Word Has It (Wordplay Mysteries Book 1) Page 8

  Wanda swallowed. “Todd, my main efforts are to establish a viable and well-run watch. After all, there have been two deadly shootings in this town in the past year, both by a rifle. Before these happened, there had not been any killings in Scrub Oak in decades. That fact disturbs me.” She took a step forward and zeroed in on his face. “Not to interfere in your business or anything, but I gather you are investigating the possibility of the two being related.”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

  Wanda turned from him and went to greet the folks who had already signed up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Enough people signed up to not only fully form four morning and four evening teams, but for each lady to have a partner if she chose the evening shift. Thirty-seven in all. Wanda barely slept Tuesday night due the excitement and also the responsibility she now carried. Her mind whirled like a CD in play mode.

  By sunrise, she’d composed announcements and articles in her head to help get the word out. After a few phone calls, Wanda got the Oakmont County Weekly Gazette to agree to run an article on citizen responsibility to report suspicious activities. She spoke with the pastors at both churches about putting announcements in their upcoming Sunday bulletins.

  Wanda spent the rest of Wednesday contacting each person who’d signed up, thanking them, and reminding them to attend the mandatory training on Saturday. By dinnertime, her brain had drained. Her mouth ached from talking and smiling over the phone, and she didn’t have the energy to clear her kitchen table of all the paperwork. Instead, she made a turkey sandwich and put her feet up to watch some mindless TV game shows.

  And fell asleep . . .

  The next morning there was a tap on her back door. “Aunt Wanda?”

  She jerked awake. What was Todd doing here in the middle of the night? Oh, her eyes blinked as the sunrays blasted through the venetian blind slats.

  Not night. Morning.

  She stretched and yawned. “In here.” She ran her hand over her hair to smooth it a bit as she squinted to read the mantle clock. Ten after nine?

  “Are you all right?” He stopped in the doorway that separated her kitchen from her dining room/living room.

  She waved his concern away. “Yes, yes. Just exhausted. All this organizing has taken the stuffing out of me.” She rose and padded toward the coffee pot, as Todd wisely stepped aside.

  “So, I see.” He pointed to her kitchen table.

  “Yes.” She diverted her attention from the kitchen counter and began shuffling and stacking papers.

  “Here, let me make the coffee.” His reply held a chuckle. “Are you up for finishing that Scrabble game?”

  Scrabble? Today was Thursday. He’d shown up as if no harsh tones had occurred between them.

  “Are you?”

  He filled the tank with water and began doling out teaspoons of grounds into the filter. “I’ve been thinking about the words we have been forming.”

  “Oh?”

  “Did you preserve the game? Where is the board?”

  She pointed to the top of the fridge as she moved the last of the paper stacks to her satchel.

  Todd gingerly reached up and brought it down, then lifted off the dish towel. He sat, head resting in his left palm and studied the board.

  “Well?” She hovered behind him, her hands on her hips. “What do you think?”

  He sat back and sighed. “I’m not sure. I mean it is weird, but perhaps it’s nothing more than a coincidence. ‘Shot’ I get. But what about the last words of cave, auto, bushes? Not only that but zero, reduce, candy, panel, and under . . . what would they have to do with anything?”

  “I am not saying every word is a clue.” She slid into the chair across from him, a cup of freshly brewed coffee in her hand. One sip and the cobwebs already whisked away as if a spring breeze had swished through an abandoned attic. Thank you, Lord, for making caffeine.

  He frowned. “Then how would we determine which ones were? As if they were placed in our heads by some divine intervention, that is. Nah, I don’t think so.” He got up to pour himself a cup. “Got anything to eat?”

  “Of course. There is some banana nut bread in the freezer. Take out as many slices as you want and nuke them.”

  He jerked the door open and a swirl of frigid air hit the back of her neck. Now she really was awake.

  “You want any, Aunt Wanda?”

  “Sure. Two.”

  The words they’d played stared back at her. Perhaps he was right. She searched for clues where none existed. Even so, a tickle in the back of her mind wouldn’t concede to that possibility.

  He brought over the plate and the newly-awaken aroma of the bread sifted through her nose into her stomach, making it growl.

  Todd snickered. “Did you even eat yesterday?”

  “I’m an old woman but my brain is still intact, thank you very much. Of course, I did.”

  “Whoa, don’t get huffy.”

  The angst melted like the pats of butter he spread over the slices. She took a bite and savored the taste. For a few minutes silence existed between them.

  Then she bolted. Sophie. Where was Sophie? She had not wakened Wanda up to feed her. A wave of fret flowed from her head to her stomach.

  “What is it? You suddenly paled.”

  “Where is Sophie?”

  Todd’s expression became contrite. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. She was last seen rooting for a bone or something else she’d buried. I am afraid your vincas were planted on top.”

  “Poor thing. She must be starved.” She rose and whistled for her pet, who came lopping across the backyard. Her newly-planted spring flowers lay like downed bowling pins every which way along the back fence.

  She poured a bowl of kibbles and petted her dachshund, cooing remorseful words. The pooch gobbled down a half cup in no time, lapped some water, and went to settle in her basket near the fridge.

  Wanda blinked back tears. “How could I be so careless?”

  Todd grabbed her hand. “It happens, Aunt Wanda. She is no less the wear and tear. She has a doggie door, after all. But I did worry when I saw her, and then your kitchen table.”

  She swiped under her eyes. “Is that why you are being nice today?”

  He laid his other hand on top of hers. “I love you, Aunt Wanda. Even if sometimes you do meddle. And if you are worried that you might be losing it, I can assure you that you’re not. In fact, I owe you and your sharp mind.”

  “You do?”

  He leaned over the word play board, jostling a few of the letters from their squares. She pretended not to notice and resisted the urge to scoot them back in line.

  “Forensics sent back the report on the bullet. It definitely was fired from Carl’s rifle. And get this. I pulled the other report. So was the bullet that killed Robert Stewart. The scratch marks on the slugs match almost to a T.”

  “Carl shot them both?”

  Todd’s jaw stiffened. “It appears so, though he denies it, of course.”

  The banana bread bounced back into her esophagus. Betty Sue had been correct.

  How could that be? She’d been so sure of his innocence when she peered into his eyes on Monday.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wanda told Todd she didn’t feel like finishing their game. He rose, kissed her on the forehead and told her to take it easy. “You’ve been zipping around town at ninety-miles an hour for over a week. If you are not careful, I am going to have to arrest you for speeding.”

  He winked.

  “Go ahead. Maybe if I am sharing a cell with Carl, I can get the truth out of him.” She slumped and laced her arms over her chest.

  Todd laughed. “Not sure the chief would allow it. We do have three cells, you know.”

  He grabbed another piece of bread and waved goodbye as he shoved it in his mouth.

  Wanda stared at the back door for a few minutes as her mind tried to make sense of what Todd had revealed. Trouble was, it made no sense. Not at all. She need
ed to talk to Carl some more. But how?

  Wait. She snapped her fingers. He must have an attorney. She could talk to him or her. Did Carl have any next of kin? Would they lend some clarity to this?

  Her numbers tapped over her phone keys. In two rings, Betty Sue answered.

  “Betty Sue. Do you have a minute? My memory is fuzzy. Who is Carl Smither’s next of kin?”

  “Well, that is hard to say. He was adopted if I recall correctly. The Arthur family took him in when his parents were killed in a car accident. He was in first grade at the time. And I think he had an older brother, too. Yes, about five or six years older. That seems right.”

  “Adam Arthur’s parents? The fire chief?”

  “Yes. They were good friends of the Smithers. In fact, Adam’s dad was Carl’s godfather, I think. I recall it because the car wreck happened in my third year of teaching here, in 1981. In my mid-twenties and newly married, I had never dealt with tragedy amongst students before.”

  “What was his brother’s name? He doesn’t live around here now.”

  “I don’t recall. I do remember he was sent off to military school in San Antonio within a year or so. Ran away maybe? Let me look back in my yearbooks. I’ll let you know.”

  Wanda thanked her and hung up. She needed to speak with Chief Arthur. Dollars to donuts, he’d arranged for an attorney to represent his step-brother.

  With a plan formulating, Wanda swallowed down the last of her now cold coffee and dashed down the hall for a quick shower.

  Thirty minutes later, Wanda strolled into the firehouse. She’d driven this time and parked on the street. All seemed quiet. But of course. The day neared noon. Tiptoeing past the massive red truck, she saw a door with a frosted glass panel in it and heard voices inside. The fire chief and a few of the volunteers who liked to hang out there were probably eating in the kitchen.

  Wanda decided to come back in half an hour, allowing them time to eat and chat in peace.

  She crossed the street to the library. Barbara waved to her. “Need a new book?”

  “I’m actually looking to do some research.” Wanda didn’t want to share too much.

  “I can help you with that.” Barbara showed her how to access the information from the cloud. “I still don’t understand where this mystical cloud thing is, but it seems to always retain what folks need. If you need me to print anything, just let me know.”

  Wanda thanked her and then scanned the old Gazette articles about the Smithers’ accident in 1981, so she could refresh her memory.

  Then she read about Robert Stewart’s death last fall. The shooting happened while she had visited an old college friend in Plano, so she’d not been around to get the blow-by-blow gossip.

  Wanda scrolled through six articles, three from the Gazette, one from the Cleburne Times-Review, and two from the Fort Worth Star Telegram, where Robert Stewart’s brokerage firm had officed. One of those was the obituary.

  She queued it to print out all six, though she didn’t quite know how knowing the Stewart family tree would serve any purpose. Still, in all the crime shows they dig deep to discover connections. Who knew what might come of it?

  The soft footsteps of a woman sounded behind her. Too petite to be Barbara’s rubber-soled loafers. She peeked into the monitor to view Betty Sue’s reflection.

  Her best friend scooted next to her. “I saw your car parked on the street by the firehouse, but they had not seen you.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb their lunch. How’d ya know where to find me?”

  Betty Sue grinned. “Wanda, I know you. Whatcha got?”

  Wanda showed her the articles. “I haven’t combed through them all yet.”

  “Here, I thought you might want this.” She pulled a yearbook from her satchel and opened it to the sticky note she’d placed as a temporary bookmark.

  The school district was small enough to contain grades K-8 in one book. The first marked page of the 1981 volume showed a younger Betty Sue and then the mugshots of each of her eleven students in first grade. One, with freckles and a wild blonde crew cut sticking out in all directions, caught her eye. Carl. How innocent and unpretentious he appeared.

  “This was taken two months before his parents died.” Betty Sue pouted. “And, here is his brother. Sixth grade.” She flipped over several pages to the next sticky note.

  A boy of twelve or so gazed back. Colton Smithers. The family resemblance was strong. But this boy’s eyes held a mischief. Almost maliciousness. And his life had not yet been overturned by tragedy at the time the photo had been snapped. No wonder the Arthurs had farmed him out to military school.

  Betty Sue tapped it with her forefinger. “Mrs. Tucker taught him . . . or tried to.”

  “Priscilla’s mother?”

  “Uh-huh. She is in a nursing home in Keene now. But Priscilla says her memory is good much of the time. Want to go visit her tomorrow? We could take her some carnations from Kay’s Flowers.”

  “That would be great. Thank you.” She side-hugged her friend.

  “Okay. Pick you up at ten.” Betty Sue rose with the grace she always portrayed. She made Wanda feel like a klutz. But they were too good of friends for Wanda to concede to a twinge of jealousy.

  Wanda paid Barbara for the copies and the computer use then folded up her articles and placed them in her bag. She’d pour over them later. After shoveling down a quick chicken salad at Sally’s, she headed back to the firehouse at ten after one.

  Just in time for the sirens to blare in her ears.

  Wanda gasped and jumped to the curb as the big red machine darted out of its cave and down the street.

  What on earth? The last fire in Scrub Oak was four years ago when Hazel forgot to watch a twig pile she decided to burn. She’d read that ashes were good to put around rose bushes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The fire engine zipped down Main Street and turned to head up 8th. Hazel lived on 8th, but so did a lot of other people. Wanda listened for the siren to wind down, but it kept on going.

  She dashed to her car, started the ignition, and took 7th to Cedar and then over to 8th. Along the way, several residents had come out of their homes and stood in their front yards gazing up the street. The warrooo-roo of the fire truck still blared. Where were they headed? Maybe to the Woodway Resort?

  Then the echoing noise stopped. Wanda inched up 8th past West Elm as about ten people began to walk quickly up the street. She noticed the reflections of red lights through the trees that began the woods. The Ferguson property. Not the house, but off to the side of it, near to the entrance where the body of the burglar had been wheeled out.

  The commotion had alerted Hazel who stretched up on her tiptoes and lifted her chin to get a better view. Wanda pulled over to the curb and got out. “What is going on? Do you know?”

  Hazel wrapped her sweater tighter around her chest. “I have no idea. I heard the sirens and dashed from my recliner. At first, I thought they were headed for my house, then I recalled I had not been burning anything this time around.” Her smile turned sheepish.

  The couple next door walked over. The man motioned to the tree line. “Looks like a vagrant didn’t put out his campfire.”

  “What vagrant?” Wanda turned to face him.

  “The wife and I done seen them a couple of times over the past week.”

  “Them?” Wanda and Hazel responded in unison.

  “Yep. A tall scrawny one, I’d say middle-aged, wouldn’t you, Mabel?”

  The wife nodded.

  “Then another one. Gruffer looking. Figure they must be friends. At first, I thought they was on a campout. But they’s been there all week, maybe more. Right, Mabel?”

  She nodded again.

  Wanda narrowed her eyes. Could they be the dead man’s partners? The jewel thieves. “Did you tell the police?” If Todd knew and hadn’t told her . . .

  “Nah, wasn’t any need. They seemed to keep to themselves and wasn’t playing no loud music or whoopin’ and ho
llerin’ or nothing.”

  “Did you see them before the shooting last weekend?”

  He removed his hat and scratched his balding head. “Can’t likely recall. Maybe. Didn’t really connect the two.”

  Really? She gazed at him and then at Hazel who widened her eyes and shrugged.

  Another siren’s moan could be heard in the distance, the noise growing louder. All four craned their necks to the right and peered up the street.

  A fire engine from Cleburne, which must have barreled down Woodway Drive from the highway, entered on 8th from the north. Jim Bob’s cruiser soon followed. Both turned into the Ferguson drive and bounced over the curb onto the grass, headed for the edge of the woods.

  “Ain’t gonna be much grass left if they’s keep doing dat.” He spat to the ground. “Old Mr. Ferguson loved those lawns. Bet he’s turnin’ over in his grave about now.”

  Wanda sighed in agreement. She remembered how the Fergusons would host lawn parties in the spring, inviting anyone who wanted to come to view their flower beds. In the fall, they hosted a Halloween carnival for the kids, complete with bobbing for apples and popcorn balls and a romp through the maze. But get caught on their property at any other time, and phew. Before any child skedaddled back home, the parents, police, and pastor would have already been informed.

  The foursome watched in silence. A few more neighbors wandered over, forming a small group of onlookers. Wanda excused herself and edged over to meet Tom Jacobs, the local editor of the Oakmont County Weekly Gazette as well as the thrift shop owner.

  “Tom, know what’s going on?”

  He sucked in a long breath. “Picked it up on the county sheriff’s broadband. Seems to be a fire in the woods. That’s about all I know.”

  Many things can cause fires. An unattended campfire. A tossed cigarette. A piece of glass reflecting the sun’s rays onto dead leaves. The usual spring rains had been delayed this year. Coupled with the unseasonably warm weather, the ground already showed signs of drought. Wanda had already watered her grass twice, something she normally didn’t do until early June.