Once again I study the numbers until my eyes cross and I realize they make no more sense to me now than when I first saw them. Miz Waddy isn’t rich, just comfortable. Looking at her deposits, I believe the dry goods store is more hobby than business, but since she’s the last of the Peytonas, I’m sure she has inherited wealth to fall back on.
I stack the papers and go to see if the coffee is still drinkable. It’s not. I start a new pot and open the refrigerator to grab the creamer. The containers of Miss Priss food stare me in the face. I decide to move them from fridge to freezer just in case I actually go grocery shopping this century.
As usual, I overestimate my abilities. I fill my arms, use my little finger to open the freezer part of the side-by-side, and feel the plastic boxes start to slip. I close my arms tightly, but a stubborn few still manage to escape and scatter across the linoleum. They make little whap noises as they hit, and I cringe at a wet sound that ensures at least one has broken open. I shove the ones I still hold onto an empty shelf, take a deep breath, and turn to survey the mess.
Could be worse. Only two containers have opened and only one of them has spilled all of its contents. Carson calls, “Everything okay?” from the other room; I assure him I can take care of things. Alerted by the commotion, Miss Priss rushes in to see what I’ve done. Spotting the wide line of cooked and sauced turkey, she hastens to help with the cleanup by eating as much as she can. I dampen paper towels to wipe up the rest.
I notice something glittering beneath a pile of feline delight. I gingerly grab it by a corner and realize it’s a fat packet of aluminum foil. Leaving Miss Priss to finish the work, I take the foil to the sink and swish it under running water to defood it. After patting it dry, I open the foil and holler for Carson.
He stops in the kitchen doorway and surveys the scene. As he starts for Miss Priss, I say, “No. Over here. Someone left a note.”
“What?” He still seems confused.
“In the cat’s food. It fell out of a container.”
“Don’t touch it,” he warns as if I was actually going to deface a valuable piece of evidence. I stand guard until he returns with two sets of disposable gloves. I pull mine on first, but I let him do the honors of unfolding the pale peach paper. I fall back against the counter as he begins to read.
“If my calculations are right, I should be at least two weeks gone,”
Carson reads.
“I hope my leaving hasn’t caused too much fuss, but I didn’t know any other way to finish my life.”
“Finish my life?” I gasp. “Oh, don’t let it be what I think it is.”
Carson shoots me a just-wait look and continues,
“I’ve spent my whole life being a Peytona. Or rather, the last Peytona. My family’s history has overshadowed who and what I am, which I have found more and more intolerable. I decided a clean break would be best. I have confided in no one, as I dreaded attempts to dissuade me.
“As you read this, I am a new woman in a new town. I have spent the last few years preparing a new identity, and quite honestly, a new persona. Beginning anew with no ties to the past is not inexpensive, so I have had to find a way to finance this last chapter of my life.”
I listen in disbelief as the details are revealed. Miz Waddy, who so generously offered her services as bookkeeper and night bank deposit volunteer for her fellow business owners, has been skimming off the top for years. After doing it free for months, she decided to take a “service fee” which she put into a separate account, changing banks every year or two.
“It’s quite true that steady savings can add up. I have just shy of a quarter of a million dollars to set up my new life. I also must confess my trips to see dear friends were actually visits to Las Vegas and Reno. It appears that I have a talent for poker, which I intend to parlay into a way of supporting my new lifestyle.”
To her credit, Miz Waddy also left some instructions that make me feel slightly better. She will be mailing a letter to her attorney after she’s been gone a month, instructing him to sell her shop, car, and other worldly possessions and distribute the proceeds among the shopkeepers she ripped off. She also included the recipe for Miss Priss’s food and asked that we find her a good home.
“It nearly breaks my heart to leave her, but she is too old to be comfortable anywhere other than Fortuna,”
Miz Waddy wrote.
“She is so sweet and gentle that I know finding her a new home won’t be difficult. Please advise her new mommy or daddy that she has difficulty getting around sometimes and needs a nice soft bed close to the floor.”
“Oh, that cat is as big a con artist as her master,” I say, disgusted with the now-sated Miss Priss and her decision to jump onto the kitchen table again. “Trust me, as soon as I get an official go-ahead, that cat is heading to the shelter as fast as I can drive.”
Carson smiles. “You know you won’t do that.”
“Bet me.” I point at the cat who is now washing her belly. “And don’t tell me she can be our cat unless you intend to put her in the trunk and take her north.”
Which won’t happen because his lease doesn’t allow pets. Plus, I doubt Miss Priss will have trouble finding a new home when the news gets out that Miz Waddy abandoned hers. There are a lot of suckers in this town.
It’s now going hard on midnight, so we again have the discussion over whether or not to call the chief. I propose that we check to see if he’s still at the bar. He’ll be a little sloshed, but not loaded, so it won’t be a wasted trip.
A dozen cars sit outside the Tip ‘Em Inn when we pull into the lot. I spot the chief’s pickup so we go inside. The heavy door creaks closed behind us as we step into the neon-lit dimness. A few drinkers sit at a long table watching television. The darts players are at the back, which is better lit to make sure the darts hit the board and not butts. I spot the chief holding court, the jesters around him laughing as he talks with wide gestures. He looks so content I almost hate to bother him. Almost.
“Hey, Lois Lane, come in for a cold one?” He waves me over as he shouts loud enough for the television watchers to look up.
“Came to talk to you.”
The chief leans to the left and sees Carson behind me. He says something to the boys and comes over to join us.
“So what’s going on?” If it weren’t for the aroma of beer wafting from him as he spoke, no one would have a clue he’d been imbibing.
“We found a note from Miss Peytona,” Carson says loud enough for Dwaine to hear, but no one else. “And Tessa has a theory on what’s happened to your townspeople.”
“No shit?” Dwaine looks from one of us to the other. “Want to go outside and talk about it?”
We agree.
I rub my arms to keep warm as we stand in the chilly lot while Carson gives his briefing. The chief reacts with the same mixture of surprise and disbelief I had on hearing about Miz Waddy’s abrupt departure. He also mutters a very Dwaine-like, “I’ll be frogged” when I tell him about my bad bread theory.
“But how can eating something cause all those different reactions?” he asks.
I give him the condensed version, explaining that the nervous system is affected. Some people have hallucinations, other have the sense of burning in their limbs, and others experience a distorted reality. He nods as he listens, although I have the sense he’s going to check it out on the Internet as soon as he gets close to a computer. He did tell me to do some sleuthing, though, so he shouldn’t be all-that surprised I came up with something.
We go our separate ways after agreeing to meet at the police station at nine. Carson suggested eight, but I have no intention of being left out. I promise not to say anything to Marc until after a plan of action has been drawn up. After all, someone still has to confirm my theory, and Miz Waddy’s lawyer needs to be brought up to date as well.
I am dead tired by the time we finally slide into bed. Carson opens his arms for me to curl against him, which I do with great pleasure. He gives me a sweet kiss before saying, “Sleep well, babe.” I close my eyes and sink into the dark oblivion of sleep without hesitation. Nothing like good food and a successful day of investigating to wear a girl out.
Chapter Seven
I wake sprawled across both the bed and Carson, who is squeezed into a small space near the headboard. Miss Priss glares at me from the bedside table, which reinforces my determination to see her happily off to someone new. Or unhappily. Just so she’s gone.
“I think you should keep her.” Carson’s voice breaks the quiet.
“Call Dwaine. You’ve gone off the deep end,” I answer.
His chuckle rumbles under my ear. I shift to give him more room and settle against him once more. Waking up with him is so nice. Maybe even nicer than going to sleep with him. But not better than laughing over doughnuts or the dishes.
“But I still kinda like you,” I say. “Even if you do have a weak spot for insidious monsters.”
“Well, I love you,” Carson says. “Just as you are.”
My heart soars. This is the first declaration of love that hasn’t accompanied either lovemaking or a reunion. I immediately return the sentiment, which leads to some heavy moments until the alarm clock begins to shrill. While I’d like to throw the thing against the wall and keep doing what I’m doing with Carson, we both have obligations. Among them is our morning meeting with the chief, and I for one intend to be sharp and organized for that confab.
After Carson promises to pick up tonight where we left off, I beat him to the shower and get ready for the day. He hands me a travel mug of coffee, as I head for the door, and kisses me goodbye after saying he’ll see me at the police station. Even the coffee does nothing to warm me during the short drive to WFRT. My old truck takes an eternity to start throwing out heat, so I’m as cold when I step out of it as when I got in.
Marc’s not in his office, which I take for a good sign. I can’t bring myself to lie, but I have been known to fudge the truth. Keeping our discoveries from my boss will require every bit of self-discipline I have, since he’s pretty good at making me feel guilty. With any luck, I’ll be out of here before he comes in. That would so simplify things.
My luck holds. The lights are still off in his small office when I leave the recording booth and whiz past the front-desk person with a breezy “Back later.” I don’t see the need for excess information, especially when the one monitoring our comings and goings is also the biggest gossip in the office. I’m sure she’ll invent some destination if Marc asks where I am. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I stop for two cups of convenience store coffee before joining Carson and the chief. Luther’s also been brought in, I see as I enter the conference room. When Dwaine tells me to shut the door behind me, I know this is truly confidential. I didn’t even know the door worked until now.
Carson explains things to Luther, who makes neat notes on a yellow legal pad. His hand shakes slightly as he writes. I figure either he’s wired from too much cop shop coffee, or he’s really excited. Either way, he’s in his full glory right now.
“Checked it out last night,” the chief says when Carson finishes. “That ergot thing. Sounds like you might be right.”
That’s as close to a compliment as Dwaine ever gives. Maybe I should ask Luther to take a picture with that smart phone of his, so I can remember this day forever. Or maybe he could write up a gift certificate that gives me credit against the next thing I do that makes Dwaine threaten to ban me from the P.D. forever.
“I’ve got a call in to the lead doctor right now,” he continues. “Don’t know for sure how you check for it, but those people ought to.”
He turns to Luther who flips to a clean yellow page. He barks out his number one’s assignment for the day, which is to go house to house throughout Fortuna to seize as evidence any of the bread sold by the guild. Although I’m pretty sure it’s only the rye bread we have to worry about, I won’t contradict Dwaine in front of his officer. Besides, as Carson reminded me last night, it’s only a theory so far.
After Luther leaves to search out the dastardly dough, the rest of us head down the street to the offices of Alfred Grimstead, Esq. Carson and I tackle the stairs first as a courtesy to Dwaine. The man’s fondness for beer and pizza has added a few pounds since he left the academy, and vertical surfaces are not his friend. Once in the reception, we pretend not to hear his heavy breathing. The man is allowed his dignity, after all.
Wonder of wonders, the attorney sees us immediately. I’m pretty sure it’s because Dwaine is there. I don’t think it’s so much his position as chief, but because Grimstead wants to get us in and out before Dwaine collapses of a heart attack. His face is still rosy from exertion as he seats himself closest to the desk.
He hands the older man a copy of Miz Waddy’s note. The original has been marked as evidence, put into a plastic bag, and resides in a locked closet beside the chief’s office. Grimstead clearly recognizes his client’s writing because he reads all the way through before looking at us and saying, “Well.”
That’s it. One single word, which pretty much sums up the way we all feel. Discovering the note should have answered our questions, but there is still a sense of something missing. The attorney asks a few questions that sharpen our focus. We take that focus with us as we resume our labors in the conference room.
“How did she leave town without her car?” Dwaine muses.
“Moped.”
The guys look at me.
“Seriously. She says something in her letter about starting a new life. No offense, but you guys don’t think like women. If I were building a new life somewhere else, I’d change my hair and the way I dress. New make-up, even new perfume. Walking out on her old life meant leaving all the old behind.”
“Good point,” Dwaine says. “Still I can’t see her going up to New York and then over to Michigan on a moped.”
“Maybe just her credit card went,” Carson interjects. “She says she’s honed her poker skills, which means she’s probably made a few friends. One of them could have met her, given her a car, and taken her card to throw us off the track.”