Gayle Trent (9 page)

“Hmmm,” I said.

“What?” Sunny looked up from her math homework. “Did you find something?”

“Maybe. There was a woman named Delia Adams who died of pneumonia in 1939. She had a son named James who was five years old at the time.”

Sunny did some quick counting on her fingers. “The age would be about right, wouldn’t it?”

I nodded. “And losing his mother at such an early age could make him hate all women and ultimately kill his wife, couldn’t it?”

Sunny cocked her head. “That’s a stretch, but you never know.”

We heard Faye’s car in the driveway and looked owl-eyed at each other.

“What’s our story?” Sunny asked.

“I just dropped in.”

“Okay.” She got up and clicked computer buttons like crazy. Everything about the dead Adamses disappeared.

“Hello!” Faye called as she stepped through the door. “Mother, please tell me you did not bring that beast with you.”

Sunny and I went into the hall where Faye was hanging her jacket in the closet.

“Mom,” Sunny said, “Matlock is a great dog.”

I patted her arm so she wouldn’t keep talking and get herself in trouble. She and I are alike that way. Sometimes we don’t know when to shut up. “Did you have a good day?” I asked Faye.

“It was terrific if you like having ten people constantly looking over your shoulder asking whether or not you’d typed their report yet, or do you know where this file is, or can you get so-and-so on the phone.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I guess it was terrific if you go in for that kind of thing.”

Faye squinted at me. “I don’t go in for that kind of thing, Mother. I go in for a paycheck to help me support my child and myself. Otherwise, I’d be out of that bank so fast it would make my head spin.”

I held up my hands defensively. As usual anymore, Faye had left her sense of humor someplace else. Still, she looked pretty in her green, double-breasted suit. The green brought out her eyes.

“What’re you doing here anyway?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Just thought I’d come by. Since you’ve had such a hard day, why don’t you let me fix dinner?”

She tilted her head. “That would be nice. Thanks.” She turned to Sunny. “Crimson, how’s your homework coming?”

“It’s almost done.”

“Then you can help Mimi if you want to. I think I’ll go take a bath.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Go soak away that stress.”

Sunny and I headed for the kitchen. “What do you want for dinner, kiddo?”

She grinned. “You know what I love that I haven’t had in forever?”

I cupped her pretty little face in my hands. “Let me guess. Biscuits and gravy?”

“Uh-huh, and sausage and coffee-n-bread.”

“That does sound good. I don’t know about the coffee-n-bread, though. It’s a little late for coffee.”

Sunny’s face fell.

“Does your Mother have any decaf?”

“Yep!” She raced across the kitchen and retrieved a small jar of instant decaffeinated coffee from the almond colored cabinet that stood in one corner of the kitchen. “I made Mom get it at the store last week. I was planning on bringing it to your house next Saturday.”

“You really have been craving coffee-n-bread, haven’t you?”

In case you don’t know, coffee-n-bread is coffee loaded up with cream, sugar and biscuits. Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. I mean, you dunk cookies and donuts in coffee, don’t you? The coffee-n-bread recipe has been handed down in my family for many generations. It’s been around since at least the Great Depression . . . maybe longer.

Faye came out in her black satin housecoat and house shoes. She seemed a little surprised that me and Sunny—or Crimson, as she calls her—had fixed breakfast for supper. She enjoyed it, though. Throughout that meal, she appeared more like her old self than I’d seen her in I-don’t-know-how-long. After we ate, I got up and started to clear the table.

“That’s okay, Mother. Sit back down. I’ll take care of this in a little bit.”

I went ahead and sat back down, but I knew I needed to be going soon. I didn’t want Matlock to think his new owner had abandoned him, too. He was such a sweet dog, though, that I knew somebody must’ve loved him once.

“Have you been doing all right?” Faye asked. “We hardly ever get to talk anymore.”

“I’m doin’ fine,” I said.

“No health problems?”

I shook my head but stole a sly glance at Sunny. She covered her mouth with a paper napkin to hide a grin, so I knew she got my meaning. I didn’t have any health problems unless hanging out with a potential killer counted. After all, what could be more hazardous to your health? We made small talk for a few more minutes and then I left.

On the drive home, I pondered over my relationship with Faye. We used to be close—almost as close as me and Sunny. We were even close during “those rebellious teen years” everybody talks about. What happened? How had we drifted apart almost to the point where I sometimes felt she was a stranger to me?

When she met Steve—Sunny’s daddy—she thought he was just the berries. Naturally, me and Crandall thought he was a hooligan. He was a lazy good-for-nothing is what he was. We tried to mask our feelings, but Faye could probably tell I didn’t like Steve very much. Maybe that’s when it started—when she started pulling away . . . thinking of me as “the enemy.”

Anyway, Faye and Steve got married, and she kept him up while he went to school. At least, that’s what he called it. To my way of thinkin’, he was playin’ musical majors.

When Faye got pregnant, Steve quit school because they couldn’t afford to keep throwing good money after bad. He made a few weak attempts to find work, but there wasn’t anything out there that was really “him,” or so he said. I reckon the position of “bum” was taken.

Steve got killed in a car wreck when Sunny was a little over a year old. I hated it for her and Faye, I really did. Crandall did, too. We helped Faye all we could. Sometimes I think she even resented our help. She was bound and determined she was gonna raise Steve’s child all by herself, but she couldn’t do it.

She needed us. Sunny needed us. Finally, Faye’s good sense won out and she allowed Crandall and me back into their lives. Good thing, too. After Steve died, Faye never heard from Steve’s parents again. One thing’s for sure: Faye never got over Steve. I guess to her, he’ll always be James Dean—a young, handsome rebel. It’s sad. She’s wasting her life—as far as bein’ a woman goes—pining for somebody who never was as good as she thought he was in the first place.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning, me and Matlock went out to get the paper first thing. I’d had a good idea up in the night, and I needed to see the paper to make sure my idea was as good as I’d thought it was last night. Without even glancing at the headlines (it’s usually all bad stuff anyway), I dug through and found the community section. They always run a little list down the side of the front page of stuff that’s going on in our area for the day.

There it was—Veterans of Foreign Wars will meet for lunch today at 12:30 p.m. at Carol’s Café. I looked down at Matlock and scrunched up my nose. “As much as I hate to miss ‘The Young and The Restless’ two days in a row, I’m gonna have to miss it again today. But Paul Williams would do the very same thing in my shoes.”

Matlock kept his feelings to himself—nary a bark or whine escaped him—but I could tell he was disappointed. And not just about Y&R.

I scratched his head. “We’ll still have this morning,” I told him. “And I won’t be long this afternoon . . . just long enough to dig up a little information on our suspect from a few of his friends.” I got up and refilled my coffee cup. “I guess I ought to call our suspect and see how he’s feeling today.”

But as I spooned sugar and creamer into my coffee, I thought better of callin’ Jim this morning. I’d wait until after I got home from lunch.

I put on my Jackie-O outfit to attend the luncheon shindig. You know the one—beige poly-blend suit, black pillbox hat, pumps, gloves and the pocketbook Marcia called “a clutch.” I chose that particular pocketbook on the off chance that one of Jim’s friends would notice it and say, “Hey, Jim Adams’ wife Flora used to carry around a pocketbook just exactly like that one.” I’ll admit it was a long shot—them bein’ men and all—but you never know; one of them might be in touch with his feminine side, as they say on television, and we could have us a long chat about Flora.

Since I’m not a party-crasher, I got to Carol’s Café at about a quarter past twelve and acted surprised to see the VFW bunch come in and take the two reserved tables next to where I was sitting. I recognized one of them—a little bald man with liver spots on his head—from the “melon” party, and I waved to him as he was coming in. He wore a brown suit that, oddly, matched the liver spots.

He stopped by my table. “Hello! How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I said, figuring by the look on his face that he didn’t remember me. “We met a short time ago at something called a “melon dance.”

The light went on. “Ah, yes! I don’t think I had the pleasure of dancing with you, though.”

“No, I spent most of my time that evening with my dear friend Jim Adams.”

“Jim’s a good man,” he said, bobbing his head.

“Terrible thing about his wife, wasn’t it?”

“Terrible, terrible.” He was still bobbing his head.

“Did you ever meet Flora?”

“Who?”

“Flora. Jim’s wife.”

“Nope, never met her.”

“Hmm. What do you think happened though?”

“Happened?” he asked. “Did something happen?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

“Maybe. When did it happen?”

By now it was clear to me that I’d singled out the very bird that was a couple sandwiches short a picnic. So I said, “The other day. Jim fell and broke his ankle. That’s why he won’t be joining you today.”

The head resumed its bobbing, making me wonder if he’d arrived here in the back of a car looking out the back window. “That’s terrible, all right.”

“It’s been nice chatting with you.” There was a lie I’d have to ask the Lord to forgive. “I see the waitress arriving with my food.”

Head still a-bobbin’, he tottered over to his group and loudly proclaimed, “Jim won’t be here. His wife broke her foot.”

Wendell Wallace wondered up to him and asked, “Did I ever tell you about that battle I was in up north—up above Canada?”

They wondered off while I tried to remember if there was anything other than the North Pole up above Canada. Did Wendell invade Santa’s workshop? Maybe he was trying to avenge Rudolph because the other reindeer made fun of him and wouldn’t let him play reindeer games.

I was finishing up my chicken salad sandwich when another member of the veterans’ group wondered over.

“Howdy,” he said. “Overheard you talkin’ with Harold a few minutes ago about Jim Adams and his wife.”

“Yes?” I prompted.

He was wearing a navy suit, white shirt, and a light blue tie that matched his eyes. His hair was snowy white, but he had a full head of it; and he was powerfully built. He reminded me a little bit of the daddy on “Bonanza;” you know, Ben Cartwright.

I always liked Ben.

The man reached in his pocket and took out a business card. “I’m sheriff of Wells County,” he said, handing me the card. He lowered his voice. “I’m investigating Mrs. Adams’ disappearance. Is there somewhere we could talk privately?”

I looked at the card. The man’s name was Cooper Norville, and the card confirmed he was who he said he was. “After I leave here, I’m planning on going home,” I said, “though I don’t fancy having a police car in my driveway.”

“I’m driving my personal vehicle today. I’ll go call my office while you finish. Meet you up front?”

“That’ll be fine.” I took a long swig of iced tea and tried to swallow the knot that had formed in my throat. I sure hoped Sheriff Norville didn’t think I was Jim’s coconspirator.

Cooper Norville followed me to my house in a great big white pickup truck—one of them that had a back seat and everything. So while it wasn’t a police car, it was no less conspicuous. Still, I’d take a big pickup truck over a police car any day. Plus, it was in keeping with the Ben Cartwright image, don’t you think? If Ben hadn’t had that tan horse with the black mane, he’d have probably rode around in a big white pickup truck.

I’ll have you know that every nosy eye in the neighborhood bored into my back as me and Sheriff Norville walked up my sidewalk and onto my porch. I called out to Matlock as I opened the door, but he’d heard the key in the lock and was already sitting there waiting for us. He gave Sheriff Norville the once over and decided the guy was okay. I still hadn’t made my mind up yet. I was afraid he might arrest me.

I tried to get Matlock to go outside, but he wanted to stay with us.

“Good lookin’ dog,” Sheriff Norville said.

“Thank you. Can I get you some coffee or anything?”

“No, thanks.” He took a small notepad and pen out of his pocket.

“Do I need to get my Bible so you can swear me in?”