A Suspicion of Strawberries (Scents of Murder Book 1) (23 page)

The lights from Melinda’s car reflected off the interior of the Jeep as she passed. Only when the street darkened again did I dare sit up. I threw the Jeep into gear and whirled it around, then slipped out onto the main street. Did she take a left or a right? I saw a pair of red taillights attached to a dark hard-top convertible ahead. There she was. I followed but not too closely.

My phone warbled. I tapped the speaker button. “Di?”

“Andromeda Clark, where are you?”

“Now’s not really a good time to talk,” I said above the rumble of the engine.

“I called the house, and when you didn’t answer, I was worried.”

“I’m following Melinda Thacker.”

“What?”

“I can’t explain right now, but I think she’s trying to get rid of her food dehydrator.” Melinda hung a right, as if she were headed to Wal-Mart.

“Oh, I wish I could have helped out, but Stevie’s been sick tonight. Poor baby. I wish this stomach bug would leave our house once and for all.”

“Don’t worry about it. He needs you.” I hollered the words as I downshifted.

“I’ll let you go. Be careful.”

“I will. And give Stevie a hug for me.” I ended the call, then downshifted again as I approached Wal-Mart’s parking lot. Nothing open except a gas station back down the street and Wal-Mart with a cluster of cars in front. What a scandal when the store stayed open twenty-four hours after the big corporate remodel.

Melinda headed across the parking lot to the strip mall next to Value-Mart. It dawned on me that she probably had a clear view of my Jeep, so I turned into the drive-through lane of Burger Barn (also open twenty- four hours). When I was in high school, it was the only place you could get a burger after midnight. Still is.

The worker at the order window slid back the glass door when I drove up.

“Sorry, I’m not placing an order.” I waved at the cashier and circled around behind the restaurant. I kept an eye on Melinda’s car, the parking lot lights glinting off the blue metal. Now she was heading past the corner of the building.

I assumed the strand of stores had a garbage receptacle in the back. Melinda was a smart cookie, getting rid of the evidence somewhere besides her place. I paused in the restaurant parking lot and waited until I saw Melinda’s car emerge from the shadowed end of the line of stores. She drove back the way she came, intent on her journey.

Then I drove the same route that Melinda had taken. When I rounded the corner of the minimall, the rear entries of the storefronts were lit by a solitary streetlamp. The sight of half a dozen trash bins greeted me.

Some sleuth I was. I hadn’t counted on each store having its own bin. Worse, I didn’t even have a flashlight with me. Was this a fool’s errand, a quirky coincidence? Maybe I should have stayed at Ben’s a little longer and talked about our future and let this crazy idea go. I shouldn’t have left him, especially considering how strange he’d been acting lately. Momma always said avoiding a problem was worse than meeting it head-on. If you met it head-on, it couldn’t sneak around behind you. When Ben returned home again, I wouldn’t run off. But I couldn’t deny that my questions for Melinda tonight had definitely struck a nerve and spurred her into action.

I sighed as I pointed the front of the Jeep at the first trash bin and slid the gearshift to Park, taking care to pull the emergency brake. When I slid from the driver’s seat of the Jeep, the nighttime breeze wafted the odor of garbage in my direction. No matter how bad it smelled, I would see this thing through to the end. Di and Ben ought to be proud of my determination not to quit when the going got smelly.

A sign above the back of the first store told me I was at the rear entrance for China Café.
Oh, please, not in this bin
. The edge of the rusted steel contraption stood just slightly above my eye level. I hopped, trying to catch a glimpse of the contents. Just black plastic bags and flattened cardboard boxes, partly covered in shadow.

I jumped back into the Jeep. On to the next one. I shook my head. Melinda couldn’t have been long in tossing away the dehydrator box and the garbage bag. I squinted to see the signs for the rest of the stores.

Salvation Army
. What better place to donate used items, especially ones that were good sellers? I drove the Jeep down to that trash bin. A flash of headlights from a passing car on the street made me look up. No, Melinda wasn’t going to return. She would go home, get into her jammies, and try her best to sleep.

The bright red bin beckoned me as if it contained a treasure. If only it weren’t so tall. Maybe I could vault onto the edge and balance at the top to see down inside it, then grab the food dehydrator box and make sure I had the right one.

My plan was simple. If I found the food dehydrator, I would take it. No, not steal it. I would write a note to Jennifer Toms, who ran the store, and leave a donation in their mail slot at the front of the strip mall.

Bracing my hands on the edge of the bin, I vaulted onto the edge as planned. There it was! The Dry-It- Fast food dehydrator, normally sold at Value-Mart for forty dollars, once owned by Melinda Thacker. If I was careful, I’d have the long-sought-for evidence. That “means” Jerry needed. On its own, the food dehydrator didn’t matter. But pile it together with the other evidence. . .

My forward momentum didn’t stop, and I crashed onto a lumpy trash bag. Clothing oozed from the split bag. I reached for the food dehydrator box as if it were the holy grail.

Now, how to get out of here? I let the box balance on the flat corner of the trash bin then reached for the edge once again and slung my legs over the side.

But wait. This was evidence. I could tell Jerry it was here, and that I was 90% sure Melinda had dropped it here, that I’d followed her to this alley. He could send people here or whatever he needed to do so someone could legally pick it up. I dropped to my feet and took the box down from the corner of the trash bin.

A pair of headlights approached, and I squinted at the vehicle. Greenburg is not a town where one should be afraid after dark. But tonight, past midnight, in the shadowy backside of a minimall, I trembled.

Then a police siren chirped, and a set of blue and red strobes lit up the night. “Freeze—Greenburg PD!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Ma’am, put the box down, and put your hands on your head.” The officer crossed the short distance between his car and the trash bin.

I closed my eyes and obeyed. “This is a mistake, really; I’m not trying to rob. . .” Every arrest scene from every cop show I’d ever seen flashed through my mind.

“You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—”

“Listen, Officer, Jerry Hartley’s practically my brother-in-law.” If any doubts remained in my mind about Ben and our future, they’d been replaced by the scenes from cop shows. I just couldn’t be arrested.

“—can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

Various protests teetered on the tip of my tongue.
Shut—up—shut—up—shut—up
. I kept my mouth closed.

My arms were drawn downward. No one ever told me how much that hurt, but then I’d never been arrested, either. Cold, steel handcuffs circled my wrists. I bit my lip. All I’d wanted was the stupid food dehydrator. Sort of. But if I tried telling the officer I was just putting it back, I suspected I wouldn’t convince him.

“Let’s go.” Officer Go-Get-’Em took me by the elbow and escorted me to the waiting car, its lights flashing. “That store’s been complaining of thieves making off with donations in the evenings, and they’ll be glad to know I got someone.”

But you’ve got the wrong someone!
I slid onto the rear seat of the squad car, behind the metal mesh that divided the front from the back. When the door slammed, I clamped my eyes shut. Blue and red strobes pulsated through my eyelids.

I opened my eyes to watch the officer radio for a tow truck for my Jeep. He had the swagger of a young twenty-something when he headed back to the trash bin. Of course he slipped on some latex gloves. Then with a flourish and half grin, he toted the food dehydrator box to the back of the squad car and stuffed it into the trunk.

We waited until the tow truck came to take my Jeep to the impound. Then the fine young rookie climbed behind the wheel of his car, radioed that he was taking a female perpetrator to the station, and we were off. I wiggled on the seat so I could glimpse the triumphant grin on his face.

“Please, Officer. You don’t know. . .”

When he shot me a backward glance, I closed my mouth again. I did have one phone call. That much I knew. I’d probably have to sit in the town jail at least overnight. Would bail have to be posted?

What would Ben say? No way would I call him tonight and hear “I told you so.” I refused to cry as the squad car moved through the deserted streets of Greenburg. One final trip as a trucker, and Ben would come back to this news. In the paper. Whispered in restaurants. Scandal like this was good fodder for at least a couple months’ gossip. And thereafter, whenever anyone talked about garbage receptacles or Salvation Army or Andi Clark’s crazy stunts.

First Charla’s death at my store, and now this. Jerry would have to straighten everything out for me. But I wouldn’t call him until I knew Ben had left for Jackson. Pride, I know. Even for me this was way over the top.

Once I’d been fingerprinted and photographed, I stood at the phone and trembled. I didn’t want to bother my parents. Momma and Daddy didn’t need my news. Not tonight, anyway.

Di answered on the second ring, her voice tentative and strained. She was probably puzzled by the “Greenburg PD” that I imagine popped up on her caller ID. Especially after it woke her from a sound sleep, unless she was still cleaning up after a sick kid.

“Di, I’m in jail, and I need your help.”

“Jail!” Di’s shriek made me jerk the phone from my ear.

“Don’t say anything to Momma and Daddy.” I lowered my voice as I told her about the food dehydrator. “Fortunately, the overeager rookie brought it back here as the alleged evidence. My fingerprints are on that box, but so are Melinda Thacker’s.”

“But what about you?”

“I’m okay. Can you come and get me?”

Fleta the bailiff laughed from across the booking room. “You can ask someone to come down tonight all you want. But they can’t post bail until morning.”

I tried not to frown at Fleta. It wasn’t my fault I didn’t know the bail procedure. And where was sweet Anna who ran the desk out front during the day? Home asleep, like the other law-abiding citizens.

“I could try to get away,” Di said. “Stevie’s throwing up now, and Steve’s not much better. . . . Can you give me awhile?”

“Never mind. Get some rest tonight. I just learned

I have to wait until tomorrow to get bailed out.”

“I’ll try to come in the morning or see if Daddy can. Someone will come for you.”

After that, we ended our call. Fleta gave a chuckle when I hung up the phone. She tapped my elbow and escorted me back to one of the three cells in the jailhouse. “In you go.”

“Fleta. . .please. . .this is all a misunderstanding.” As if my trying to play the “I’m practically family” card had worked before.

“I can’t do you any favors, and you know that.” The cell door clanged as she slid it closed. “What if word got around?”

A small cot jutted out from one wall. I sank onto its lumpy mattress. “I know, I know.”

She flashed a toothy grin at me. “Then it’ll keep ’til tomorrow, and we’ll get it all figured it out then.” The radio squawked from the front office, and its sound echoed to the back where the cells were located—where I currently sat, trying not to glare at Fleta’s retreating form.

I rolled onto my back and looked at the fluorescent light which had just commenced blinking. Maybe if I asked, Fleta would turn it off. Or maybe there were rules against turning out lights in cell blocks. Someone down the hall snored.

Common sense told me I should cry or spend the night worrying, but at that moment, I realized the truth of what I’d mentioned to Di earlier. The food dehydrator was safely in custody, too. If I’d tried to drag that down to the station myself, it probably wouldn’t count as evidence. But brought in carefully and tagged by the good young officer. . .

“Lord, I’ve messed up plenty tonight,” I whispered. Hopefully the snorer wouldn’t be disturbed by my prayers. “But I know You’re with me, and I’m okay. I’ll probably never live this down. But it doesn’t matter.” I rolled onto my side. The mattress smelled only slightly stale, and I wondered if someone doused it with fabric deodorizer regularly.

I tried not to give in to the feeling of a caged leopard. No wonder they wanted to pace. I’d just lost the last of my personal control, and I fought off the sensation of the walls and bars closing in. I’d fought so hard against being controlled by people’s expectations—the town, my parents, Di, Ben, add any other name I could think of. And some of those people (I wasn’t totally convinced about the town) loved me. They were only trying to help. Which made me fight harder.

“I’m sorry, Lord. I surrender to You. You’ve given me so much: my family, Ben, my business. Friends. You have more for me, too, and I’ve been letting fear and stubbornness hold me back. I can’t do this alone, pushing people away and trying to figure everything out. I can’t.” I brushed away a tear.