Strawberry Scandal, page 5
Marianne’s movements are slow as we load the strawberries onto the belt once it’s our turn to check out. “I didn’t even think of that. I’ve got the budget for snacks too. Maybe I could bust out the popcorn machine.”
I gape at her. “The library has a popcorn machine?”
Marianne nods. “Yes, but it’s a pain to clean. It’s a lot to do the story for story hour, then clean up the popcorn mess. I can only do one of those things without seriously dreading the day. I’m not the extrovert I need to be in order to show up as the story lady the kids deserve.”
“So, you need a story reader?” I shrug, knowing I could read a kids’ book with little issue if that might take stress off Marianne’s plate. However, the second I move to raise my hand to volunteer, I recall that the Bravery Bakery is nearly bursting at the seams with undelivered cupcakes. There are some days that I don’t get home until after dark, and then I start the next day’s work well before dawn.
I shuffle that problem to the front part of my brain so I can noodle it over. First, I need to take these hundreds of strawberries and hopefully turn them into something delicious.
8
NO DONUTS FOR JEN
It just so happened that the Hamshire police department isn’t too far from their grand superstore. Sure, it’s an extra ten minutes in the car, but neither Marianne nor I hesitate when the possibility of stopping by is broached.
Though we are fish out of water when we stroll (and hobble) into the station, that doesn’t stop us from beelining to the front desk to ask for Sergeant Williams. It’s the same amount of movement in the station, with officers at desks and walking between rooms with folders tucked under their arms. Everyone here has a serious job, so I do my best to maintain a somber expression to respect their hard work.
“She’s not here,” the receptionist informs us, clicking her pen to a beat only she knows.
Marianne slides the card we were given with the case number scribbled on it. “Is there anyone we can talk to about the case we reported?”
The woman glances at the card and types a slew of strokes into her computer. Her eyes scan the screen. “Sure.” Sympathy pulls at her features, which she highlighted with peach eyeshadow and matching blush and lip gloss. “Absolutely awful, what happened to Gary. You two called it in?” She glances at the screen again. “Charlotte McKay and Marianne Magnolian?”
We nod together, then Marianne leans on the counter dividing the woman’s desk from the entrance. “We were wondering if there’s been any development in finding Gary’s killer. What happened to him was so terrible.”
The woman glances left and right, then leans in conspiratorially, her voice lowering. “Today is usually the day when Gary would stop in with donuts for everyone. He’s been doing that for years for us just to be a nice guy. Everyone knew there would be no donuts today because Gary’s, well…” She swallows hard. “I thought about picking up a few dozen to keep the tradition going, but I couldn’t bring myself to even go to the shop. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat a donut again for a long time. At least not until his murder is solved.” She clicks her screen. “I’ve been checking up on his case every so often, hoping they’d at least have found the murder weapon by now. But nothing.”
I freeze, confused at the information. “There’s no murder weapon listed? No mention of a crowbar?”
She shakes her head, clicking her screen to be sure. “Not yet. I’ve been waiting for any little development to pop up.”
Marianne goes for a heaping scoop of the benefit of the doubt. “Maybe they haven’t updated their paperwork yet. Who knows? They could have found it already. Maybe they’re already halfway on the path to solving the whole thing. What’s your name?”
The receptionist offers us a small smile. “I’m Jen. And I wish you were right, but I ask the officers assigned to the case every day before I clock out, and there’s nothing they know that isn’t in the system. I know the drill. ‘Be patient. Solving crime takes time.’”
I give a heavy sigh that seems to mirror her feelings on the subject. “That’s an unfortunate little rhyme when you know the victim. I’m sorry you’re all going through this. It’s horrible. No suspects? No motive? No murder weapon?”
Jen seems to remember herself and straightens. “I can’t comment on any of that. I shouldn’t have mentioned the details of the case. I’ll leave a note for Officer Barton that you came by and requested an update on the case. That’s who’s in charge of it now. I’ve got your phone number on file here, but I wouldn’t expect to hear anything soon. These things tend to go slowest when you most want results.”
Marianne has the keys in hand, ready to go, but I take a second to reach over the counter and offer Jen my hand to squeeze. “I’m sorry your friend died. If you need someone to take you out after work so you can vent, you have our numbers. We’ll take you anywhere but a donut shop.”
Jen squeezes my fingers, gratefully connecting to my offer of basic human kindness. “I might just take you up on that. Thanks.”
Marianne holds the door open for me while I hop out of the station. Her eyes are wide, but her mouth remains purposefully closed. We say nothing of the missing murder weapon until we are safely shut in the car and on our way back to Sweetwater Falls.
9
STRAWBERRY DISTRACTIONS
Betty has no problem crafting several options of the reading goals cards Marianne was hoping to pass out at her library booth at the upcoming strawberry festival. She has five versions done up in her perfect calligraphy. Each of them appears to be professionally done, complete with a doodle of a book with a bow around it featured at the top.
“That’s my favorite one,” I tell her as I whip the cream in the industrial mixer. The kitchen is spattered with red, looking no different from a murder scene. Making the strawberry balsamic jam to fill the cupcakes and sluice overtop was quite the event. It made me grateful that at least we weren’t doing a fruit that stains even worse, such as blueberries or blackberries.
Betty examines the page with a scrutinous eye. “They have to be easy to read at a glance, because it’s not just adults who will be filling these out. We want the kids to get involved too.”
My mouth pulls to the side. “Then that one might be best.” I point to her second attempt, which has letters that are slightly less curly. “I love that Marianne’s really going for it.”
“You mean finally going for it. Rip and I have been after her for years to do a table for the library. I think she’s afraid the kids won’t come to her booth. Some of the boys call her ‘Scary-anne Marianne the Librarian.’ They think the library is haunted.”
I recall back when I babysat the Miller boys, that exact lore was being bandied about. “So weird. Marianne is the least frightening person I can think of, and the library is perfectly nice. No hauntings I’ve ever seen.”
Betty shrugs. “You know that, but the kids have their own suspicions. No idea how to break that rumor. I’m past the age of knowing how to convince children of anything.”
“I highly doubt that,” I counter. The cream begins to double in size the more air that gets beaten into the mounting folds. “You seem the type who could smile and get an entire classroom to do whatever hijinks you thought up.”
Betty chortles at the sincere compliment. She shuffles her handiwork, landing on the same option I selected to be the one to present to Marianne as the winner. “Well, hopefully they’ll at least like the reading goal cards. If only that would get them to voluntarily go through the library doors.”
Mischief lightens my posture. “Instead of trying to convince the kids that the library isn’t haunted, maybe we could lean into that to get them to visit.”
Betty sets the cards in her purse and dons her apron. She sets about tackling the job of filling the cupcakes with the strawberry balsamic jam. “How’s that?”
I tap my temple. “The idea isn’t fully cooked yet, but what do you think of an all-night read-a-thon for kids? They could bring sleeping bags. We’ll have board games out for them to play. We can make little reading nooks all over the library where they can stay up and read. Wait for the ghosts to make an appearance and give the place a good haunting. It would be the greatest dare the kids could do. Stay the night in the haunted library? That’s a story worth facing your fears to brag about, for sure.”
Betty considers the event that I haven’t given more than a minute’s time to plan. “It’s not a bad idea. It would certainly get kids into the library. We could give everyone flashlights and play hide and go seek in the dark.” She chuckles, and I know she’s had an evil idea.
“What?”
Betty waves off my inquiry. “Oh, nothing the Live Forever Club can’t handle. Those girls will be ready to give the kids the night of fright they’ve been waiting for. We can have the all-nighter the evening before the strawberry festival. Give the parents a chance to get a good night’s sleep. The library’s not a far walk from the school. We can march the kids to the festival and drop them off to their parents there when it starts. That would make sure the parents have time to enjoy the festival kid-free for a bit, if they prefer.” She plunks out a text on her phone before pocketing it and returning to the piping bag.
“I love everything about that. Although, I’m not sure scaring the kids is the real point of the slumber party,” I remind her. “On the other hand, that might make the whole night a thing the kids will talk about for years to come.”
Betty nods. “And if the kids are excited about the library, their parents will have an easier time taking them there more often.” She sticks the piping tip into the first poundcake cupcake and squeezes. “We can use some Halloween decorations and set them up around the interior of the library. Really lean into the whole idea of the place being haunted.”
“The kids can even help Marianne run the booth at the festival the next day. What’s better than a book, but a cute kid helping you pick one out?” I turn off the mixer and quickly set to jotting down the ideas that keep on coming.
“Rip’s got a few plastic weapons to add to the decorations. A bloody axe, a pitchfork… Things like that.”
“Not a crowbar?” I comment glibly. My mind bounces back to the unsolved homicide and the missing murder weapon.
Betty’s tone turns comforting. “Now, now. I’m sure there’s a very good reason the crowbar wasn’t cataloged yet. Have you had a chance to run it by Logan? He might be able to shed some light on the subject.”
Yet another bummer weights my shoulders as I finish jotting down notes for Marianne regarding the haunted slumber party. “He opted to stay an extra few days near where they held the training. His aunt lives in the area. It’s good. I’m glad he gets to see her.”
“But you also wish he was here. I know, sweetheart. I see it on you as clearly as I feel it when Rip and I are parted for too long. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen all too often. I’m sorry, Charlotte.”
I wonder if Gary had family. Did he have a partner who is missing him right now? Kids? A tank full of fish?
I shrug off the sadness. I know I’m being dramatic every time I want to groan that I miss Logan. We’ll be reunited soon enough. “It’s fine. I’ll see him tomorrow. All this extra time he’s gone will give me the opportunity to do all sorts of things.”
“Such as… more baking?” Betty guesses, not incorrectly.
I scramble to come up with more options, so I don’t seem like all I do is work. “Actually, Dwight asked if I wanted to go fishing on his boat with him and his dad. I might take him up on it.”
Betty regards me with mild surprise. She shakes out her wrist, then continues filling the cupcakes. “Not a bad way to spend the evening. Good for you, mixing things up.”
Of course, all I want to do is march straight to the Hamshire police department and politely demand to know why the crowbar wasn’t listed as a possible murder weapon. A bloody tool abandoned in the middle of an airfield not far from a dead body seems like a slam dunk.
No, I need a break. If I’m going to stop myself from obsessing over the oddity, I’m going to have to give myself a whole new plan for the night. “Betty, do you have Dwight’s phone number?”
With a few quick plunks of a text back and forth, I now have plans with Dwight and his dad. Hopefully the boat will be the distraction from the unsolved mystery I need.
10
HOLDING KURT’S HAND
I’d been hoping to encounter something that was a distraction from the unsolved murder case, not play a game of chicken with my own life expectancy. “Are you sure that’s what the rope there does?” I don’t want to sound like a worry wart, but in my defense, Dwight has confused the rope that’s attached to the anchor with the one that directs the sail twice so far. One time, he nearly got himself in a real pickle when the coil started to unravel, and his ankle was in the center of the tangle of ropes.
I also question whether or not the ropes are supposed to be puddled in the center of the boat, all mixed together and in danger of knotting.
Dwight’s chest puffs as if he is King of the Ocean. “Oh, yeah. I know exactly what to do. Dad and I take her out every weekend. Isn’t that right, Dad?”
Kurt’s grin is identical to his son’s, without a hint of concern on his weathered features. “That’s right. No better sailor than my boy, and nowhere I’d rather be than out on the open waters, enjoying the sunshine.” He holds his can of lemonade aloft to toast the lake, which looked far less perilous before I stepped foot on Dwight’s boat.
I was so much more carefree and optimistic a mere half an hour ago. My ideals of clearing my head with the fresh lake air feathering my hair are long gone. Though, I’m not as focused on Gary’s death as much as I am nervous about my own demise creeping ever closer. At least there’s that.
Still, it hardly feels like a win.
Fortunately, in the past half an hour, Dwight hasn’t managed to do much more than untie the boat from the dock, allowing it to float with the anchor still fixing us firmly to our starting point.
I force a grin to mutate the look of anxiety playing out on my features. My stomach only twists more when Dwight meanders around the boat, touching things and making more of a mess of the ropes. “Kurt, how are you liking living back here in Sweetwater Falls? I know you’re used to your life in Texas. I’m sure you were hoping for the perks of escaping the heat.” I motion toward the blazing sun.
Kurt drains the last of his lemonade, then tosses the can in the trash bucket a few feet from where we’re sitting near the center of the boat. He misses by a wide margin. “I don’t mind the heat here. It was miserable before I moved back because I didn’t get to share afternoons like this with my boy. Now I can’t imagine anything might make me miss where I used to live.” He makes to stand to grab the stray can, but I wave him back down and grab it myself.
I might have a bum ankle, but Kurt has Parkinson’s. He doesn’t need to be troubling himself with trash when the boat is rocking with small waves like this.
My smile turns genuine as I sit back down on the bench we’ve been sharing. Though I don’t like the idea of being out here with the bumbling Dwight, listening to Kurt speak so lovingly about spending time with his son is sweet. It pushes out my many mounting worries so I can enjoy the sunshine without squinting for a few seconds. “I know Dwight is happy to have you here. Did you miss Sweetwater Falls? I know you were gone for a few years.”
Kurt nods, his expression thoughtful. “Anyone who’s lived here for more than a year knows there’s no place else that’ll feel like home after being spoiled by the people and the slower pace of life here. I thought Texas would be a new start for me after my wife passed, but looking back, I’m not sure it was the good medicine I needed. It was hard to live here without her. Every place has a memory attached. Everyone loved Deanna.” His eyes look unfocused, as if seeing the past play out on the water through a foggy glass. It shows him specific memories that were too painful to view until his recent move back. “We always got our Saturday paper at the Nosy Newsy. Spent a good chunk of the morning chatting with Frank. Usually brought him a cup of Deanna’s famous sweet tea while we talked his ear off.” He scratches his bald spot.
“I’ll bet Frank enjoyed those visits.”
Kurt casts me a noncommittal shrug. “Probably. I haven’t had the heart to get my Saturday paper yet. Feels wrong buying a paper from Frank without bringing him a cup of sweet tea. I don’t make it as tasty as Deanna did. Always asked what her secret ingredient was to make it so flavorful, but she’d just wink and say, ‘Love.’”
I fiddle with my can of lemonade. “That’s cute. I like her already. And she’s not wrong. You can taste the difference between something that was made with love, and just any old duplicate that was thrown together.”
He thumbs at the boat’s ledge when his hand tremors without his consent. I can spot his attempt to make the effects of the Parkinson’s look like natural movement. I wonder if he’s extra tired at the end of the day from all the jerking motions to which he never consented.
Kurt clears his throat. “She loved all the festivals. Always signed up to volunteer for any job Rip needed done. Then we’d spend the event holding hands and perusing each booth, playing all the games, and watching our boy entertain the town with his costumes. Deanna was big into handholding.” He smirks at the memory. “She took it as an affront if I carried anything in the hand she wanted to hold.”
“I think she sounds fun. Had to be to have raised that one with you.” I nod toward Dwight, who is at the helm (a term I had to look up on my phone because Dwight was positive it was the back of the ship. It is not. It is the front of the boat). Dwight peers out across the lake, as if we are far from the dock and he is navigating us through a vast ocean of possibilities and sharks.
