

“Do whatever you think you must, but I’ll sit this one out.”

Okay, I thought. I could handle that. But before meeting with Bella, I’d first take a run at Larkin.

***

I woke up bright and early Saturday morning intending to head out before nine to make my session with Larkin. I’d set the appointment up last night after returning from Ginger’s place. But before leaving our house, I ran into Dad.

I told him not to expect me home for lunch. He resumed his drill sergeant routine, pressing me about where I was heading and why. I came up with another set of lies to explain my wandering about the county. How adept I was becoming at telling whoppers was beginning to worry me. I suspected I wouldn’t feel like my old self until I could put this new aspect of my personality behind me.

At last, I made it to my Fiesta and fired up my faithful machine. My route that day took me straight westward. A cloud bank along the horizon ahead loomed dark and threatening. I hated to see it coming our way. Forecasters said the approaching system had a good shot at slamming us with high winds and heavy rain.

I thought about all the Little League games scheduled for this afternoon, some of which I was slated to cover for the paper. The storm had a good potential to ruin a lot of weekend plans, but it might give me a brief break from work, a thought I found somewhat appealing. My sleep deficit was beginning to catch up with me. A long nap sounded this afternoon just dandy to me.

I yanked my attention back to my driving and continued to wend my way along the black, macadam highway. The county maintained about two hundred miles of roads that cross-crossed the flatlands. They did a darn fine job of it, too, keeping the roadways smooth and well maintained.

After about ten minutes of traveling at speeds maybe a touch above the limit, I came upon our hidey-hole and turned onto the grassy plot. I headed my car straight for the old shed and backed out of sight behind the sagging building.

For once in my life, I’d beaten Larkin to a session. I killed the motor and settled back into my seat to wait. The engine made little cooling noises while I thought of the many times he and I had hooked up here. In some ways I wished our lives could be different. I couldn’t help but prefer he had less of a bad-boy reputation
—
and that I had less to lose if I loosened up some of my standards a notch or two.

But life is as it is. And wishing things were different almost never works. Dealing with the realities of life is the key to getting on in the world.

After about ten minutes of wallowing around in these speculative what ifs, I looked up to see Larkin pointing his big cruiser straight toward my windshield. I smiled and waved as he drew alongside me. He braked his cruiser. I scurried out of my car. Tradition was that I always joined him in his lair, although I never recalled the rule being specifically spelled out.

“Hello there,” he said. I swung the door wide and slid onto the seat. The radio squawked to life. The dispatcher chirped out a brief message. Larkin reached over and turned the volume down. “So I hear your new little playmate is headed home?”