CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

TUESDAY MORNING I AWOKE from a dream about putting together a jigsaw puzzle. I couldn't finish it because Mister Tibbs had chewed several pieces.

After Mister Tibbs and I finished her morning ablutions, I realized I needed to talk to Mrs. Keyser about the broken window. I stood next to the truck and called my car insurance company and South County Glass to arrange to have a new window put in the pickup.

I turned toward her house after the second call and was surprised to see her six inches from me.

"Melanie, I'm not happy about this."

I thought fast. I did not intend to apologize for the broken window, but I couldn't alienate her. "I don't think it says anything about your yard being unsafe. It was just some random idiot looking for change or expensive sunglasses to sell."

She took a step back, now worried instead of accusing. "I never hesitate to go out at night. You think I should?"

"I bet the person didn't expect Mister Tibbs and me to come down. He won't be back."

She sighed. "I suppose the repair people will be here soon."

"No worries there. The glass company will put in the new window while my car's parked at the diner. That way I can be in town to do other things if it takes a while."

Given her knitted brow, Mrs. Keyser had expected to be more in the know if the repair were done in her driveway. She shrugged. "If that's what you think is best, dear."

As Mrs. Keyser walked back into her house, I called Sandi. She might have thoughts about who broke my truck window. She would definitely have an opinion about Hal's book. To me, every page read like a story based on my parents' death. Maybe Sandi would see it differently.

Sandi didn't answer, so I left her a voice message.

I took the cardboard off the truck window and drove to the diner for breakfast. That's when I read the South County News's special edition. No wonder Sandi didn't answer her phone.

The article put thoughts of the manuscript and Frost's seeming desire for it out of my mind.

 

Former Resident Accused of Murder

Ambrose Perkins, disputed owner of land on County Road 270, was arraigned for the murder of Peter Frost, owner of the adjoining farm, with whom he had been in a property dispute.

In a bail hearing yesterday evening, County Attorney Smith cited Perkins' prior threats against Frost as an important factor in the decision to charge him.

 

I understood what seeing red meant.

Ambrose and I were not disputed owners of our parents' farm. Peter Frost was a bully willing to make fraudulent claims.

The next paragraph opened with Patrick Brannon's statement about Ambrose saying "nothing bad enough" could happen to Frost.

There were a couple more paragraphs, the last of which almost lauded the sheriff for the arrest. Nothing Charlotte Dickey said about Ambrose's lack of motive or anything similar was mentioned.

What made me even angrier than the frowning picture of Ambrose was that the paper had filled extra space with advertising. The four-page special edition made money on Frost's death and Ambrose's wrong arrest.

Railing at Sandi or Ryan would do no good. The sentence structure was more formal than theirs, so I knew Holmes had edited whatever they gave him. Since neither one had called to warn me of the article's tone – I would say bias – I wasn't about to call them.

Instead, I placed a tip for Shirley on the booth's table and stood to leave the diner. Despite my promise to Ambrose to limit my questions, I now planned to rattle some chains.

 

I WALKED TO THE HARDWARE store while the technician worked on my truck. As Andy waited on another customer, I looked at the Fourth of July items. I could have bought anything from an oven mitt to a child's catcher's mitt in red, white, and blue.

The other customer left, and Andy approached me with the mournful stare of a wet dog. "Sorry about Ambrose."

I was emphatic. "He didn't do it."

Andy nodded, but didn't overtly agree.

I glanced around the front of the store. "I thought you sold sparklers and snakes." I'd always liked the black disks, no bigger than a dime, that rose into the form of a snake when lit.

 

"Not selling as well as usual, so boss moved 'em to the side aisle." Andy pointed. "He wanted front space for garden hoses and sprinklers."

I walked to the designated aisle and pretended to peruse the two shelves.

Andy trailed after me. "You lookin' for something specific?"

Without regarding him, I said, "I'd like to light a cherry bomb under a couple people's cars, but you don't sell them." I looked at him and smiled. "Probably just as well."

Andy frowned and seemed to ponder something. "You're done at the paper, right?"

"One-hundred percent."

"I might…I mean, I can't be for sure. I might know some people selling that kind of stuff. You know, like reporters say, off the record." He added, "Except you aren't a reporter."

I frowned lightly, as if considering this for several seconds, and fingered a pack of sparklers. "I really wouldn't hurt anybody's car, but I might like to make some noise outside some windows."

"Okay."

When he didn't say more, I asked, "You going to tell me who to call?"

"Since you're not a regular customer, I better have them call you."

Them? Who were they?

"I guess that's fair." I decided to appear uncertain. "You can… Hey, how do I know you won't tell the sheriff?"

He shook his head. "Never happen."

I stifled a smile. Andy wouldn't want Gallagher to know he knew where to get illegal fireworks. "Okay. You've got my numbers from orders I've placed, right?"

I began to walk to the cash register with the sparklers and a package of snakes.

Andy followed me. "Only, you can't tell where you found out."

BY THE TIME I retrieved my truck, visited a few more businesses in town, and stopped by a nursery near Keosauqua – Andy having forgotten to ask about larger pots – I needed a break.

The streets were packed with parked cars, so I parked a block down and strode toward Mason's Diner. Several people walked quickly to their cars, and I figured out why cars lined the street too late to get back into my truck.

The Methodist Church two blocks away must have been where Granger held Peter Frost's funeral. The funeral procession rounded the corner, heading toward me. I wasn't aware that Frost had many friends, but remembered attendees would likely be mostly his nephew's friends.

I thought I would attract more attention by walking away, so I stood back from the curb, across from the diner. I tried to blend in with the gray-frame former flower shop behind me.

The hearse had almost passed me, en route to the town's cemetery, when the window of the limousine behind it rolled down. Aaron Granger was flushed and furious. "You!"

I was too taken aback to respond.

He leaned his head out of the window, but a hand on Granger's shoulder gently pulled him back into the car. The tinted window began to rise, and within a few seconds, the limo turned the corner into the town square.

My knees, which I'd been holding very straight, felt weak. I leaned against the boarded windows of the frame building. I felt as if passengers in every car stared at me, but I knew a lot of them didn't know me.

The final car was the South County News's Ford Focus. It slowed, and Sandi jumped out so fast that Ryan barely stopped.

She stared at me. "Are you nuts?"

"I had no idea that procession would come by now. I'm going into the diner."

She took in my stony expression, and flushed. "I didn't write it, you know."

"I know. I'm pissed, but not at you guys."

When she looked away, something clicked, and I stared at her. "Ryan wrote it."

She gestured to the diner without responding. "Come on. The tavern's not open yet. I need at least coffee."

We crossed the street in silence, and I opened the glass door so Sandi could precede me. She had on high heels, not her usual shoes of choice. They clicked and clacked on the tiles as she walked toward a back booth.

Shirley, who had been serving at the counter, looked up. "The usual, girls?"

We both said, "Coffee." I added a thanks.

Sandi slid in across from me. She looked miserable, or at least that's how I interpreted her sagging shoulders and lack of smile.

"The story was accurate, but I wouldn't have slanted it that way."

No way would I let go of my irritation at the paper. "Some of that slant looked like jumping to conclusions to me. And you didn't even include a statement from Ambrose's attorney."

"Mel, if I wanted to sugar coat it, I'd nod. But you're my friend, so I won't."

"You really think Ambrose did it?"

"I know your brother, so no. But I get how it looks like he did."

Shirley neared us, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee, so I said only, "I suppose."

"You suppose what, Sugar?" She set the mugs in front of us and made no effort to move.

I ignored her question. I had my own. "You remember that time you were in Ottumwa at the bookstore and saw Hal?"

Shirley narrowed her eyes and raised an eyebrow as she looked down at me. "I said I saw Hal, not Ambrose."

I smiled. "I know. Turns out, he was writing some kind of book. He left it in his boat."

"I knew it! About River's Edge? He gave me the creeps. Who'd he out?"

"Out?" Sandi asked. "Nobody's afraid to say they're gay anymore."

Shirley dismissed the idea with a hand wave. "Not that. I always figured he had the goods on somebody."

"He was always looking," I agreed. "I only read the first few pages so far. What do you think he was writing about?"

"When I talked to him, you know, when he came in here, he only said it was a murder mystery that would rock people's socks."

Sandi snorted. "Ever the jackass."

Shirley was not to be diverted. "How's Ambrose?"

"He's home. You know anybody who hated Peter Frost?"

"He wasn't too popular. Mostly folks was mad about him trying to grab your parents' place."

I knew that. I wanted something different. "Ever hear him say anything about telling people to get off my farm?"

"He didn't come in here much. Hadn't seen him for a couple weeks." The front door opened, and she turned to glance at three women who were dressed as if en route to church. "Be right with you. Grab any booth."

She looked back at me. "Two or three times a month, he'd be in here with his Granger nephew. 'Bout ten days ago he sat with Mr. Jackson from the bank."

"I wonder what they talked about?"

She turned to walk to the customers. "You find out, you pass it on."

I looked at Sandi. "I heard he might be having financial troubles."

She shrugged. "Could've just been refinancing. No one at the bank will talk to me about something like that."

"I'll ask around."

Sandi downed half her cup of coffee and licked her lips. "I needed a jolt. I think your best bet is getting more focus on his time of death."

I avoided saying Frost's time of death was the crux of the entire problem.

She seemed to take my silence as disagreement. "Look, Mel, your barn wasn't too hot. Frost's body temp was almost ninety-eight point six. That likely means somebody killed him fairly soon before you guys got there. Emphasis on somebody, not necessarily Ambrose."

"But if it comes to a trial, Ambrose will have had to sell everything he owns to pay legal bills."

"So dig more."

"What else do you know?"

She leaned toward me. "And you didn't hear from me that the Donovans saw more cars on the road than usual. After dark."

"Huh. And it's not really dark 'til nine. By then there's hardly anyone on the roads out there." I thought in silence for perhaps fifteen seconds.

"Melanie." Sandi's tone was half amused, half strident. "You haven't asked me anything about Peter Frost's funeral."

"Gee, I didn't, did I? All I'm thinking about is Ambrose."

Sandi frowned as she nodded. "You know how funerals are, no one ever gets up and says the dead person was an SOB or had an affair with someone's wife."

"So, no good info?"

"He never married, and it seems he has no relatives except Aaron Granger. And he looked pretty broken up."

"Granger's mother was Frost's sister?" I asked.

Her brow furrowed. "Odd, but no one discussed her. Did you read the obit in yesterday's paper? It said Frost and Granger's mom grew up in Kirksville, Missouri."

"Gee, I only read the article, not the obit."

"It was short. He farmed all his life, but mostly in Missouri. You know Frost hadn't lived here that long. I had the impression from the funeral home, you know, from talking to the funeral home after they emailed us the obit, that Frost moved here to be near Granger."

"Jeez." I did feel bad if Granger and Frost were each other's only kin, but I couldn't get too broken up. Ambrose could go to trial for Frost's murder. Even if he were acquitted, he'd be ruined financially and probably emotionally.

"What are you going to do?" Sandi asked.

I raised both eyebrows. "I thought you weren't allowed to talk to me about the story."

She shrugged, and her smile was grim. "I'm not. I never said I wouldn't use your leads to write."

"Not funny."

"I didn't mean it to be. I'll talk to you whenever you want, but not on the phone or via email. We can meet at Hy-Vee or something." She thought for a moment. "I can call you from Betty's phone. She leaves her mobile on her desk at the paper all the time."

"Ridiculous," I murmured.

"Best I can do. And I am noticing that you aren't telling me what you're doing."