Amazing Gracie Page 3

  Hallucinating? Bullshit. This was a murder. At the very least, this was a death with unusual circumstances. If anyone else had reported a dead body, Tom would have help there in a heartbeat. Since it was after Tom’s usual shift, John could have called the sheriff, but he wanted to give the case to Tom. A murder case could give him extra points in the department, and he liked the kid.

  “I’m sorry, darlin’ girl. I know I shouldn’t have been here.” John sighed as he climbed into the back of Tom’s SUV beside Gracie. “But Tom, there’s a body out there somewhere, and I’ll bet it’s in the Little Wingapoo River. And, I was hit by that boat trailer.”

  Tom dialed. The night just got worse. Phil would raise a stink. His mother had divorced John and raised the boy to resent police work. But he loved the boy, and in his selfish way, Phil loved him, too.

  After Tom explained the situation to Phil, he drove John and Gracie to the Friendly Arms and waited with them in the car until Phil arrived.

  His son frowned and pointed at him like he would a child. “You thought you saw a dead body? Oh Dad, I thought you’d stop this police nonsense when you moved back to Skeeterville. It’s such a small town. But I guess not. You need to move in with me where I can keep you safe.”

  That boy actually thought he’d hand over his money and keys and move into the basement? And then what? Wait to die? No, thank you. That kind of love could wait until the old bones couldn’t fight it.

  “Kind of you to offer, son, but I can’t do that. I have a lady friend living with me now. This is my lovely Gracie.” He put a protective arm around her. Gracie blushed to her toenails. “Thanks for bringing us home, Tom. I think you’ll find out that I’m right soon enough. I just wanted you to have the case, son.”

  Phil and the deputy stood, eyes bugging. John steered Gracie toward the door, hiding his limp. Gracie’s face matched the red of her shirt. He wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed or furious.

  Chapter 4

  Oh, that man! Gracie didn’t know whether to be relieved or livid. In their apartment, John slipped into his room and turned on the police scanner, then stood staring at the blank wall behind the kitchen table.

  “Look at me. Why did you go out?” Gracie fought to keep her voice even. As much as she cared, she was there to keep him off the streets and she had failed.

  He winced and sunk into a chair.

  She dropped into a chair across from him.

  “Honestly, I don’t remember. Everyone is right. I have to stop drinking. But I saw what I saw.”

  Gracie sighed. How could she keep this man safe? She hadn’t hidden the whiskey bottle. A grown man needed to make his own choice to stop. Whatever happened at that intersection, he got hurt and who knew what could happen next time.

  “Gracie.” He took her hand, sending a little shiver through her. “A man was murdered. I know a dead body when I see one. There was blood on his temple and on his shirt. I’ll never forget that dead stare. We need to go to the dock.”

  She pulled her hand back. “No way. Not tonight. You’re not driving until tomorrow after the alcohol has worn off. Now, go to bed.”

  “Tomorrow may be too late.”

  The whiskey on his breath made her eyes water. “Then it will be too late because you’re not driving anywhere right now.” Even if she had to hide his keys. “And I can tell your leg hurts. I’ll go with you in the morning, or we’ll go to the doctor for that leg.”

  The scanner in his bedroom crackled to life. They both froze to listen. Someone hit a deer on the highway, but no one had found a human body. He slammed his hands on the table and rose slowly. He scrounged through his desk looking for a notebook.

  “I have to write this down while the event is fresh in my mind.” He scribbled furiously on the paper. Gracie pretended to knit. Finally, he sat eyeing the blank wall behind the table, head bobbing at times. She handed him two aspirins and a glass of water.

  “Take these and go to bed, John.” The clock chimed midnight. Bleary eyed and slow, they shuffled toward their bedrooms.

  “We’re definitely going to the dock in the morning.” He raised the notebook and tottered into his room.

  “Fine.” She didn’t want him sneaking out again, so she waited until she heard snoring before going to bed.

  What seemed like minutes later, a soft knock woke her. Tictac tucked her head under the covers.

  “Let’s go,” John announced through the door.

  “It’s. . .” She rolled to see the time, “six a.m.”

  “I know. Time’s a wastin’.” How could he sound so awake, and why had she agreed to go with him? She positioned her glasses on her nose and looked at the clock again. Maybe she had the time wrong. No. Still six o’clock.

  While Tictac grumbled, Gracie rolled out of bed. Fifteen minutes later, with tea in a travel mug, she snapped the seat belt in his midnight blue Chrysler.

  “How are you feeling?” She was more concerned that he should see a doctor than go to the river bank. He’d limped down the hall and winced when he got in the car. They didn’t bounce back like forty year olds anymore.

  “Darlin’ girl, I feel like shit, but that isn’t as important as finding out what happened to that man last night.”

  Unshaven and bleary eyed, he looked like heck too. But the man was determined. Maybe he did see a dead guy, or maybe Tom was right and he hallucinated the whole thing. She stayed silent and sipped her tea.

  After driving two miles to the boat dock on the Little Wingapoo River, John stopped at the top of the slope. He got out to examine tire tracks in the dirt driveway down to the ramp. Then he took pictures with the digital camera that Gracie’s daughter had given her for Christmas. When he popped the trunk, she pulled her sweater close to ward off the May morning chill and peered in to see what he was doing.

  “Do you always have these in your trunk?” She checked out the array of bags and containers.

  “Mostly, yes. I brought a few things from home.” He must have snuck those out while she was sleeping. Maybe she needed to hang a bell on the door.

  He picked up the plaster of Paris, poured water into a bucket, and stirred the grey powder to a mushy mix like a kid in mud.

  “See how there’s a line through this tire track at regular intervals? That means there was a gash across the tread on that tire.” Then he poured the mush into the tire track. Very observant, but there wasn’t a body in sight.

  John slipped on plastic gloves and tucked his notebook and pencil into his shirt pocket. “Walk down the grass so we don’t disturb anything, but keep your eyes peeled for any evidence.”

  Gracie was sure the only evidence they would find would be of someone fishing, but she followed his instructions anyway. The wet grass was thin and calf high where she stood shivering in the morning mist. John squatted to study grooves in the dirt. If it wasn’t six in the morning and they weren’t looking for evidence of a dead guy, it would be a beautiful place. The spring trees bloomed and the grass had lost most of its winter brown. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of apple blossoms and grass, but the dead fish smell took the edge off of the beauty.

  “Look here. Drag marks.” He snapped more pictures. “See the smooth marks with two grooves? That’s the fishing boat. But, all these footprints. They’re all the same size, so only one person was here. I think this person made several trips. He pointed to a set of tracks. This time, the prints are deep and there are two lines in the dirt. That could be the man’s legs.”

  “Oh heck. Couldn’t it just as easily be fishing equipment?” Gracie jammed her hands in her pockets.

  “I don’t think so.” He poured more mush into the footprints.

  Gracie examined the grass around her. Just grass, and some garbage.

  “Do you see anything?” John hurried back to his tire track to see if it had set.

  “A muddy paper cup, a rotten banana peel, and a smelly dead fish.” Big deal. Are we done yet? She covered a yawn.

  “That’s i
t?”

  “Yes.” And one cold old woman.

  He looked over the area and took more pictures. After the footprint plaster set, he placed it onto a garbage bag in the trunk beside the tire track. Gracie had already slipped into the car. His Chrysler was warmer than standing in morning fog but not by much. She had finished her hot tea, and her sweater was not enough to keep the chill off her bones. The colder she got, the more she thought that maybe Phil was right.

  “We have to go to Walmart.” John asked her to write the list as he drove the half hour to Frederick.

  “Corkboard, push pins, paper, string. Oh, we have to print these pictures, too.”

  Had this man flipped completely? After his detective work ended at age sixty-five, he’d worked as an auxiliary traffic officer for several years. Maybe he was reverting. She’d seen it happen when people got dementia. At least he could still drive well. By the time they returned to the Friendly Arms, the car was filled. One of the corkboards threatened to poke her in the head and bags crinkled with every turn. As concerned as she was, she went along with his idea, though she had no clue what the man had in mind. He wasn’t drinking today, and he seemed more determined to pursue this as a murder. Well, at least it would keep him busy.

  Irene sat in the gazebo in front of the Friendly Arms. Oh great. She came to the car when they started to unload the bags.

  “What are you doing?” Irene grabbed the last corkboard from the car and followed them to the apartment.

  “There’s been an incident,” John whispered.

  Irene stopped in her tracks. If he thought Irene would keep this a secret, he just made a big mistake. Look what happened when Gracie told Irene about the money situation.

  “Keep quiet and get in here.” He held the door for both of them. Always a gentleman. They hurried to the apartment.

  “Explain.” Irene dropped the corkboard on the couch and sat at the table with them.

  “There’s been a murder.” John told Irene about the incident in detail.

  Gracie coughed a couple of times but kept her thoughts to herself while he told his story.

  “Since Tom doesn’t believe me, I’ll have to figure this out without him.” John went to his room to get his tools.

  When John was out of sight, Gracie shrugged. “I want to believe him, but. . .”

  Irene furrowed her brow and tapped a finger to her lips. “John gets drunk but he isn’t delusional. I believe him. Not that I want a murder in Skeeterville, but it could happen.”

  “Oh, I give up. But without a body, I have my doubts.”

  Gracie would help him with his murder investigation, but she was going to have his doctor’s number handy. Just in case.

  Two hours later the dining room area was transformed into a murder investigation center. One corkboard held the pictures, the next had a map with pushpins, the third had a list of the evidence and the fourth had a long paper with a timeline. Plaster casts and extra pictures sat on the table. Great, now they had a murder wall over the dining table. Not an appetizing thought.

  Irene nodded approvingly.

  “Now what?” Gracie collapsed into her recliner.

  Without a place to go, she was at the mercy of a possibly crazy man. Well, he probably wasn’t crazy or demented, but he was looking for a little excitement, and he wanted to feel useful again. What he thought was helping Tom just might put him in Phil’s basement if he wasn’t careful. She could go along with some of it, but enough was enough.

  John studied the wall, scratching his scruffy chin. “We have to canvas the area.” She’d seen enough TV to know what that meant.

  “Oh no, I’m not knocking on people’s doors.” Gracie pulled her knitting out of the bag and realized she had to rip out everything she’d done in the last day. Irene had that look. Let her go with him.

  Chapter 5

  At 6:30 p.m. that evening, John parked on a side road near the intersection of Main and Elm. He had a plan. Gracie had stayed home, but Irene came with him. And Irene had the gift of gab, which he thought might be useful.

  The truck had zoomed through at 6:46 p.m. the day before. It was possible that someone walked his or her dog at that time every night, took out the trash, or had heard the fishing boat rattling on the trailer and looked out.

  “Irene, we can’t be asking about a murder, but I was knocked over by that trailer. I can claim I need the information for insurance.”

  “Do you have a doctor?” Irene asked.

  “No, but I promised Gracie I’d go if my leg doesn’t get better soon. Right now I am giving it all I got to make it look bad.” Women. There was work to do, and no time to worry about a bump on the leg.

  He pulled an old wooden cane he’d borrowed from Wally out of the back seat. Even though it was a prop, he hated to admit it was helpful since half his leg was a lovely shade of purple and hurt like a son of a bitch. Maybe he would go to the doctor in a day or two.

  If only Tom had believed him. Canvasing had been his strong suit back in the day. He straightened his shoulders and nodded.

  Irene was out of the car, waiting. “Good plan, John. Where to first?”

  “This house is empty, has been for years. That corner,” he pointed across the street to the bus bench, “is just a hayfield. But those two houses always have their lights on.” He pointed toward the brick house and the Victorian.

  After he adjusted the cane he’d borrowed to be taller than Wally’s 5’4”, he made a show of getting out of the car. He rubbed his left leg, which really did ache. Leaning on the cane more heavily than necessary, with a dramatically concerned Irene at his elbow, he knocked on the first door, notebook ready. The window sheers moved, but no one came to the door right away. He knocked again, and the sheers moved again. This time he waved and smiled. Finally, a pumpkin shaped woman wearing an orange leaf-covered sweatshirt answered the door. Her beehive hair had that just-glued-into-place smell.

  “Excuse me. I’m John Flynn. I was bumped over by a truck that left the scene last night about this time. I’m trying to find out if anyone saw or heard anything. The insurance company is being difficult.” He rubbed his leg for effect.

  “John? Oh, I’ve seen you before.” Her plucked and penciled brows dragged down between her close-set eyes. “Maybe you just fell onto that curb.” The woman sniffed and started to close the door.

  “It’s true.” Irene jumped in. “If you saw anything. . .”

  “I’m sorry, I, uh, I was in the back of the house. I can’t hear or see anything there.” She closed the door.

  So, she thought he was a no good drunk. That’s it, no more directing traffic, no matter what. He had Gracie to consider, and he was ashamed to say, a reputation to overcome for her sake.

  John took a few notes and viewed the outside of the house from all angles. He went back to the curb where he’d landed and smiled.

  They crossed to the next corner where a Victorian painted lady held the other occupied corner at Main and Elm. The yard brimmed with spring flowers.

  Irene hurried to the door and knocked. “This woman runs that shop on Maple Street, Petals and Pretties, and she goes to our church, which you would know if you’d grace the doors more often. Her name is Sunny. . . Sunny something, something cute.”

  With Gracie in the apartment, there was no sleeping in on Sundays. It wouldn’t be long until he would succumb to her gentle prodding to join her in church.

  “Can I help you?” A wild-haired woman in a long peasant dress peaked out of the door. “Irene! It’s been so long. Come inside, its cold.”

  “This is my friend, John. He was the victim of a hit and run last night.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” John extended a hand but was drawn into a patchouli-scented embrace and got a mouth full of brown curls when he tried to breathe.

  “Oh, you poor dear. Are you okay? Come in! I have a pot of tea ready in the parlor.” She motioned them inside. “I’ll get two more cups.”

  Mouth open, he turned to
Irene, who shoved him through the door into a room filled with lace covered tables and chairs. A small floral settee was the only unadorned item in the room. The wood floor creaked beneath their feet as they walked. An incredibly large cat waddled out of the room. Perhaps the long black fur kept the floor dusted.

  “Sit.” She motioned them to the settee. “Oh, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Sunny Orchard.” She floated onto a quilt covered rocker.

  Not sure what to say, John closed his lips together and raised his eyebrows. When he was finally able to speak in a normal tone, he said, “That’s an interesting name.”

  “My name is odd, I know. My mom and dad lived in an apple farm commune when I was born. That’s when they changed their name to Orchard.” Sunny poured cups of tea for each of them. “We moved to Skeeterville when I was two. I inherited this house from my grandmother last year. In fact. . .”

  He had to interrupt or he’d never get his questions answered.

  “Your name and the house are. . .unique. May I ask you a few questions?”

  Sunny nodded.

  He pulled the notebook from his pocket. “Were you home last night around 6:30?”

  She paused. “I think so. Yes, I was baking. Cinnamon rolls, from scratch. And I arranged a silk bouquet. I don’t usually use fake flowers, but there is a bride who wants to keep hers forever.”

  Her far off look could be from drugs, or not. Hard to tell. Trying to pin her down to a topic might be a challenge. Irene was no help. She sipped her tea and played with the cat, leaving the interview to him.

  “Did you hear or see anything unusual? Anything would be helpful.” He was quickly losing hope.

  “Maybe, when I let Fluffy out in the yard. Yes, she started barking at something. It was close to that time.”

  His pencil ready, he waited while she examined the ceiling as if the answer was there.

  “Your cat?” he asked, trying not to guffaw. The giant furball sat beside the sofa. Maybe she thought the cat barked. Again, hard to tell.

  “No, Fluffy is my rescue dog.” Sunny laughed and sipped her tea. “No, I can’t remember. I wish I could be more helpful.” She patted her knee and called, “Fluffy.”