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I WASN’T SURE WHAT being friends with Burke Maguire meant at one in the morning when I couldn’t sleep, and my neighbor’s dog Moocher was barking up a storm. Moocher voiced what I was feeling right now—sudden anger that wouldn’t let me go. A quiet drive to the lake. Meaningful looks at me. Remorse. Church. Asking for forgiveness. All of it was too... personal. I liked it better when Burke was law enforcement and I was the falsely accused trying to clear my name, and the ‘becoming friends again’ was something we organically grew into, not something we agreed upon like a contract because he wanted it. I suppose, to some degree, that I wanted what we’d had in school before we started dating, but those days were over.
Standing in the dark, I opened the window in the upstairs bedroom and peered into Jonas Whitworth’s backyard, ready to screech at Moocher to lighten up and get to sleep so I could, too.
Something—someone—was cornered by the little dog under Jonas’ huge magnolia tree. Jonas’ porch light flicked on, and the screen door squawked open. I moved to the other window, which gave me a better view of his back porch. When I carefully opened the window, I heard someone say, “Shut up, Moocher!”
And then, shock of all shocks, the ninja sprinter himself, Garrett Flint, stepped out from under the magnolia and into the hazy light, a hat in his hands as if he were about to beg for food. I couldn’t see Jonas, but I could see his hand urgently motioning Garrett Flint over. “You fool! Get in here before somebody sees you!”
Flint scurried across the yard. With one good yank, Jonas had him up the stairs and inside the house. The screen door popped shut, and all was quiet.
Moocher walked to the bottom step, sat, and stared at the back door.
Then he turned and looked me straight in the eyes.
Whoa.
I would have to be nicer to that dog. He’d just provided me a piece of the puzzle that I wouldn’t have if he hadn’t barked. But what that piece meant, I had no earthly idea.
♦
THE FIRST MORNING OF my friendship with Burke started off with a dash for my paper—with no Samson in sight—and stumbling back to my kitchen. After two cups of java, I could claim to be human again, just in time to receive a call from our Gossip Control Manager, Madge Simmons.
“Did you know that Burke Maguire was dishonorably discharged from the Marines and the cause? Two women.”
Her words literally buzzed with the excitement of the kill. But, by golly, I don’t listen to gossip about friends. “Madge, this isn’t—”
“Bertie King was one of them.”
Now she had my attention. “Bertie the editor?” Sometimes I forgot Bertie had a last name. Everyone referred to her only as Bertie the editor, as opposed to Bertie the druggist who owned the local pharmacy.
“The same, girlfriend.”
I gritted my teeth. Girlfriend? If I hadn’t been facing so many problems, I wouldn’t have listened, but maybe this information would be helpful. “How did Bertie cause his dishonorable discharge?”
“Well, she was living in Chicago at the time, sniffing out a story on a well-known, wealthy, and very powerful businessman. Pictures were sent to him of a seventeen-year-old girl and Burke Maguire—compromising pictures, if you get my drift. At the time, Burke was dating said businessman’s daughter. The father was livid. Bertie’s story was printed in a Chicago paper. Since Burke was an MP in the Marines, he was investigated, found guilty, and dishonorably discharged. I thought you should know, considering you’re spending a lot of time with him lately.”
“But a dishonorable discharge is serious. How did he get a job as a police officer in Forman Falls?”
“Oh, well, I don’t know anything about that.”
Why didn’t I know this? I’ve lived here almost my entire life except for about four trips to Europe. How had this slipped by me?
Gossips, as a rule, never check their sources, many times pass on information that’s unreliable, and thrive on reaction. So, I gave Madge none. “I really must go. My cinnamon rolls are about done.” Okay, so I had two in the microwave with butter melting on top.
The sugar hit, but it didn’t soothe. So, Burke hadn’t been faithful to his Marine code of honor. “Build some trust”, I believe, were his exact words to me last night.
I tried hard, really hard, not to let Madge’s words affect me. Burke had seemed so sincere last night when he said we should start over as friends. Is that how he’d approached the seventeen-year-old girl? With that kind of sincerity, blinking those baby blues at her as he’d contemplated an affair with a child?
Oh, I’m such a fool. What was he doing with me? And why?
I should have listened to good sense and told him where he could take his friendship and his building trust plans: straight to the toilet.
Okay, maybe not a toilet.
But some place really scary and meaningful to the dark side.
♦
IT WASN’T AN HOUR LATER that he called. “Hello, friend.”
Oh, I hated this. He sounded so genuine. A smile laced his words; hope, his tone. I wanted to believe in him, but I couldn’t, considering Madge’s news. “Hey. Anything new with the case?”
He didn’t answer me right away. Why hadn’t he told me about the charges against him, his discharge? And how had he gotten the job of a police officer with a dishonorable discharge on his resume?
“Having a bad day, Sophie?”
“Not particularly.”
“Is something wrong?”
I wished I could trust him, but right now, he was the police, and he needed to know what had happened this morning with my neighbor, Jonas, and Garrett Flint. “Yes, I need to tell you about last night. No, this morning around one. I couldn’t sleep.”
“You rarely sleep.”
“I know, but this morning, I heard Moocher barking next door, so I checked it out and guess, just guess who was in Jonas’ backyard?”
“Jonas?”
“My next-door neighbor, Jonas Whitworth.” My dramatic pause only lasted two seconds because I couldn’t resist answering my own question. “Garrett Flint. Jonas called him a fool and ordered him inside his house. What do you make of it?”
“Jonas and Garrett Flint? They go back to Sharon’s day. They’re both around the same age, I think.”
“It’s another link, but I have no idea what it means. Oh. And, uh, Terri told me something that might interest you. She said Sharon and Farnsberry never, uh, they never, y’know, had sex.” I rushed on to my next thought. “Maybe Sharon had an affair with Jonas. Maybe Farnsberry killed Sharon when he found out about Jonas.”
“Why would Farnsberry care, if he wasn’t meeting those obligations himself? I’ll interview Jonas and get back to you on it. Still friends?”
So, okay. Talking about murder always cheered me, and I’d warmed up to him again. “Sure. Any news on Sharon’s body?”
“Unofficially, she died of a gunshot to the head, but the ME is checking for drugs. Somehow, word’s gotten out about Sharon’s body part being found.”
I wondered if Garrett Flint had made sure of it.
“Bertie the editor is supposed to interview the M.E. this afternoon. It’ll be all over the news on Wednesday. AP’ll probably pick it up. Nothing juices up the news like scandal, affairs, and murder. Talk to you later, Soph.”
Later came not ten minutes after his good-bye. I answered the phone and Burke said, “Your next-door neighbor, Jonas, was found a few minutes ago, floating face-down in Rogan Lake.”
♦
TWO POLICEMEN ARRIVED at my door thirty minutes later. A very professional Burke Maguire said, “Miss O’Brion, we’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Certainly,” I mumbled as I pushed on the screen door. Officer Sheenen walked in first, which gave me the opportunity to send Burke an inquisitive look. He was law enforcement now and not a friend.
Officer Sheenen positioned himself in the middle of my living room, legs spread, hands clutching his duty belt. “We understand, Miss O’Brion, that you witnessed the decedent this morning around one. Can you tell us what happened?”
“Yes, I saw him out my upper north window. Well, I saw his arm and hand. He yelled at Garrett Flint, who was standing under Jonas’ magnolia tree, called Flint a fool, and yanked him inside his house. That’s all I saw.”
Officer Sheenen nodded slowly, his eyes squinting and his gaze solidly on me. Today, he wasn’t the blushing twenty-three-year-old young man who couldn’t get out of my house fast enough the day Terri and I said we’d sunbathe in the buff. “You’re sure it was Jonas, ma’am?”
Well. Was I? “I assumed it was him.”
“But you’re not positive?”
“Not until you mentioned it. He had a white T-shirt on.” But did he have that massive paunch? Trees covered his porch, and I couldn’t see all of Jonas from where I was standing.
“And the dog?”
“Moocher? Yes. He barked for a solid five minutes before I went upstairs to see what was going on.”
“Was the dog injured?”
“He was perfectly healthy. Why?”
“We didn’t find him at Jonas’ house.”
“He’s missing?” All I could see were Moocher’s little eyes looking up at me this morning. Why would anyone hurt him? “Garrett Flint was there. He probably killed Jonas and took Moocher.”
Officer Sheenen glanced at Officer Maguire.
“Sophie, did you see or hear Moocher after one o’clock this morning?”
Burke spoke so softly. My first thought was: he thinks he’s dead. But wouldn’t Moocher have barked at Garrett Flint or bit him if he’d tried to hurt or grab him? I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember any sound that might have been Moocher after one. But, no. After he glanced at me, I didn’t hear another yip from him. “No, I didn’t.”
“Were you and Jonas on good terms, Miss O’Brion?”
“Depends on your definition of good, Officer Sheenen. We were neighborly, polite. Not friends, by any stretch.”
“How did you feel when Jonas Whitworth told you the bookstore had pulled its celebration of your books?”
Oh, please don’t go there.
I glanced at Burke. He stood about a foot behind and to the side of Sheenen. He raised his eyebrows at me and then slowly winked. I felt he was saying, “Just answer the question, Sophie. Standard procedure. Standard questions.” I banked the temper that rose up at Sheenen’s stupid question and declared, “About how you would feel. Disappointed. Hurt. I’d looked forward to the celebration for three months. To pull it at the last minute because of untrue rumors and vicious lies seemed unfair.”
“Unfair enough to...?”
Oh, come on. “Well, shoot, you caught me. I’ve been plotting for days now to pay Jonas back. I marched right over to his house in the dark of early morning and punched the old coot in the face and dragged his body to my car, all six-foot, three hundred pounds of him. I drove to the lake and with one hand—yes, I get superhuman strength when I think life has been unfair—I hurled him into the shallow end. Is that what you want to hear, Officer Sheenen?”
I tossed my smoldering gaze over to Burke and dared him to say a word. He didn’t, but he did offer me a “Good grief, Sophie” look as he shook his head at me. I was astute enough to know that Burke couldn’t come to my defense as an officer of the law, but it still niggled at me that he hadn’t punched Sheenen for such a foolish question.
“Well, ma’am, it’s what I want to hear if it’s the truth.” Officer Sheenen sheepishly glanced at Burke.
“I think we can safely say that it’s nowhere near the truth.”
“And you’d be right, Officer Maguire. Of course, I didn’t hurt Jonas. My proclivities don’t lean in that direction, and, besides, I never left my home.” I crossed my arms. “Are you finished with your questions?”
Burke stepped forward. “Can you think of anything else you saw or heard, Sophie?”
His conciliatory tone helped stop my lips from pinching. I closed my eyes and thought of that night, the light shining from the back porch, Garrett Flint standing under the huge magnolia tree, Moocher barking at him, and I set the stage for the two deputies, as I would in a book.
“The skies were clear, a breeze cooling off the calm night. Moocher started barking, not a friendly sound but one announcing danger, and after five minutes of it, I walked to the window upstairs. In the darkness under the magnolia tree, I saw Moocher dancing and barking. There was movement under the tree, but I couldn’t make out what it was. The screen door opened with a squawk, and someone yelled, “Shut up, Moocher!” This person walked to the edge of the screened-in porch wearing a white T-shirt, motioned for Flint to come to him, and yelled, “You fool! Get in here before anyone sees you.” Since Jonas’ yard has a six-foot privacy fence, Mrs. LeGraff and I are the only ones who would have seen him. Flint walked to the porch. With one hand, Jonas—or whoever it was—yanked him onto the porch, and they both went inside to the sound of the screen door slamming. Moocher was sitting by the steps, and he looked up at me. That’s all I know.”
Sheened nodded at me. “Thank you for your time, Miss O’Brion.”
And lo and behold, out of my kitchen came Yoda. How in the world had he gotten in here? The cat’s meow was pitifully weak when he nudged my leg. “And here’s my first victim. How did you get in here, Yoda?”
I scooped him up, nuzzled his neck, and when the deputies reached my front door, Sheenen went outside first. When Burke turned around and looked at me, I put my back to him and walked toward my kitchen.
♦
MY BACK DOOR WAS OPEN. I checked Yoda’s claws and sure enough, they were long enough and strong enough to yank a four-inch nail from an oak board—or open a screen door. “How did you get out of your backyard and into mine, hmmm?”
I held his head and looked into beautiful green eyes. “Are you hungry? Did you smell my cinnamon rolls?” I grabbed a couple cans of tuna. “Wait, sweetie, wait. Let me get the lid off.” Before I could place the bowl on the floor, Yoda lunged. And ate. And ate. And ate.
“What’s this, girlfriend?”
I jumped and turned around.
Terri grinned at me from the hall and folded her arms. “Since when did you become a cat lover?”
I huffed. “I’ve always been a cat lover.” I tossed the lid in the trash. “I just don’t gush.”
“Uh-huh.” Terri didn’t move. She just stared at me.
I lifted the bread box door, took out a cinnamon roll, placed it on a microwave plate. I turned my back to Terri to open my curtains. “Say something. What have you heard?”
“Jill called.” Officer Sheenen’s girlfriend. “You and Burke hit a bump in the friendship road.”
Last night, I’d called Terri about our ride to Rogan Like and opening the past a little bit. She’d sighed wistfully and told me that friendship was a good place to start. But that’s the problem with trying to put a severed relationship from the past back together again. Trust becomes an albatross around the neck. It dangles there, thumping against the heart, reminding it constantly that there isn’t enough trust to make it work.
“It’s not the bump you’re thinking of.” I knew she thought it was the interrogation that troubled me, but I didn’t really care about that. The seventeen-year-old, the affair, the dishonorable discharge, his plans to build trust? Those bumps bothered me.
With a spatula, I retrieved the roll and handed it to Terri. After she took it, I tossed the spatula into the sink with a loud crash. It helped my hurting heart to imagine Burke’s head at the end of that spatula. “Do you know anything about Burke’s dishonorable discharge from the Marines?”
When Terri didn’t answer, I turned around. Oh, no. She’d known and hadn’t told me.
“I don’t know anything about a dishonorable discharge. You were traveling France when the story came out. No one believed it here. How did you find out?”
“Madge Simmons.”
“She has a big mouth. No one knows what happened, Sophie. The story hit, and then nothing. No follow-up.”
“What’s to know? He slept with a child.” I blew out a tired breath and then more gently said, “I just don’t know what to do about it.”
“Talk to him.”
Yeah, like that was going to happen.
Yoda licked the bowl clean, walked around me, and rubbed my ankle. He wasn’t wearing his collar, and blood smeared the fur on his neck. I reached for him, and he let me pick him up again.
“Have you been outside all this time, hmmm? Did some mean ol’ dog attack you?”
Terri grinned and stroked his matted back. “He’s taken to you. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?”
“No way. I’ll feed him until Farnsberry gets back, but that’s it.”
At that moment, Yoda snuggled into my arms and made himself at home. He nudged my breast and worked his stinky way up to my shoulder and rested his head against my neck. I honestly felt him sigh deeply, and before I knew it, he was purring.
“He’s yours now.” Terri chuckled and when she stroked his head, he didn’t move.
“First, he’s going to the cat groomer. Then I’ll keep him until Farnsberry shows up.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Well, then, maybe we’ll talk about our relationship and where we want it to go.”
In his sleep, Yoda rubbed my neck and settled down again.
Oh, brother. Just what I needed. A temperamental cat who could work me like a twenty-four-piece puzzle.
♦
WHEN TERRI LEFT, I decided to ask Mrs. LeGraff about Burke and his discharge, but I had to wait until the cat groomer arrived before I could go to her house. She finally came, picked up the Little Dirt Bomb formerly known as Yoda, and said, “I’ll have him ready for you this afternoon.”
“Wow. That soon. I mean, he’s really filthy.”
“I’m a miracle worker,” she muttered, waved, and left.
As I walked past Jonas’s yellow-taped yard next door, several policemen moved about while some of my neighbors huddled at the outside perimeter of the crime scene, mumbling and frowning and shaking their heads with worry and who-could-do-this questions in their eyes.
Mrs. LeGraff was on her knees in her flower garden, stabbing the earth with a vengeance.
“Stupid weeds,” she muttered and swiped a gloved hand across her forehead. “Are you here to help me, Sophie?”
“Not exactly.” I chuckled, sank to my knees, and yanked away. “But I’m not above weeding.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Burke Maguire’s discharge from the Marines.”
She sat back on her heels and winced. “These hips. If I could have one thing in this life, it would be hips without pain.” She sank to her bottom and swiped her hat off, fanned herself, and squinted at me. “Jonas was murdered this morning, and you’re asking me about Burke Maguire?”
“You know Jonas and I weren’t close. I’m sorry he was killed. Did you hear or see anything?”
“They questioned me just like they questioned you and everybody else on this street. I’ll tell you the same thing I told them: I know nothing about his murder.” She plopped her hat on and viciously attacked a weed with her garden trowel. “As to the other, his mother and I go way back, some thirty-five years. His family moved here because of our friendship. I’ve known that boy since he was a baby. He didn’t do what they said he did.”
Before I could blink, a weed dangled from her hand, its long roots twitching as it sailed through the hot air and landed on a heap of other discards. She grunted and stabbed the earth and worked another long root out of its comfy home.
When she started on another plant, I glanced over at her. “You’re not going to tell me what I want to know, are you?”
“I just did. Good day to you, Sophie O’Brion.”
I felt as if I’d been thwacked on my hands with a ruler by a disapproving teacher. I fumbled to my feet and waited for the blood to return to my legs. When I could stand and walk without looking drunk, I headed toward home, past the yellow tape, and past pairs of eyes watching every step I took.
♦
WORD GOT OUT THAT YET another neighbor of mine was gone. Of course, everyone knew I was the last person to see Jonas alive, other than the killer.
“And that poor dog,” Madge Simmons lamented, standing on my front porch with its clear vantage point to the murder scene. “Who could hurt that poor dog?”
Who could hurt that poor man?
I considered myself a big person to even let Madge near my front porch after her performance the other day on this very spot. I even let her have a cinnamon roll. Then I excused myself and went inside, away from the flapping jaws and the circus-like frenzy surrounding Jonas’ death.
I thought back to one o’clock this morning. I had assumed it was Jonas standing on that back porch, motioning to Garrett Flint. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to recall every detail of the short exchange between the two men.
The porch man wore a T-shirt. The arm reaching out for Garrett Flint had no weighty flab falling out of the T-shirt’s sleeve. And the guttural words, “You fool! Get in here before somebody sees you!” Was that Jonas’ voice looping in my head?
No. I don’t think it was.
Maybe the man standing on the porch had already killed Jonas. Maybe Garrett Flint was tentative because he could see Jonas’ body through the screen door. Maybe it was Herman Farnsberry who’d killed Jonas and then threatened Flint.
But what had Jonas known or done that would cause Farnsberry to kill him at this late date?
And the best question yet: where was Garrett Flint, who probably had all the answers to my questions?
♦
ALL DAY, BURKE CAME and went from Jonas’ house, but not once did he come to mine. I worked outside in my garden in my big hat and kept one eye on the activity next door and the other on my petunias. I never caught Burke glancing my way even once.
It was a long and stressful day.
I went inside and showered and tried to work on my book, but I couldn’t keep my mind in it. I wanted to know what Burke had discovered next door. Had they found Moocher? Did they have a suspect for Jonas’ murder?
I thought of the Condolences Committee at church. I’d be in the know right now if I hadn’t quit it four years ago. In the event of a death, the ConComs were in on everything. They notified family members, prepared a potluck dinner, served at the bereavement dinner, and organized any family get-togethers—which meant a basketful of information about anyone and everyone, with the appropriate “Well, bless her heart” and “No, I didn’t know, bless his heart” after each bit of gossip. I’d left my name in as an alternate in case someone couldn’t help out, but I hadn’t been called even once to pinch hit in the last four years.
It looked like I wouldn’t find out anything today.
Terri called. She didn’t know anything, either.
I walked around my house, thought about watching television, but I’m not much of a television fan.
Wandering the bookcases didn’t help either. None of the books grabbed me as I strolled by.
My mind was simply too tired. I’d worked in my garden all day to keep my hands busy, and I was exhausted.
It was midnight, time to put all this frustration to bed. I put on my pajamas, slipped into bed, and wondered who in the world could have done this to Jonas Whitworth. I’d worn myself out with worry and fell right to sleep.