Death among the Roses: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (17 page)

I tore into a couple of routine press releases that had been stacked to the side of my desk. Despite my overwhelming exhaustion, I typed them up in record time. I then ripped open the day’s mail, desperately seeking interesting articles to relieve the dull copy awaiting my attention on my computer.

The bulk of the pages in the newspaper had returned to my care and feeding. The dwindling updates on Gary’s murder had left Dad without any new copy to write. So the murder story was on hold until Gossford coughed up some fresh tidbits. And he wasn’t exactly excelling in that department.

I glanced up from my computer and sought father’s image out. He sat at his desk, his nose buried in various folders with a sour look on his face. He obviously missed the excitement of following a breaking news story
—
especially one as gritty as murder.

I roused myself from my desk and trudged to the break room where I poured myself a cup of coffee. I needed stimulation to make it through the rest of my morning chores. Betty fired up the the coffee pot every morning. It was one of those old, aluminum twenty cuppers with one of those black spigots near the bottom. But the thing still worked. And due to that fact, Dad refused to throw the old thing out and replace it with something grand and new and modern. As far as he was concerned, coffee was coffee,

Blowing across the rim of my cup, I’d just gotten back to my office when the desk phone rang. I picked up the receiver. “Melanie Hart.”

In return, I was treated to the sound of an enthusiastic Ginger. “I’ve found my cell phone.”

“No kidding? You clever girl, you. How did you manage that trick?”

“I tracked it down using that GPS tracking trick you told me about. The one Josh shared with you? I found the website and followed the directions given there and guess what? My phone’s someplace on Walnut Street.”

“In Cloverton?”

“Yeah. Right here. You wanna go down to there tonight and track it down with me?”

That was the trouble with GPS, I thought. It lures people to the right ballpark but leaves them on their own to find their way to the exact seat.

“Sure,” I responded, “now that we’re following up one of your ideas, you’re all sunshine and roses. You couldn’t muster that much enthusiasm for me yesterday.”

“Oh, come on, Melanie. Don’t be a spoil sport,” Ginger responded. “One thing has absolutely nothing to do with the other,”

I sighed and resigned myself to the reality of the situation. Ginger was Ginger. She’d always see issues through her own narrow lens of self interest. But I still wanted to track this killer down. I wanted justice for Gary. If this helped lead us to the killer, who was to step aside. Absently, I rubbed my forehead. I felt on the verge of my second headache this week. “When do you want to meet up?”

“Right after supper?”

“I’ll swing by your place about seven. Will that be all right?”

“Perfect.”

At least, I thought, she hadn’t ended our collaboration. I smiled at the thought that our investigation of Gary’s death was still to go forward as a team.

I opened my left-hand desk drawer and pulled a plastic pill case from it. After downing a pair of aspirin, I stuffed the box away and returned my attention to the uninspiring pile of mail in front of me. There wasn’t a decent story to be found in the whole collection. Thank goodness I had the report from last week’s spelling bee typed into the computer. That story at least offered up the names of a few talented young folks for our readers to chew on. Parents and grandparents and even distant relatives would be delighted.

I listened to my thoughts and gave myself an internal shake. I needed an attitude adjustment. Just when, I wondered, had I become so cynical? Then I reminded myself the condition probably arises after being forced to view oneself through another person’s mirror. My thoughts drifted back to the summary of my personality by Larkin. Heaven knows, I hadn’t much liked what I’d seen in the mirror he’d held to my face. I shook the memories aside. They wouldn’t improve my outlook much.

But despite my best intentions, my attitude hadn’t lightened up much by the time I left home that night to pick up Ginger. I carried the newspaper’s reverse telephone directory with me. It was a handy little thing. The book provided addresses, and then listed the names of the residents. Given the inexact nature of GPS tracking, I suspected access to a list of people who lived in the general neighborhood of whatever coordinates Ginger had discovered might prove helpful in tracking the phone down.

My partner in crime was revved and ready and standing at the curb when I arrived at her house. She wore a pair of jeans and a ratty T-shirt and a wide grin. “Can you believe this GPS stuff works? It’s like magic.”

“Right.” She climbed inside the car and I tore away from the curb. “I’ve been wondering, though, how come nobody’s come up with this discovery before you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m sure the cops know about GPS and how to use it to track cell phones. Why haven’t they discovered this phone by now.”

“How do I know? And who cares? I’ve run the darn thing down. And that’s all that matters to me.”

Well, Ginger might be satisfied with that explanation, but I wasn’t. “Where on Walnut Street are we going?”

“Somewhere in the two hundred or three hundred blocks on the north side of town should get us there.”

I tromped on the brake and swung onto Randolph Street. Finally, reaching our destination, I reduced my speed to little more than a crawl. The two blocks of Walnut Street we drove past were in the old section of town. Homes were small and one story and sat on crowded lots. Paint was peeling. Hopes looked dim. Tiny bicycles sat next to huge motorcycles on cracked and broken sidewalks.

I pulled over to the curb and whipped out the phone directory from the depression separating the two front seats. Flipping through the book’s pages, I hunted down the listings for Walnut Street.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s see who lives around here.” My finger hadn’t trailed more than halfway down the list for the first block when my eyes grew wide with disbelief. “This has to be a coincidence.”

Ginger straightened in her seat. “What is it? What have you found?”

“Don’t get too excited,” I cautioned. “This might not necessarily mean anything. It would surely be much too bizarre.”

Ginger flapped her hands in frustration. “I swear if you don’t tell me what’s up in the next two seconds, I will not be responsible for my actions. It’s my phone, for pity sakes. Cut me a break, please?”

“Do you know who lives at 213-B West Walnut Street?”

“Well, obviously, I don’t.”

“Candy Collins. It’s the address of our missing waitress.”

Ginger’s eyebrows snaked together in puzzlement. “From the bachelor party?”

“Exactly.”

“But she wasn’t anywhere near the rehearsal dinner. I think I would have noticed her if she had been.”

I set the phone book back down between us. “So maybe Candy only placed the call to Gary. Maybe somebody else swiped your cell phone and passed it on to her.”

“Or maybe she didn’t make the call.”

“Then how come she has your cell phone?”

“I don’t know,” Ginger looked worried. “I’d hate to accuse somebody of theft or worse. What if I was wrong and an innocent person suffered because of me? I don’t think I could live with the knowledge.”

“Yes, well you weren’t so tender a couple of days ago when you were hurling suspicions at Cordelia.”

“That’s different.”

“How is that any different than this?”

“We know Cordelia. This gal I’ve never seen in my life.”

Somewhere in that statement there was logic, although at the moment I couldn’t quite lay a finger on it.

I glanced about us and saw a curtain twitch at the window of one of the houses we were parked near. Nosey neighbors were apparently just as active here as elsewhere in town.

“Ginger, for now,” I said, “lets just figure out which house she lives in?”

I repeated Candy’s address aloud.

“There it is,” Ginger cried out.

I glanced up from the phone book. “Where?”

“The blue house over there.” She pointed.

Following the direction of her finger, I saw a one story, older home painted a washed out blue with gingerbread trim decorating the porch roof. The address was 217 A listed above 217 B,

“Do you think there are two apartments in that tiny place?”

“Well, since there isn’t a second floor, I’d say apartment A is in the front, so I’d say B much be around back. Now what?”

“Let’s go get some coffee and let the sun go down.”

“Why?”

“Because if we have to break in I don’t want to do it in the daylight, someone might see us.”

“What makes you think we’ll need to break in?”

“We’ve been trying to reach Candy for days and days now without luck. What makes you think she’ll be home tonight?”

“You intend for us to burglarize Candy’s apartment?”

“Only to make sure she has your phone. That’s all.”

“What if she’s home?”

“We’ll knock first. And if she is there, we’ll introduce ourselves, wish her well, and tell her she needs to let people know she’s alive, and demand she return your phone.”

“You think that will work?”

“We won’t know ‘til we try.”

So more hour later, with multiple cups of coffee sloshing around in our bellies, we emerged from Howie’s eatery and headed back to Walnut Street. The sun had set. Stars twinkled above. But even in the dark, Ginger’s face showed signs of inner turmoil.

“You think this is safe?”

“Do you have another suggestion?”

“Not off the top of my head.”

“Trust me, then.”

“Trust her, she says.” Ginger shook her head fiercely. “Seems like last time I did that somebody called the cops.”

I kept mum and pulled in front of Candy’s apartment. “We’ll be in an out of that place before anyone will notice we’re around.”

“So you say.”

“Want to wait here? Keep the car running in case we need to make a quick getaway?”

“I do not. There’s safety in numbers. I figure I owe you that much support at least. But if you land me in jail, I won’t be responsible for my actions when we get out.”

“Fair enough.”

I stepped out into the night. It was still. There was a nip in the air.  A ribbon of light poured out of the living room window in the front apartment. I could see an elderly woman seated in front of a televisions set.

Taking care to stay well outside the bright beam which cut a wide swath through the front lawn, I led Ginger cautiously to the rear of the house. We pranced up the porch stairs on tip toe and pulled up silently before a narrow back door.

“Now what?” Ginger whispered.

“Well, there aren’t any lights showing. That’s a good sign. I suspect the house is empty.” I lifted my hands and rapped lightly on the door. I didn’t want to alert the woman in the front apartment to our presence. We waited several minutes. I repeated my effort. Again there was no response from within the darkened dwelling.

Casually, I slipped a credit card out of my pocket and slipped it into the narrow strip separating the door from the frame. I’d practiced this move on our back door before picking Ginger up. I was rusty with the trick.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Ginger whispered from beside me.

“Larkin showed it to me once. I don’t know why. I’m sure if he saw me at this moment, he’d want to take the lesson in burglary back.” I couldn’t hold in a chuckle.

A second wiggle of the card, and the bolt slipped free. I swung the door open.Ginger and I crept across the threshold, and we proceeded from being two honest women to potential felons if we were caught. We took two more steps into the interior of the home.

“Anybody here?” I called out softly.

There was no reply

“Did you bring a flashlight?” Ginger whispered.

“Yes, but we can’t use it until we close the window shades. I don’t want us signaling our presence with an errant flashlight beam.”

“I’ll take the living room,” Ginger said, moving to my right. “You go handle the other rooms.”

Her division of labor didn’t seem quite fair to me considering this was her phone we were after. But I decided to keep mum on the point.

I inched along in the dark searching for the door to the next room. Fortunately, the apartment was small, leaving me with a closet-sized bedroom and a tiny bathroom to cover. I pulled the drapes tight in the bedroom and lowered the shade in the bathroom. Then, I flipped on the flashlight and worked my way back to Ginger. Flicking the beam around the living room, I noticed a line of cabinets and appliances on the far wall that apparently counted as a kitchen.

“It’s a small apartment,” I told her.

“So I noticed. Not much room for a grown woman with a child.”

“She probably can’t afford anything better.”

“When she turns up, I’ll talk to her about going to beauty school. She could do better than this if she worked for me. Plus, I’ll free up an apartment on the second floor of my shop for her.”