Mossy Creek: A Maggie Mercer Mystery Read online

Ricky and Wyatt stopped chewing and looked at each other.

  I quirked my eyebrows. “What?”

  “At the same carnival, yeah. BJ Knowles said he saw her with ol’ Danny-boy.”

  “Him, too? Wow! Girl got around.”

  “Miranda was out with Daniel ‘Clark Kent’ Harris? Eeeuw.” The thought ruined my appetite. I picked up my sandwich, balanced my elbows on the desk. “Hopefully, it was on a different night.” Taking a bite, but noticing the other two staring, I made sure to swallow my mouthful before saying anything else. “Oh, puh-leease … you can’t tell me, while you’re in high school and not going steady, that there’s something wrong with dating more than one guy at a time?”

  Wyatt cleared his throat. “No. There’s nothing wrong with it. Except the girls on Miranda’s cheerleading squad let it slip that Randy was real excited about some ‘secret’ guy she’d met back in March. Seems they’d been meeting behind-the-bush because of his age. So, technically, I guess you could say she was going steady with someone.”

  “I know I’d be pissed if my girl was hanging out at the carnival with two or three different guys.” Ricky took another swig of Pepsi. “Think maybe her mystery man found out and blew a gasket?”

  “Possibly.” Wyatt propped his feet on the corner of the desk. “We already know her neck was broken from Doc Weston’s initial exam. The coroner’s report will tell us what really happened.”

  “Could be the guy threatened her and … and she couldn’t deal with it. But … man … hanging’s a bad way to die—or so I’ve been told. And it sure is ugly to find somebody that way; not like it is in the movies.” Ricky got up and threw his trash in the bin. “I can’t believe a high school senior would commit suicide a week or so after graduation.”

  “Neither can I; especially not my goddaughter. Which is why I don’t think it was suicide. The way you found her, though,” Wyatt shook his head. “She could not have been dead before getting tangled in that rope. Her body position was consistent with a hanging, but what if she was semi-conscious, or drugged when someone wrapped that cord around her neck and dropped her from the branch?”

  I grimaced at the vision, feeling a little queasy. “She could have … um, un-raveled before it went taut.”

  Wyatt nodded. “True enough. Let’s assume she was unconscious.”

  “The word is presumed.”

  Wyatt looked over. “What’s that, Maggie?”

  “Sorry. To quote my favorite English teacher: ‘One assumes a title, position, or responsibility … but when a dunderhead’s guessing, he’s presuming.’ Guess I never got it out of my head. Continue, please.”

  “Lesson learned, Maggie, thanks. Anyway, someone with a lot of upper-body strength could lower her from the branch. The constriction wouldn’t be sudden or risky, so there’d be no way for her to buck loose.”

  Ricky, looking gecko around the gills, agreed. “Yeah. That sounds likely. I mean, if she just dropped, or got dropped, she’d have lost at least a shoe, right? I mean they were untied, but still on her feet.”

  “Now there’s a clue nobody mentioned before.” I grabbed a steno book and pen. “Did Miranda’s friends have any idea who this secret paramour was?”

  Two puzzled pairs of eyes. “Paramour?”

  Ah, MEN. “You know, a leading man, beau, lover, a Don Juan, a friggin’ stud.”

  Wyatt laughed. “You don’t read just murder mysteries, do you, Maggie?”

  I slapped a thigh and grinned. “Did they?”

  Silence.

  “The question, remember? You’d asked about Miranda’s friends?”

  Ricky shook his head, his lips quirking with amusement. “Nope, just that he was older.”

  “Hmm.” A finger drum. “I wonder if she kept a diary. Have you searched Mac’s place yet? We should make sure to look for one.”

  Wyatt looked over. “We?”

  Oops.

  “Sorry. I keep forgetting I’m not oh-fficially on the force.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. Even though it’s my case, the County boys did an initial search before I brought Mac back, then the staties went through. I’ll buzz him, and say…” He stopped and stared, probably to make sure I was looking at him (I was, of course). “…that we’ll be coming over.”

  My cheeks burned. “Thank you. I’d love to go.”

  Laughter.

  “Maggie, you’ve been reading way too many mysteries.”

  “Actually, not enough, Ricky.” No shame to admit it. “Blame Malone, Remington Steele, and the great Sam Spade.”

  “Blame ’em? I’m ready to thank ’em.” Wyatt winked. “I’ll be in my office giving Mac a call, let ’im know what time to expect us.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Ricky, what’s on your agenda?”

  “Going back to the school. There’s a faculty meeting this afternoon—secretary’s told them to wait for me.”

  “What about her cheerleading coach?” I began to clean the lunch mess from my desk. “They can be trustworthy confidants. Maybe Miranda talked to her.”

  “She’s on my list. She was gone when I was there this morning, had a dentist appointment. May or may not yet be back.” Ricky walked to the door, hat in hand. “I’ll check in with y’all when I’m through.”

  CHAPTER 4

  SETTLED AT MY DESK, it was time to make a list. I wasn’t sure what all to write, but figured I’d have to incorporate everything I found out, along with whatever Wyatt and Ricky gleaned from their interviews. Right now, though, it was a very short list.

  I was still doodling when the front door opened and a man came in. A man in a courier’s uniform. My glasses came off. “Hi. Can I help you?”

  He was cute in a breathless, red-faced, sweaty sort of way.

  “Urgent delivery for Chief of Police Wyatt Madison, from the Greene County Coroner. Is he in?”

  “What’d you do, run all the way over here from the county seat?”

  Grinning, he shook his head. “Bicycle. Training for the Summer Solstice Race.”

  “That’s a long trek. How cool is that? Want some water?” Very impressive. Seventeen miles, one way, on a bike, is nothing to sneeze at. He didn’t seem to need much training. His buns and thighs were perfectly compact and—

  “No thanks. I’ve got a bottle on my bike.”

  I sat up a little straighter, suddenly remembering his query. “The Chief’s in his office. Hang on, I’ll get him.”

  I knocked on Wyatt’s door.

  “Yeah?”

  I poked my head inside. He was on the phone, size twelve’s propped on the desk. I whispered, loudly. “We got a courier.”

  Nothing.

  Louder, “Wyatt, we got a courier—from county!”

  His feet hit the floor. “Call you back, Mac.” He stood. “Where is he?”

  “At my desk. Should I send him in, or you coming out?”

  He was already on the move. “Out.”

  Just as the courier was handing over the envelope to Wyatt, the phone rang. “Mossy Creek Police Department. How may I help you?”

  I can be very professional when the mood hits.

  “Harrison McCabe for Police Chief Madison. Report get there, yet?”

  “Yes, Sir, just now.”

  “Great. Wyatt there?”

  “Yes, Sir. Just a moment.” Phone’s passed to Wyatt. “Greene County Coroner.”

  “Harry? What can I do for you?”

  I watched as his face went a little gray.

  The conversation was all one-sided, except for an occasional grunt or sigh from Wyatt that seemed to go on, for so long that by the time he hung up, I was ready to bite my fingernails.

  Then, leaving me exasperated with curiosity, he walked over to Mr. Buns, signed the release, and shook the man’s hand. The cyclist nodded to me, donned his helmet and left the building.

  “Wyatt—”

  “Maggie,” he interrupted before I could even ask my question, “Doc says not to ‘sir’ him an
ymore.”

  “Okay.” I squinted. “Wyatt—”

  He held up a hand. “My office.”

  My mouth snapped shut and my eyebrows came together, but I silently followed, toward the inner sanctum.

  He stopped and turned so fast I ran into him. His elbow connected with my chin. Stars danced as my teeth clacked together. A sharp groan of pain slid out and I stumbled sideways, holding my jaw.

  “MAGGIE, damn, I’m so sorry.” Hands reached to steady me. “Can you find Ricky and get him here, ASAP? Better yet, why don’t you wait at your desk ’til he gets here? Then I won’t have to tell it twice.” He made sure I had my feet under me before letting go of my arms.

  I was tempted to pretend, so he’d have to help me to my chair, but he was so … out of sorts, I decided to forego the flirtatiousness. Dr. McCabe had obviously delivered some devastating news.

  My frown deepened. Worried, and massaging my still-smarting face, I went back to my desk. I’d never seen him this upset. The coroner’s verbal report must have been worse than expected, and he hadn’t even read the written one, yet. I chewed my bottom lip a while, mulling it over. Then I remembered he wanted me to call Ricky. Shoot. I went to the radio, muttering.

  Ricky didn’t answer. I crossed my arms and glared at the mic. Another five minutes, and I’d try again.

  I didn’t have to wait that long.

  “Dispatch, Officer Anderson here.” The voice boomed out of the speaker.

  Cringing at the blast of sound, I lowered the volume, and keyed the mic. “Go ahead, Rick.”

  “Hey, Maggie. I just finished talking to a couple of her teachers, and the cheerleading coach. Hey, did you know Lancy Farnsworth’s running the squad? I went to school with her.”

  “Nope. Wasn’t aware of that.”

  “She sure is cute. Hell, she could pass as one of her girls.”

  “That’s no surprise, you haven’t been out of school that long, Rick. You should ask her out.”

  A pause.

  Maybe I’d embarrassed him.

  “Um, I did find out some other stuff … interesting stuff.” He didn’t go into detail, which was a good thing. Anyone with a scanner now had it tuned in to our frequency.

  “Chief’s got some, too. Disturbing. Wants a powwow, ASAP.”

  “Roger, that. Be there in … about ten minutes.”

  “Good. He seems …,” I struggled to find the right word, “… grave.”

  “Grave?”

  “Yeah. That’s the word. Grave.”

  A longer pause this time, as though he needed a moment for the words to sink in. “I’ll hurry.”

  “Roger. Out.”

  * * *

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Ricky and I slipped into Wyatt’s office, quiet as … on tiptoe. We glanced at each other, then at him, as we took our seats. He sat behind his desk, elbows leaned on the top, hands over his face.

  “Boss?” Ricky’s voice was low.

  With a deep sigh, that I swear might have hidden a sob, Wyatt raised his head. What a shock. Red eyes and a ravaged look told me the man was deep in grief.

  He cleared his throat, and folded his arms. “I just heard from the county coroner, and read his report. It makes me—” He shook his head. “I can’t even describe. I was right, though. My goddaughter didn’t commit suicide.”

  I blinked, not surprised, but shocked all the same. Someone, in our quiet little borough, had killed one of our children. One member of our close-knit community was a monster.

  We’d thought of it before, but now, from a different angle, it was more real … more chilling. Which one of our townsfolk could have done something so horrific?

  “That’s not all, is it?”

  “No.” There was a long pause. “Said it looked like someone first bashed her in the head, which may have knocked her out. Killer probably thought she was dead. Then strangled her as she regained consciousness. Harry says the hanging could have been to cover up the finger marks around her throat. His findings indicate she was alive when the rope went around her neck, but he’s relatively sure she was unconscious. Thank God for something.”

  Ricky shuddered. “It makes my stomach jump to think about. All I can see is my sister strung up like that, trying to get loose. Yeah, she’s older than Miranda, but … man. I hope t’God she didn’t know what was happening.” He blew out a sharp breath and rubbed his face. “Murder just doesn’t happen around here. Why now? Why her? And who the hell could have done it … would have the balls to do it?”

  I looked at Wyatt, bottom lip between my teeth. “What else?” I didn’t want to hear anymore, but he wasn’t through. From the look on his face, whatever was next was more than bad.

  “She was pregnant … three months along.”

  Much worse.

  I sniffled, as tears welled, and spilled. We couldn’t have imagined that possibility. “Oh, Wyatt. Have you told Mac?”

  “No. I wanted y’all up to speed first. I’m gonna head out to his place when we’re done here. It’s gonna take a while, and he’s gonna need a lot of support after.” He looked at Ricky, then me. “I know you’re anxious to get that search done and over with, but, personally, I want to give Mac a little time to absorb this latest news. Yes, it’s a murder investigation. Yes, we need to be gung-ho to find the killer. Yes, we’re law enforcement and should be tougher … meaner … colder, than this.” He leaned back in his chair. “I just can’t do that to him. This is a major emotional hit for me; but it will shatter him. He needs to— I don’t know how much more he can deal with, right now. Tomorrow will be soon enough to make the search.”

  “Before you leave, Ricky had some news.” I nodded over at the big boy … sorry, young man. My oldest is still a boy to me, and he’s the same age.

  Ricky looked as devastated as Wyatt. I was, too, but it seemed harder to see it on their faces than feel it in my heart.

  “This seems inconsequential, especially after what we just heard.” Ricky wiped his eyes, took out his little notebook, and coughed a couple times to get the gravel out of his voice. “I still have a few teachers to catch up with, but I got the best lead so far from Lancy. She’s the cheerleading coach. Told me Miranda Richards was the exclusive babysitter for the mayor and his wife.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Well, you don’t say? How very interesting.” I twiddled my pen between my fingers. “But, I’m not exactly sure why, just yet.”

  Ricky sighed, shaking his head. “You been watchin’ Forensic Files again, Maggie?”

  CHAPTER 5

  WEDNESDAY

  ROUND ABOUT NINE A.M., the front door opened. I was typing up a vandalism report that had mysteriously appeared in my IN box. Yes, I do perform police-related work from time to time. My concentration went out the window, though, as Vera-Mae Wellington limped, with dignity, into the room. She didn’t usually venture out of her house, let alone come into town, which is why seeing her was such a shock.

  She shuffled her ultra slim five-foot-nothing person toward my desk with the help of a large wooden cane. A big, bulky, tan elastic-wrap covered her left leg from the ankle, all the way up underneath her calf-length, purple paisley shirtdress. “Magdalena.” She nodded in greeting. “Very nice to see you, dear.”

  Her speech was just shy of slurred, as if her dentures were loose. She wore a faded purple-felt pillbox hat on her short snow-white hair, and white cotton gloves. A square, white-plastic pocketbook hung stiff from her right arm. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a 1950’s best-dressed poster.

  “Miz Wellington, what brings you in to see us today?”

  I moved around my desk to pull a chair out for her.

  She settled in, crossing her ankles awkwardly—because of the bandage—and holding onto her handbag like it was a lifeline. “Well, now, I just had to come in, because, as you know, I don’t have a telephone.”

  I nodded. “Yes, Ma’am, I do know. And the chief is very concerned about you living so far away from folks, and not having a wa
y to contact anyone, in case something—God forbid—should ever happen.”

  “I don’t think it would make much difference if I had a telephone or not. If I were to fall down the stairs, how-ever would I reach the thing?” She fiddled with her gloves. “Besides, I’ve been thinking … still of two minds about it. My family does visit quite often … sometimes too often. Cain’t nevah—” She stopped, and attempted to compose herself. “I apologize. Sometimes it’s hard to get rid of them, and gets quite annoying. I enjoy being alone, and it is usually quiet out my way. That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  “It isn’t quiet, anymore?”

  She nodded, the slightest inclination. “I need to make a report. May I give it to you?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Just let me get my Steno and we’ll get started.” I opened the middle drawer of my desk and retrieved my case book. After finding a clean page, and with pen poised, I said, “All right, Miz Wellington, what is the nature of your report?” I figured she was going to tell me about a stray cat, or maybe a mangled postal box via teens playing mailbox baseball.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  “Well you see, the other night I was sitting out on my back porch enjoying a nice mint julep.”

  I raised my eyebrows at that, but kept writing, without comment. Our Miss (Prissy Spinster) Wellington drinking mint juleps, all alone, and getting a little loopy was too outrageous to fathom. Could it be?

  “A car pulled up to the swimming hole.”

  Sorry, I suppose I ought to have mentioned earlier that her property buttresses against the creek near the swimming hole.

  “What night was this, Miz Wellington?”

  She held a gloved hand against her chest. “Oh, let’s see, I believe it was Friday, or perhaps, Saturday evening.”

  “And this particular car caught your attention, because…?” I dangled that … er, question, not giving a thought to whom I was speaking.

  She gave me a look I hadn’t seen since Granny Ellis caught me getting my lips taste-tested by my first boyfriend. “My dear, Magdalena,” she sighed. “Didn’t I teach you English any better than that? You should have asked, ‘Why was this car more unusual than most?’”