Chapter 22

 

SERIAL KILLER STALKS SERENITY. Or perhaps KILLER IN THE COVE. I could see the lurid headlines already. Granted, a serial killer here in Serenity Cove was simply a theory, but with two women still unaccounted for, in my mind at least, it was a very plausible one. I’d been awakened from a deep sleep by a scream that sounded human. If that weren’t bad enough, someone had left a bone—a bone—on my doorstep!

I had been sorely tempted to call the sheriff and discuss my serial-killer theory with him. My fingers had actually been poised to dial his number when I’d changed my mind. Though it had taken a while to get it through my thick skull, I finally accepted the fact that the sheriff preferred to work alone. He obviously didn’t appreciate the insights that I’d so generously provided. He had offered nothing in return. No, Sheriff Sumter Wiggins didn’t strike me as the sharing sort. Maybe he had been an only child. I decided I’d keep my theories to myself for the time being.

And the first order of business was to show the man the Babes could triumph where he faltered. We’d launch a no-holds-barred search for our friends. If this failed to produce results, we’d raise a hue and cry the likes of which had never been heard in Serenity Cove and vicinity.

With this at the top of my to-do list, I called Diane. She said she had a lead on contacting Claudia’s sons, but needed a more time. Next I talked to Tara, who had been trying to find out anything she could about Vera’s daughter, hoping it would lead to Vera’s whereabouts. Nancy Drew wouldn’t sit around and twiddle her thumbs. And neither would I.

I took it upon myself to do a little sleuthing. And I’d start at the Cove Café.

This would be a perfect time to kill two birds, so to speak, with one stone. I’d have dinner there and, at the same time, do some investigating. With a bit of luck, I’d be able to wheedle more information out of Beverly. Hopefully she’d be feeling chatty after the generous tip I’d left on my last visit.

The café was busy, but not too busy. Only about a third of the tables were occupied. A chalkboard announced liver and onions as the night’s early-bird special. I know liver is good for you. Monica, or maybe it was Connie Sue, had lectured me on its benefits. She stressed how it was a good source of iron and loaded with B vitamins. Onions aside, my observation is that a person either loves or hates liver and onions. File me in the latter category.

I spied a table for two in what I hoped was Beverly’s section and sat down. I guessed right, because Beverly headed in my direction and greeted me with a warm smile. “Back again, I see.”

“It was either dinner here or frozen chicken potpie.”

She handed me a menu. “Funny, somehow I didn’t take you for a liver and onions fan.”

“I’m not,” I admitted, glancing over the menu. No sense flirting with fat grams and carbs on a night when lettuce would do just as well. “I’ll have a chef’s salad, ranch dressing on the side.”

“What can I get you to drink?”

“Just water.”

Waiting for my meal to arrive gave me time to think about how best to approach Beverly with my questions about Vera without seeming obvious. I wondered if there was a text titled The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Interrogation.

“There you go, hon.” Beverly set my salad in front of me along with a water glass. “I’ll check back in a few.”

I took my sweet old time, daintily cutting strips of turkey and slicing wedges of tomato into bite-size pieces. Poured a little ranch dressing here, poured a little ranch dressing there. I chewed slowly, stopping frequently to take sips of water. My ploy evidently worked, because the café began to empty.

“More water?” Beverly asked.

“Sure, fill it up.” At this rate I’d be running relay races all night between bed and bathroom. But no sacrifice was too great. On Law & Order reruns, Detectives Lennie Briscoe and Ed Green were my role models. If they could sit through numerous stakeouts without complaining about full bladders, who was I to complain.

“How’s it going, Beverly?” I asked.

“I’m getting too old for this kinda work. Should’ve listened to my mother years ago and learned to type. All I’ve got to show for years on the job are bunions and varicose veins.”

I wanted to say, “Sit down, take a load off.” A phrase I heard in those old James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart movies. Instead I said, “Still no Vera?”

“Nope, and I’m still pulling doubles.” Beverly wandered off to clear a nearby table.

I speared a cherry tomato and sent it skittering across the table and onto the floor. My interrogation technique definitely needed fine-tuning. I still hadn’t learned anything of value. I wasn’t about to leave until I found out something—anything. Even if it meant sitting here until Beverly kicked me out. It dawned on me I didn’t even know Vera’s last name. Once I knew that, I could find out where she lived then do a drive-by of her home. Maybe find a clue or two.

I picked up my water glass, drained it, and signaled for more. Sacrifices had to be made. By my count I’d downed three glasses thus far. Hello, bathroom, I said to myself.

But my bladder had limits. Time to quit procrastinating and get down to business. I gathered my meager supply of technique and appealed to Beverly’s vanity. “You’re much too young, Beverly, to have ‘senior’ moments like us older folk, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to recall Vera’s last name.”

“It’s MacGillicuddy. Vera MacGillicuddy.”

“MacGillicuddy! Of course! How silly of me to have forgotten.” I pretended to laugh at my stupidity, but secretly toasted my success. “With a name like that, I don’t suppose there are too many around.”

Beverly picked up my empty salad plate. “Nope. Vera used to joke she’s the only MacGillicuddy in the phone book.”

Feeling generous for someone on a pension, I left Beverly a hefty tip. Like Jim used to say, you get what you pay for.

My need for a phone book superseded my need for a restroom. As much as I was tempted, I couldn’t very well ask Beverly for Vera’s address. Especially not on the heels of all my questions about her. Then the answer dawned on me.

The rec center.

I jumped in the Buick and drove the short distance. Fortunately the rec center was still open for late-in-the-day exercise junkies. I practically ran inside and asked the girl at the front desk if I could borrow a phone book. She looked at me rather strangely, but managed to produce one. I thumbed through the Ms, and there it was staring me smack-dab in the face: M. MacGillicuddy, 248 Jenkins Road. I committed the number to memory, thanked the girl at the desk, who, by the way, was still looking at me rather strangely, and hopped back into the Buick.

I knew I’d seen Jenkins Road somewhere in my travels in and around Brookdale but wasn’t exactly sure where. A county map would’ve come in handy, but I didn’t have one. Map or no map, I was determined to find Vera’s house if it took all night. Leaving Serenity Cove Estates behind, I drove sedately along the highway.

A couple miles outside of Brookdale, I passed a white clapboard Baptist church. The marquee out front read: Walmart is not the only saving place. Another Walmart connection. I took this as an omen and continued down the road. Another half mile or so and cattle grazed in a farmer’s field. Shadows were lengthening. A reminder I didn’t have much time before dark. I slowed as I came to a crossroads and squinted at the street sign. Jenkins Road. I had found it. When you’re good, you’re good.

I turned left onto a narrow county road. The few houses and double-wide trailers I passed were widely spaced, each sitting on large tracts of land. I slowed to a crawl in order to read the weatherworn numbers posted on the mailbox at the end of each drive.

At last I found 248. Scraggly stands of pampas grass stood on either side of the driveway. I turned in and bumped my way down the dirt and gravel rut-filled drive. With each jolt, my bladder felt ready to burst. At the end of the drive was a modest ranch-style home with dingy vinyl siding. Two cheap plastic lawn chairs sat on a porch that ran the width of the house. Porches, I had observed since my move South, usually came equipped with chairs of one variety or another.

I shut off the engine and sat staring at the house. I really hadn’t given much thought as to what I was going to do next. I pondered my choices. Should I march up to the front door and ring the bell? And then what? Claim I was a census taker? Tell Vera I was taking some sort of survey to see who was minus an arm?

Or should I be more subtle?

The longer I sat there, the more I realized the dingy little house with its weed-choked yard had a deserted, closed-up air. Feeling braver by the minute, I got out of the car for a better look. If Vera was home, I’d simply tell her I was in the neighborhood and stopped by to use her bathroom. As one woman to another, she’d understand the havoc time wreaks on female bladders.

Impatiens drooped in pots near the front steps, their leaves withered and brown. I interpreted the dead flowers as a clue that Vera MacGillicuddy was still MIA. When I got one of those little black notebooks like Sheriff Wiggins, I intended to jot this down with a big star in front of it. Stars in my little black book would be synonymous with clue.

My heart raced as suspense built. What would I find? Miscellaneous body parts? Bloodstains? Footprints? I approached the porch cautiously, all my senses alert. I realized then I had left Tools of the Trade at home. I had none of the necessary paraphernalia with me that was required for my career as a detective. Just goes to show I was a rank amateur in the sleuth department.

Climbing the steps, I tiptoed across the porch. One of the floorboards creaked under my weight, and I jumped at the sound. My heart danced a tango inside my chest. I knocked on the door, not really expecting anyone to answer, so wasn’t disappointed when no one did. The blinds were drawn in all the windows, but I didn’t let that impede my investigation. Cupping my hands, I pressed my nose against the glass and peered inside.

“Can’t see a darn thing,” I muttered out loud.

Not to be deterred, I went around the rear of the house. A small concrete slab with wrought iron rails served as a back porch. Loropetalum bushes in dire need of pruning nearly obscured the steps. I pushed the bushes aside and went up the stairs for a better look. To be on the safe side, I knocked again—and again, no answer. No surprise there. Using the same technique as before, I cupped my hands around my eyes, pressed my nose to the glass door, and peeked between a slit in the curtains. I could make out light-colored smudges of a washer and dryer, but nothing else. No body parts, no bloodstains, nothing.

Feeling bolder, I turned the door handle and found it locked. Again, no surprise. I had secretly hoped the door would have opened. Not only could I have gone in search of clues, but I could have found the bathroom as well. Surely Vera wouldn’t have minded.

Don’t know why I guzzled all that water back at the café, then bolted out of there without making a pit stop. I still had much to learn about crime solving. If I ever had to sit for hours on a stakeout, I’d need a Porta Potti close by.

Undecided what to do next, I looked around. The woods behind the house cast long shadows. My gaze swept over the yard and settled on a rusty metal storage shed at the edge of the property. My pulse picked up a beat. I had come this far, and couldn’t turn back unless I checked this out, too. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? I picked my way across the weed-choked yard. If I found anything incriminating, I’d call the sheriff. Matter of fact, I wished I had his number programmed into my cell phone this very minute—just in case.

A length of chain was woven through the door handles of the storage shed and secured with a sturdy padlock. I went around the side. Junk surrounded the shed. A beat-up wheelbarrow with a broken handle, an old push-type lawn mower—and a plastic trash bin. I couldn’t resist. I had to know what was inside the bin. Gingerly, I raised the lid and peered into the depths.

“Ee-yew!” I cried. A noxious smell assaulted my senses, making me reel. It was the same sickeningly sweet odor I associated with decay.

Dropping the lid back on the bin, I beat an undignified retreat. This was a job for the sheriff’s department. The instant I was safely inside the Buick, I locked the doors and fumbled through my purse for my cell phone. My fingers hesitated before dialing. How was I going to explain why I was snooping through Vera MacGillicuddy’s trash can? Would that make me guilty of trespassing? Could I be arrested? If so, and Jennifer found out, I’d be deported from Serenity Cove Estates to babysit in Brentwood. There, I’d spend the rest of my days chauffeuring young children to soccer, ballet, tap, gymnastics, and violin lessons. I shuddered at the thought.

I knew I had to be careful. Very, very careful. I put the car in reverse and backed down the drive. It wasn’t until I turned off Jenkins Road and onto the highway leading back to Brookdale that I formed a plan. I don’t know if cell phone calls can be traced but didn’t want to take the chance.

I soon discovered finding a pay phone is even trickier than finding a phone book. I drove all the way to Brookdale before spotting one outside a convenience store a block from the sheriff’s office. Lowering my voice in an attempt at disguise, I told the dispatcher she had better get a man out to check the trash can near the storage shed at 248 Jenkins Road. I hung up when she asked my name, then, for good measure, wiped the phone clean with a crumpled tissue I found in my pocket. I made a note to add alcohol wipes to my growing list of detective supplies.

Nothing more to do than get back in the car and wait. Mother Nature chose that moment to remind me of other urgent matters that needed attention. I squirmed in my seat like a toddler who hasn’t quite mastered potty training. Luckily my wait was brief. Minutes later, I watched a sheriff’s cruiser speed down the road, lights flashing. I pulled away from the convenience store, proud I hadn’t shirked my civic duty.