From Newsprint to Footprints: A River's Edge Cozy Mystery (River's Edge Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

Gallagher started to chuckle, but stopped himself. "Nothing funny, of course. But the thing that connects you to the murder is the tangerine in his mouth."

"Hal threw an orange at me."

"I believe an orange would have been too big for Hal's mouth."

My tone was bitter. "Nothing was too big for…" I clasped both hands over my mouth, then removed them as he stared at me. "I'm sorry."

"He was loud." He looked at the piece of paper on which he had taken very sparse notes. "Anything else, Melanie?"

"I can't think of anything."

Sheriff Gallagher stood. "Go on home. Take it easy today. You've had a big shock."

I stood. "Thanks."

"And call me if you think of anything else."

"Yes, sir."

I was at the door when he said, "And don't talk a lot about this with your reporter friends."

I faced him. "Can you tell me what you told them?"

"Why?"

"They'll expect me to tell them something. I don't want to interfere with your stuff, so if I know what you told them, I won't tell them more."

He studied me a moment and then smiled slowly. "You're always a pistol. All we've really done is identify Hal, mention when the mulch was delivered, and say when you found him."

"That's more than I wish I knew."

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS ALMOST NOON when I left the Sheriff's Office, and Fred Simmons was waiting in his car when I parked in front of my duplex. Since my truck had been in the Law Center parking lot, Fred likely saw it and figured I'd get home eventually. He jumped out of his car and hugged me before I could push the button to lock my truck.

"Melanie. Good God. Are you all right? What a horrible thing!"

Fred's black hair had its usual windswept look. On a model it would look cool, but for Fred it meant he'd forgotten where he put his comb. Which would be typical.

I disengaged and stood back, with Fred an arm's length away. "Did you think I was there when it happened?"

His expression began to look less panicked. "That's what I heard."

I gestured toward the exterior stairs. "Come on up. It's five o'clock somewhere, and I'm going to have a beer. You look like you need one."

Fred switched from concerned friend to reporter as we walked. "You know I freelance for the Des Moines Register, right? Anything you can tell me that they won't pick up elsewhere?"

We were walking next to each other, and I half-turned my head to look at him. "I have to be really careful. Sheriff Gallagher asked me…"

Several sharp beeps announced the Fiesta. Sandi, Ryan, and Betty almost flew out. Even from ten yards away, I could see Betty had been crying. A glance at Fred said he didn't want to share anything I might tell him.

As the babbling trio got closer, Mrs. Keyser opened her front door and stuck her head out. "I told the girls at the beauty shop you didn't kill Hal. You wouldn't be walking around if you did." This sounded more like a question.

"No, Mrs. Keyser. I didn't." The others had stopped talking, likely not so much to be polite as to see what they could pick up. "I found Hal."

"In a pile of mud?" She didn't come all the way onto the porch. Mrs. Keyser has a weekly shampoo and set at Marvie Marvel's beauty salon. She apparently didn't want the light breeze to mess it up.

"No, ma'am. It was mulch." I started edging toward the exterior stairs, and my reporter buddies matched my progress. The image of a vaudeville act with people walking sideways, in sync, crossed my brain, and I started to giggle. Then I couldn't stop.

Sandi had just put one arm around my shoulder when the giggles turned to gulps, and I stood in the front yard bawling my eyes out.

The way they fawned over me, you'd have thought a lost puppy had appeared. Then Betty joined in. Ryan handed me a tissue from a wad in his pocket – he'd apparently been with Betty for a while – and, when Sandi joined the chorus, it sounded like a gaggle of geese.

After a few more seconds, I waved people back and pointed to the stairs.

"You can come through here," Mrs. Keyser said, still protecting her hair.

"We're good," Fred called to her.

I blew my nose and then reached into my pocket for the key to my apartment. Betty was still sobbing as I let them in, so Ryan guided her by the elbow.

My apartment was created from an attic, with a couple of dormers added. Except for the bathroom, the walls follow the pattern of the roof. There's plenty of room to stand up if you stay near the middle of the rooms. Ryan would have to be careful to do that.

I opened the fridge and looked at the three beers. "Who wants water and who wants beer?"

Sandi said she was driving, and Betty said she'd already thrown up breakfast. Fred, Ryan and I popped the caps on the glass bottles. I gestured with my beer that we should leave my crowded kitchen to sit in the living room. Waiting for no one, I sat on the couch, leaned my head into it, and put my feet on the sturdy walnut coffee table.

"Melanie," Ryan said, "you want us to go?"

The giggles were back. "Yeah, I want you and Fred arrested for violating the open container law."

Ryan looked uncomfortable, and Fred took charge. "We aren't staying long, unless Melanie wants us to. But, uh, Mel, the
Register'
s deadline…"

That brought me back to reality. They might want to comfort me, but the story was first.

I sat up straighter and took another swig of the comfortingly cold beer. "Sheriff Gallagher made me promise not to tell you guys more than he did."

They issued a collective groan, with even Betty joining in.

"But I can tell you where to get some information. You'd want to dig yourselves anyway."

Four pens and small tablets emerged from pockets and purses, and they stared expectantly.

"Okay, let's see. You know when the mulch was delivered, right?"

"Don't you?" Ryan asked.

"Shut up, Ryan," Betty said, but in a fairly amiable tone.

I glanced from Ryan to Sandi. "And you already know there's only one place in town that delivers mulch in bulk rather than in bags."

"Dibs," Sandi said.

"I'll go with you. Different paper," Fred said.

"I'm not going to referee. I want some Tylenol and a nap." I could almost see Sandi's fingers edging toward her mobile phone, but they quieted. "And you'll of course want to ask Syl Seaton where…"

"Who?" Fred asked.

I'd forgotten that Fred stayed much of the time with a friend from college who lived near Des Moines.

"Bought Silverstone's place, so it was obviously his mulch," Betty said. Now that she was on a story, she had calmed down.

"Ah," Fred said.

"So, he wasn't there?" Sandi asked.

I blew an exasperated sigh. "I'm too ragged out to be interviewed. Just
listen.
"

I figured that, by now, lots of people knew Syl had gone to Des Moines. I told them that and suggested they talk to neighbors if Syl still wasn't around. The only new information I gave them was my timeline of the morning. They could figure it out eventually, and I couldn't see how that would interfere with the sheriff's investigation.

"I have to ask, Mel," Fred said. "You didn't do this and have no idea who did?"

I shook my head. "You know as well as I do that no one liked Hal. But kill him? I can't think of anyone."

Betty looked up from the pad where she was jotting notes. "I could think of some people, but they probably wouldn't know how to do it without getting caught."

I wasn't sure if she was serious or not, but if she could get leads with the thought, more power to her.

"Hal didn't really have family," Fred said, almost to himself.

"Someone will have seen him last night," Sandi said.

Betty looked as if she was going to cry again.

"Check the grocery store," I added.

"Why?" Ryan asked.

"You guys are reporters." I took a last pull on my beer.

Sandi looked disappointed. My phone message last night meant she knew I'd seen Hal in Hy-Vee. She had probably hoped to get there before the others.

My Comforting Committee stood as one, emitting various platitudes and, in Betty's case, an idea for using cucumber slices to reduce the swelling of my puffy eyes.

Fred stayed for a few extra seconds. "I'm really sorry you had to go through this. You know my mobile number, and I'm not just reminding you of that because I want leads."

He hugged me for several seconds, and I let myself be comforted. Fred and I had been buddies and competitors for five years. Neither of us would want some of the things we knew about each other's love lives to show up in the paper. Not that mine was all that interesting.

I pulled back and smiled. "Thanks, Fred. I promise I'll call if there's something you can do to help."

"Or even if you just can't sleep." He pulled the door shut on his way out.

I sat on the couch and leaned forward to put my forehead on my palms. My mind wouldn't, or couldn't, quit thinking about Hal. If only one person killed him, whoever put Hal in the mulch pile had to be pretty strong.

And who would be that angry with him?
Anyone who worked for him
.

"That's ridiculous," I said aloud.

Hal would top almost anyone's list of obnoxious bosses, but he had a couple of good points. If anyone close to you was really sick, he'd let you take off with no notice. We always got our birthdays off, and he gave us an ever-smaller Christmas bonus every year.

He also called us all idiots, questioned that we'd ever be any good as reporters, and threw things across the room. Doc Shelton had bought him some foam baseballs after a stapler hit Ryan and he needed three stitches. Hal wasn't aiming, and he had felt bad about it. It was his first stapler throw. A few months before that, he had broken two mobile phones aiming for staff.

I stretched out on the couch, lying on my side. A photograph of my parents was on top of a shelf, so that I could look at it from the couch. "I miss you guys."

THE SHARP RAP on the door woke me. It was late afternoon, meaning I'd slept for several hours. My sinuses were totally clogged, and I had a headache. "Coming."

I peered through the curtain on my door and saw Sheriff Gallagher.
This doesn't bode well
.

"Come in, Sheriff." I stood aside so he could walk into the living room.

He took in my swollen eyes and probably mascara-lined cheeks, but he didn't sit. "We need to talk a bit more, Melanie."

"Sure. Just give me one minute to splash some water on my face." And get rid of my beer, but I didn't say that out loud.

When I walked back down the very short hallway from the bathroom to the living room, he turned to face me. "Are you missing anything?"

My eyes strayed to my parents' photograph.

He followed my gaze. "Any
thing
," he said, sort of kindly.

"I don't suppose you could be a bit more specific."

"Can you walk outside?"

"Um, sure. Where are we going?"

"Right now to the shed at the far end of the yard, where Mrs. Keyser says you keep your gardening stuff."

I must have had a blank expression, because he said, "Just take a look," and turned to walk out the door and down the steps.

Something's not right
. I followed him. We got to the bottom and turned left, and I saw the shed door was open. He must have already looked there. But why?

"Your lettuce looks better than my wife's."

The polite Midwesterner, trying to put me at ease
.

We got to the shed, and I peered in. There's no electricity, but the evening sun let in enough light. "You going to tell me what I'm supposed to look for?"

"Is something missing?"

I studied the items lined against the wall. There were the steel rake and the plastic one for leaves, the fertilizer spreader, two bags of compost, the large bucket where I keep trowels and other small tools. I turned to face the sheriff. "Where's my hoe? I just bought that."

He sighed. "The hoe was in the mulch with Hal."

CHAPTER FOUR

I GAPED AT him. "It's… I would never… How the hell did it get there?"

Sheriff Gallagher looked at me in a way he never had before. Unless he's testifying about a case or cussing at his neighbor's cat when it pees on his patrol car tires, he's a genial guy. Not now.

He pulled a vinyl glove from his pocket and shut the shed door, then turned to face me. "IDI will send someone over for prints on the shed. When's the last time you used that hoe?"

"Last Sunday. I was loosening the dirt around the rhubarb in the back of the yard."

"You never had it at Mr. Seaton's?"

I shook my head.

"I have a hard time believing that you'd kill Hal. Knew he fired you, but he ticks off half the people in town. Trouble is, either you did it or someone is sure trying to make it look as if you did."

My mouth was dry, and I swallowed. "Who would do that?"

"You'd be the most likely person to know your own enemies." He pointed in the general direction of the driveway, where his patrol car was parked, and we walked toward it. "You done any stories that really skewered anybody in town? Only one I can think of was about the pet store selling food from China and not telling folks there'd been problems with it in other towns."

"And he doesn't live here now," I murmured, remembering that he left because customers stopped coming.

When we reached his car, he turned to face me. "You'll be interviewed tomorrow by the folks from IDI. Aaron Granger's going to work closely with them. You think hard on the last time you used that hoe. Maybe it'll help you figure out who's so angry with you."

He opened the car door and sort of slung himself behind the wheel. "If you decide to go out of town other than for a story close by, you tell me, hear?"

Granger, great. "I will. No plans to go away until Fourth of July."

He stared at me for a couple of seconds, then turned the ignition and backed out of the driveway.

I was watching his fading tail lights when Mrs. Keyser's front door opened. "What is all this about, Melanie? Why did the sheriff want me to let him in the shed?"

She was in what is euphemistically called a house dress and translates to a shapeless shift that hides an extra thirty or forty pounds. As usual, it was a brilliant print. Today's had huge purple flowers with dark pink for the stamens and carpels.

Mrs. Keyser wanted gossip to take to the beauty parlor, but I was in the mood to be obtuse. "I guess he didn't know we leave it unlocked." Before she could say anything else, I turned and walked the short distance to the side of the house and up the stairs.

By the time I got to the top, I was furious. How could anyone suspect me?

You found the body and your hoe was with him
.

Okay, but besides that? Lots of reporters had bad-mouthed Hal through the years, and I only knew about the five years I'd worked at the paper. Except for the time he made me work Thanksgiving night when he'd promised it off, I'd never maligned him. Much.

I walked through my apartment, stopping at the doorway to each of the two bedrooms and scanning them, as if the answer was hiding under the bed or behind the door. Without giving much thought about where I was going, I marched into the living room, grabbed my purse off its spot on a console table by the door, and made for my truck. I almost tiptoed down the steps because I didn't want Mrs. Keyser to talk to me.

Almost on automatic pilot, I drove toward Syl Seaton's place. That was the last place I'd been before my world turned upside down. It was also where the upending had happened, so some part of me thought if I could see the mulch pile something would make sense.

It was almost dusk, and the sky had beautiful pink and orange hues. Just an ordinary night. Nothing to suggest River's Edge was a place where a murder had taken place last night. Or maybe today.

I tapped a finger on the steering wheel. It was less than a ten-minute drive to Syl's, but was going to be longer because I was behind aged Harry Finkle. He drives about fifteen miles per hour, unless it's raining. Then it's ten.

I passed Main Street, which leads to the small town square, the hub of River's Edge. It's no longer full of stores that sell things anyone really needs. People drive twenty-five miles to big box stores.

Now, the square has antique stores, an artists' co-op, a bakery, coffee shop, things like that. If it weren't for a store that sells everything for a dollar, there wouldn't even be a shop that sold tissues. You'd have to go to the very small pharmacy just off the square and pay a lot for something to blow your nose into.

When a clothing store and its adjoining shoe store went out of business two years ago, the Chamber of Commerce president almost begged Hal to move the paper from two blocks off the square to the newly vacant space.

Hal said he'd think about it if he could get a free Chamber membership for life. Since that would have led to other demands for free memberships, the Chamber said no. Besides, half of the members would have left if Hal had started coming to the Chamber's weekly luncheons. The paper stayed in its rundown brick building.

Mr. Finkle finally pulled onto a side street, and he'd only had his blinker on for three blocks before the turn.

I made my way to Syl's place. I had anticipated police tape, but had not expected the mulch to be gone. I sat in the driveway, staring at the vacant spot. Syl's truck wasn't parked near there, as it had been yesterday. It was on the grass to the right of the drive.

There will be ruts you'll have to smooth before you plant seed. Who cares about ruts now?

The front door opened, and Syl walked onto the porch. He had on a tailored suit that looked expensive even from a distance.

I got out of my truck, suddenly aware I must look like a woman who had slept in her clothes and hadn't even combed her hair. Which was true.

I walked toward his porch, unsure what to say.

His expression was solemn, but then his lips twitched, slightly. "You didn't mention the Farm and More store would include extras with the mulch."

A macabre sense of humor. Who knew?

"I guess it was a special deal." I tried to smile, but failed.

"Sorry, you looked like you needed cheering up. Not something to joke about." He opened the screen door and nodded toward it.

Without saying anything, I walked up the steps and into the entry foyer.

Syl gestured to the living room. "Same chairs?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You look as if you could use a pick-me-up. Do you drink?"

I sat. "Some, but now's probably not a good time. Do you have a soft drink?"

"Does it have to be diet?"

"Better if not," I said.

He walked to the kitchen, and I heard him put ice in glasses and flip the tab on a can of pop.

I glanced around the room. An occasional table was now next to one chair. A couple of manila folders and a pen sat on top of the table, but nothing indicated what the folders contained.

Syl came back with a glass in each hand and handed me one before he sat.

I swallowed. "Um, I’m sorry about what happened."

Syl frowned, and it made his brown eyes squint. "You didn't have anything to do with it, did you?"

"No. No, of course not. But the sheriff just told me my hoe was in the mulch pile."

His brows went up, and he paused with his drink halfway to his mouth. "Was your name on it?"

"Gosh, no. I wonder how the sheriff…" I thought for a moment. "I've been fingerprinted."

"Why?"

"Not for a crime. I did some substitute teaching for a while when I first came back after college. They do a background check."

"Where'd you go?"

It was such an innocuous question that it took a second to realize he was talking about college. I took a long drink of the cold cola. "University of Iowa. Journalism."

"Couldn't you get a job anywhere else?"

There are pros and cons to a direct questioner. Right now it was more like a con, and I felt defensive. "I like it here, and my parents died a couple of years ago. I'm glad I had that time with them."

"You're young for that." No sympathy in his tone, but it wasn't dismissive either.

I sighed, sat back, and closed my eyes for a second. "Right now, it still feels young. I… Damn, I should have called my brother."

"Not close?"

What does he care?

"It's not that. I fell asleep right after I got home and didn't wake up until Sheriff Gallagher stopped by a few minutes ago. Then I was more or less distracted by the hoe thing."

He stood. "Finish your drink and let's go outside."

Mr. No Nonsense. I liked that. Especially since I'd been afraid he would be angry at me. I downed the last of the drink and followed him toward the kitchen, where I placed my glass on the counter. We went out the side door, which opened onto the driveway at the back of the house.

"Are we allowed out here?"

"My house. And the sheriff said as long as I don't go behind the yellow tape it's fine."

We stood silently, looking at what was now about a six-by-eight damp spot accented with a few chips of mulch. There were impressions in the damp earth and a few pieces of something small and white. I'd seen sheriff deputies make plaster casts of footprints at burglary scenes when something really expensive had been stolen.

"Why do you suppose they took all of it?" I mused.

"You know that deputy, Granger?" he asked.

I nodded, and Syl said, "I asked him. All he said was forensics."

"Wonder where the sheriff will put it?"

"My impression was that it was going to a crime lab in Des Moines. They put it in different bags. Some had mulch from near the body. A few other bags had the rest of it."

"Ugh." I turned to face him. "Where were you this morning?"

The amused look again. "Checking to see if I'll tell you the same thing I told the police?"

I flushed. "No. I just wish you'd been here."

He turned back to look at the former mulch area. "I'm sorry I wasn't. I’m sure it was hard for you to find Mr. Morris."

Plus, you could have told the police how shocked I was
.

I glanced at an area near the short flight of steps that led to the side door to the kitchen. My vomit was gone.

"I'm not about to play amateur detective, but I've heard your former editor was not well liked. Had you and Hal had a particularly acrimonious disagreement?"

"No." I grinned. "Nor any big fights."

He half grunted, half smiled. "My business consulting choice of words."

"So, looks like you had a formal meeting out of town."

"What makes you say out of town?" he asked.

He'd told the sheriff he was in Des Moines. I was mostly curious to know what he did. "Usually only people at one of the banks or the funeral home wear suits. Most of the time, anyway."

He smiled and nodded toward my truck and began walking. I fell in step.

"I just got a contract to design new IT infrastructure for a major insurance organization. I left around six. Thought it would be a longer drive."

We're about one-hundred-thirty miles southeast of Des Moines, but it's not like there's traffic. We had reached my truck. "Are you from Iowa, originally?"

He shook his head. "Los Angeles."

"Talk about a change of pace."
And you must like it if you bought property
.

"I was looking for that. Takes less time to drive twenty miles here than three in LA." He opened my truck door.   

"So I've heard." I slid in and looked up at him, as I shut the door and pushed the button to take the window down.

He leaned on the truck door. "I drove by the Keyser house. The yard is very well kept. You're welcome to keep working, but I'll understand if you don't want to."

"I need the money, and I like this kind of work."

I was putting my truck in reverse as he asked, "Who will run the paper now?"

I hadn't given it a thought.