“Mary Mean isn’t here,” one of the middle schoolers said as soon as I walked in early the next morning. “She’s got throat cancer or something.”
I gasped.
Joyce removed an earbud. “Tonsillitis and sinusitis, not throat cancer. Do they still have biology classes in school?”
“Either way, she’s not here.” The middle schooler grabbed a bag of rolled newspapers and ambled out for his paper route.
Actually, this was a good thing for me. With no Mary Jean came no new assignments. I could pound out this hot dog roller piece, put it in her inbox, and be out there pounding my beat by lunch.
And by pounding my beat, I meant getting a quick story out of Vacuumulate, then following Paulie Henderson. I needed to get some answers from him. Starting with the newest one—was that him at Coach Farley’s funeral? And, if so, why was he in such a hurry to leave it?
I rushed toward my desk.
“Don’t worry, she left you an assignment. For after you’re done with the housewares store story, of course,” Joyce said from behind, startling me. I turned to find her standing at my desk, holding a sticky note, both earbuds dangling over her shoulders.
“Of course.”
She held up the sticky note on her index finger. “Parkwood Community Funds.”
“The bank?” I asked, taking the sticky note from her.
“Mary Jean wants you to cover the new branch going up on Highway 2. Haven’t you seen it?”
“That’s what they’ve been building there?” I had been hoping it was something exciting, like a Starbucks.
“Would you have ever imagined?” Joyce said. “Parkwood, Missouri, a two-branch town. My grandmother would be pitching a fit, God rest her soul.”
I thought about how inconceivable a two-branch town would have been to someone back home as well, for the opposite reason. There’s nothing in that town, Hollis. I could still hear Trace’s words on the day of our breakup. I can’t live in a place that small. I like having choices.
Well, we’ve got two branches now, Trace. I thought. Look who has choices now! Draw that in your little notebook and make one of your sardonic jokes! I sighed. He probably would. And it would be funny and win him another award.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized Trace’s attitude toward Parkwood was kind of snotty. Had I been a snot, too, when I lived in Chicago? Ugh. Probably. When I first moved to Parkwood, every other sentence that came out of my mouth was, That’s not how it goes in Chicago. Kind of a snobby thing to say, even if I hadn’t meant for it to be.
And the worst part? I still missed Chicago.
Although I was finding myself missing it less and less every day.
I pushed Trace out of my mind and read the name on the sticky note. “Francine Oglethorpe. She’s the bank manager?”
“And she’s expecting you.”
Guess my meeting with Paulie Henderson would have to wait once again.
Francine Oglethorpe was a short, middle-aged platinum blonde, with severely-drawn, bright red lipstick, and stick-straight posture. She hurried out of her office to greet me, hand outstretched for a shake, her pantyhose swishing vigorously in the quiet lobby.
“You must be Holly,” she said.
“It’s Hollis, actually. Common mistake.”
She gave me a curious look. “Do you ever go by Holly?”
“I’m afraid never,” I said. “My grandmother called me Holly sometimes, but that’s about it.”
Her lips turned down from severe, red welcome to severe, red disapproval. “You should go by Holly. Hollis is a last name. It’s confusing. People with two last names are confusing.”
I’d never gotten critiqued on my name before, but okay. “Thanks for the advice,” I said sweetly. “I’ll give it some thought. I just have a few questions for you about the new branch.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, clasping her hands at her bosom. “But first, have a seat, and I’ll tell you the history of Parkwood Community Funds.”
“Oh, I read all of that on your website. Really fascinating stuff.” It wasn’t. “I’m all ready to start writing about the new branch.” I grabbed my notebook and pencil.
“Well, the website missed some of the more amusing intricacies of the founding of our great institution. I’m certain your readers will be enthralled.”
Maybe when they’d calmed down from the excitement of the hot dog roller story. Didn’t want to overwhelm them with too much enthralling news all at once. “I’m sure you’re right,” I said.
I followed Francine into her office and took notes on the Bell family tree, dating all the way back to the founding of Parkwood by William and Sarah Bell in 1860-whatever. Mostly I was trying to figure out where I had seen Francine before. She looked so familiar, and not in the same way that everyone here looked familiar because we were all at the same places at the same time, as Brooks had been more than happy to point out. I felt like I had seen her before. Somewhere recently, and somewhere important.
“And that brings us to the new branch,” she said, clapping her hands together and snapping me out of my thoughts. “What questions do you have for me?”
“Huh?” I blinked at my notebook, on which I’d written, When and then just a bunch of scribbles and designs. Stellar reporting, Hollis. Once again. Did you learn it in Um class? How would I put together a story from that? I hadn’t even written down any good filler quotes. “Are you excited?”
“Yes. As I said a few moments ago.” She put on a rehearsed voice. “We here at Parkwood Community Funds are very excited for the future of our bank with this new opportunity.”
I jotted some notes, but my brain was still fumbling to place where I’d seen her before. “Uh, I guess, er…um…Tell me again about the special amenities this new branch will feature? I fell a little behind in my note-taking.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Are you okay, dear? You seem a little spacey.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just…Do I know you from somewhere?”
She fiddled with her phone, as if she was hoping it would ring. “I don’t think so. You’ve probably seen me at the Hibiscus. That’s where everyone sees everyone around here.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s it.” That was definitely not it. “Sorry, I think I’ve just been a little preoccupied since the homecoming game.”
I could practically feel her stiffen from across the room. It was like the air molecules themselves stiffened. It only lasted a beat before she regained her composure—so quick I half-wondered if I’d imagined it. I had murder on the brain, and I was apparently suspicious of everyone.
I willed myself back into professional reporter mode. “You were saying about the amenities?”
“Have they said what happened to that poor coach?” she asked instead, pulling herself to standing, yanking on the hem of her suit coat to straighten it.
“The police are saying there was no foul play.”
She brightened. “Really? Is that so?” Why did she seem so happy about that? Was it happiness that there wasn’t a murderer in Parkwood, or was it something else?
“Did you know him?”
“No, I sure didn’t. I couldn’t have pointed him out in a crowd of two. But I understand he had enemies. Everybody dislikes a cheater, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She took a few steps toward me. “Just between you and me,” she whispered, “do you think there was foul play?”
I thought about it, then decided I might as well come clean and see where this was going. “I do.”
She leaned toward me, serious and eager. “Who do you think did it? Did they see the car?”
I began to have a bad feeling about Francine Oglethorpe. Maybe she was a true crime devotee like Daisy and I, but she seemed to be really, really interested in the case. Too interested. Until I could figure out where I’d seen her before and what her angle was, I thought it best to keep my mouth shut.
I held up my notebook. “I think I’ve got plenty for the story.”
She frowned. “You’re sure?”
“I think so. You’ve given me a lot of information.”
She checked her watch. “I still have a few minutes. We can go over the floorplan.”
“I would love to, but I’ve got to get over to Vacuumulate.”
“I understand completely,” she said, but she said it in a way that was not at all understanding. She sounded more suspicious—and suddenly I was acutely aware that neither of us trusted the other. Which was weird. Parkwood was a trusting town. The kind of town where you spilled your business to the person behind you in the grocery line. But I wasn’t imagining these alarm bells. There was something off. “You do what you have to do. I’m hoping you’ll also report on the grand opening event?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be in touch,” I said.
“We’re even having Esther over at the Hibiscus whip us up a little buffet for it,” she called after me. “Just some light snacks. Between you and me, her giblets are murder on a gut.” Maybe I was crazy, but I could have sworn she put a little extra emphasis on the word murder. Was she trying to give me some sort of hint? A warning? I glanced back at her. She had her hands clasped in front of her and was standing still and straight as a statue. “Just deadly,” she said.
The Vacuumulate interview went long. For three years during the 1990s, Tamara, the owner, had lived in Buffalo Grove, a community just 30 miles outside of Chicago. She brought out two cups of tea and we chatted about places and experiences we had in common. We didn’t even start the store tour until the tea was gone. They had a nice selection of toasters, I couldn’t help noticing.
Needless to say, my lunch hour was late. Which was actually fortuitous, as I found myself with idle time right at the same time that school let out.
Instead of eating lunch, I sat in my car in the pharmacy parking lot eating a bag of Twizzlers like it was my job. What I was really doing was biding my time, watching Paulie Henderson in my rearview mirror. He and his buddies had decided to go for an after-school burger at FastNHotz across the street from the pharmacy and just happened to have selected a window seat right on the other side of the Jeep, forcing me to keep a distance. My plan was to wait them out, then try to catch him for some questions on his way to his car. I’d learned the hard way that busting in on someone’s lunch to ask questions was a great way to get tossed out of a restaurant, and loitering around someone’s car was a great way to get them angry, so it was best to just hang around until everyone was finished eating and then have a little surprise parking lot meet-up.
Sort of like Brooks had done with me. Huh.
This was hardly my first “stake-out” for a story. But I’ll be the first to admit, I wasn’t great at them, mostly because everything I knew about stakeouts I got from TV. Basically you sit in your car and eat (check), you watch a car or house or business for hours (check), and at some really inopportune moment, the perp shows up and you have to scramble so hard to catch them, you spill gyro meat all over your front seat. My car was newish and I liked the way it smelled—which was to say, it didn’t smell. Hence, tidy Twizzlers.
I was so lost in my own thoughts—about Buffalo Grove, about toasters, about blue eyes—I almost missed a blur of movement in the mirror. The Twizzler I’d been chewing on dropped into my lap. Paulie Henderson was high fiving his bros goodbye and getting into his Jeep. I had only moments to catch him before he left.
I flung open the door, prepared to run across the street calling Paulie’s name.
Except my seatbelt was still on.
I fumbled with the release, and tumbled out just in time to see Paulie’s driver’s side door close. I was going to miss him.
I dove back into my car and threw my seatbelt back around me, prepared to follow Paulie to his next destination. But before I could back out of my parking space, I saw movement in my rearview mirror again. Someone was standing at my back window, waving at me.
Brooks.
“You have got to be kidding me! Not a good time, Brooks!” I made shooing motions with my hands, but he only gave me quizzical looks, turning his palms up and mouthing that he didn’t understand what I was getting at. Meanwhile, Paulie’s Jeep sped away and turned the corner. I released the seatbelt and got out.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, coming around to the side of the car. “Were you trying to leave? I hope you weren’t going anywhere in a hurry.”
“Yes! Yes, I was going somewhere in a hurry.” I finally registered the knowing smirk that had spread across his face. “You were doing it on purpose. Of course you were.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He grasped his chest. “I’m hurt that you think I’m lying.”
“I don’t think it. I know it.”
“Okay, then I’m hurt that you’re not wowed by my acting skills. I’ll have you know I’m working on a very important play. It’s inspired by Shakespeare.” He raised one palm and looked to the sky dramatically. “To harass the chief’s son…or not to harass the chief’s son…that is the question. And the answer is to not.” He turned back to me, one eyebrow raised. “You like it?”
“No. And I’m not harassing anyone.”
“What do you call staking out someone with the intention of interrogating them?”
It dawned on me that, while he was describing exactly what I was doing, wasn’t he also staking me out? It sure felt like he was. I crossed my arms. “I call it reporting. Besides, you’re harassing me, have you ever thought about that?”
“I’m protecting you.”
“I can protect myself, thank you very much. I’m not scared of Paulie Henderson. Do you think I survived life in Chicago by accident?” Actually, I’d sometimes survived by walking a very mean-looking creampuff bulldog named Tink, whose greatest threat to this world was a very wet doggy kiss to the face. “I dare someone to take me on. I’m trained in self-defense, you know.” I wasn’t. But I probably should have been. I made a mental note to look into that. Who knew where my new podcast would take me?
“I’m protecting you from you.” He took a step closer to me and lowered his voice. “The chief is onto you. He knows you’re targeting Paulie, and he doesn’t like it.”
“So? Journalism never sleeps. We have an obligation to tell the truth. And if Paulie is the truth, so be it.”
I could smell his aftershave. It was lemony and spicy and masculine and nice. And it seriously irritated me that I noticed.
He was whispering, so I had to lean in. My head was almost touching his cheek at this point. “I’m trying to keep you out of something you shouldn’t be in. The chief wants to solve this case himself.”
“You mean he wants to keep his son out of jail.”
“No, that’s not what I sai—”
“Wait a minute, I thought he was convinced this wasn’t murder. He has us reporting that the coach died of natural causes.”
“That’s because he doesn’t want to let the killer know what evidence we have.”
This got my attention. I forgot all about being frustrated for a second. “You have evidence? What kind of evidence?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I’ll tell you my evidence if you tell me yours.” This seemed like a safe trade, given that I had almost nothing.
He clamped his mouth shut and looked around the parking lot, uncomfortable. I could tell he felt torn. I telepathically willed him to just play along.
“Grab a burger with me,” he said.
Well, I wasn’t expecting that.
“Excuse me?”
“Go to the FastNHotz with me for a burger.”
I was enraged. Indignant. Kind of butterfly-ish in my stomach. But in an enraged and indignant way. It was a supremely enraged and indignant butterfly. “I don’t think so.”
He rolled his eyes and spoke slowly and patiently, as if he was explaining something to a two-year-old. “Grab a burger with me, and we can talk.”
“Uh-huh. Grab a burger with you, and you find out everything I know and then proceed to continue keeping me off Paulie’s back. Besides, it’s four o’clock.”
He shrugged. “Call it an early dinner, then.”
“I had a late lunch.”
“Do you want to know what we have or not?”
Now it was my turn to be uncomfortable. I wanted the information, that was for sure. But this guy was seriously pressing my buttons. And I wish he would stop looking at me with those gorgeous blue eyes.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go to the FastNHotz with you, but for information-sharing only. I’m not eating anything.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”