Will You Marry Me? (Sam Darling Mystery Book 4) (15 page)

"Oh, yeah, since you were a chicken last year." My urge to be sensitive to this young man warred with my eagerness to solve the case and get the glory. I plunged right in, as usual, despite the fact that I was the newest official member of the law enforcement team. "Have you gone to the convention this year?"

He shook his head. "One time was enough for me. Unfortunately, the suit didn't block my anxiety. But I've heard what's been going on, so I do understand you need to talk to me too." His eyes took on a desperate look. "Could you interview me here, please?" As he spoke, he petted Clancy's head and was seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was doing it.

"Sure," said Jeremiah. "No big deal." His look then went between George and me. He finally decided. "George, will you interview Johnny and then join us at the motel?"

"Of course."

The sheriff then added, "And you can interview Marianne when we're done at the motel."

I'd guessed the sheriff wanted to keep an eye on me, not knowing how I was going to perform. He hadn't known that as a therapist, I was a good interviewer, and I'd bring the same skills to my job as a temporary cop. Well, maybe I'd interrogate instead of counsel, but he couldn't have known what I was going to do, so I wasn't offended.

Jeremiah, Clancy, and I left the building with Bob Bob, Jim Bob, Chip, Wilma, and
 
Luigi in tow. Barclay followed until Jeremiah turned and said, "You don't think you're going with us, do you?"

The answer was obvious to everyone but Barclay. So I told him what the answer was. "No, you're not going with us, Barclay. This is police business, and you're not a police officer, nor have you ever been a chicken." Then it hit me. "You haven't been a chicken, have you?" I prayed silently that he hadn't.

"Well, I thought about it once. But no, I've never been a chicken."

I breathed the proverbial sigh of relief. I did not want to be alone in a room interviewing Barclay. Being alone with one chicken at a time would be enough for me.
 

At least, I thought I'd be alone.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

We drove in three cars and arrived at the motel in minutes. Even though I knew George would soon join us, I felt his absence. When he was with me, I felt safe, no matter the circumstances. And even though he wasn't always there when I got into trouble, he'd managed to rescue me more than once. But I figured I could interview people without putting myself in jeopardy; I'd just have to put on my professional hat.

Jeremiah burst my bubble when he said, "Jim Bob, go in the room and have the chickens come to us one by one. They can either change into clothes or just remove the chicken head. It doesn't matter. But we will need to see each person's face, and we'll need to see IDs." He gestured to indicate me. "Sam and I will do the interviewing together."

He doesn't trust me, is what I thought.

"I think it will be a good idea for us to do this together, Sam," he added. "You might notice something I don't, and vice versa."

That mollified me somewhat.

Jeremiah set us up in a nearby meeting room. We had only a moment to strategize before the first chicken arrived. "I want you to do the interviewing, Sam. I've never seen you do it, and I need to know you are capable."

I thought that made a lot of sense, but was happy he'd spared me embarrassment by letting Jim Bob hear it was because one of us might notice something the other one didn't. I sat in a comfortable chair with Clancy sitting at my side and mentally prepared myself for an onslaught of interviews.

The first chicken to walk in, with street clothes on, was Jim Bob. I was surprised to see him so quickly. "I wanted to get this over with," he said.

I pointed him to a chair placed at a ninety degree angle from where I sat. Clancy sat between us and seemed alert to what was going on.

"Even though you've been interviewed once already, I do want to ask you about a few incidents," I began. "But first, I'm taping this and want you to know it." I pointed to my phone. "Please identify yourself."

"I'm Jim Bob Smith. You know that."

"Yes. Will you show me some identification please?"

"Why? You know me."

"I also know you and your brother like to fool people. Please show me an ID."

He pulled out a slim wallet from his back pocket and produced his Missouri drivers' license. It did indeed say Jim Bob Smith, date of birth 12/12/90.

"Thank you," I said, as I returned his license. I sat back, then sat up straight and leaned a little forward. "Tell us what happened earlier today when you and Chip were guarding the hallway."

"I thought you were going to talk to me about the murder."

"We have a lot to talk about. I'm starting where I'm starting. Now tell us what happened earlier today when you and Chip were guarding the hallway."

"Well, you know I changed places with my brother."

"We do. When did that happen?"

"I don't know the exact time," Jim Bob answered. "I was bored just standing there with Chip doing nothing, so I called Bob Bob to come over and take my place. I knew he'd enjoy it, and I wanted to get back to the convention."

"How did you change places?"

"I excused myself and went into the bathroom. We changed shirts inside and Bob Bob walked out of there as me a few minutes later."

"Where were you when Bob Bob and Chip got attacked?"

"I don't know, because I don't know exactly when they got attacked."
 

I turned to look at Jeremiah to see if he wanted more questions on this topic. He barely shook his head--so slightly that Jim Bob didn't even notice it. But I did.

"Tell us about your relationship with Missy Hen."

"What?" He appeared off balance, just like I wanted him to be.

"Tell us about your relationship with Missy Hen," I repeated.

"I told you already. We had a physical relationship during the convention each year, and it was good." He looked away, turning red. "It was so good, that we broke the rules and met outside of the convention."

"Did you get together after last year's convention?"

"No. She didn't answer her phone. I tried several times, and left her some voicemail messages, but she never got back to me."

"Tell us about the last time you had sex." I wanted to be very clear, so I avoided using the term "get together" again.

"I guess it was the last night of last year's convention."

"Where did it take place?"

"What do you mean?"

"Her room, your room, the kitchen...where?"

"Her room, I guess."

"And where in the motel was that located? Bear in mind we'll check the motel records."

"I don't know the room number, but I remember that it was the last room down at the end of the hall, on the left." He pointed, indicating the hallway where Clancy had found the bloodstains. I could feel Clancy tense up, just as I tensed up. Both of us felt vibes at the same time, it seemed.

"What time did you leave her? And what was her condition the last time you saw her?"

"I guess I left around 2 or 3 in the morning. Her condition? Well, she was smiling." His smarmy grin was repugnant, but I ignored it and went on.

"When did you notice she was missing?"

He hesitated for a moment. "I guess it was when she didn't show up for the conference this year. I mean, she didn't answer her phone or email after last year's, but I thought she just must have found someone else, and other than a blow to my vanity, I didn't think too much about it. She didn't register early like she had in the past. But I wasn't too concerned until she didn't show up for on-site registration. She'd never missed a convention before."

I looked him straight in the eye. "Why didn't you report it then?"

"I didn't know anything was wrong. Thought she must have fallen in love with someone, and didn't need this as an...um, outlet."

Clancy emitted a soft whine, which meant something. I just didn't know what.

I turned around in my chair. "Sheriff, do you have any other questions?"

"Just one," he said, and leaned forward quickly. "Jim Bob, did you murder Missy Hen?"

The sputtering that emanated from Jim Bob's mouth would have been funny to see, if it hadn't been such a serious topic.

"I...I...you...how..." Finally Jim Bob gulped, and with a panicked look still on his face, he said, "I didn't kill Missy. I didn't kill anybody." He then collapsed back into his chair.

Weird. Odd. But he'd been odd since I met him. And this entire situation had been weird. Jim Bob certainly got my vibes going. But was he the killer? I couldn't tell. I kept the possibility percolating in the back of my head as we prepared to go on to the next interviews.

George joined us in the meeting room right after we finished with Jim Bob. He reported that nothing unexpected had come out of Wilma's brother's interview. Johnny didn't normally leave the house, and even in the chicken suit he didn't feel comfortable talking to other people. George said he didn't think Johnny was a likely candidate for the killer.

One by one we went through the flock of chickens. After Jim Bob's interview, the sheriff let me see people alone. He probably had thought I'd come off all social worky, but I found it easy to go to a "cop mode" instead of a therapist mode.
 

So with three of us working, we were able to finish in good time. And I had the added advantage of Clancy sitting in on my interviews. Her calm demeanor let me know she didn't have a problem with the rest of the group. The sheriff interviewed everyone that had come with us from the funeral home except for Jim Bob. It seemed likely that the killer was in that group. Why hadn't Wilma and Luigi admitted they'd gone to part of a chicken conference until we pressed them on it? Why hadn't Bob Bob said he'd worn the chicken outfit before? Somebody had something to hide.

As we all sat down to touch base after the interviews, something occurred to me. "That second feather that had someone else's DNA--that didn't match Missy Hen's--do you think Wilma had it checked?"

"Good instinct," said the sheriff. "I'll follow up on that."

"Yeah," I said. "We don't know that it came from Missy's outfit. It might have come from the killer's. And I wonder what happened to her chicken suit. It certainly wouldn't have disintegrated."

"Already on that," said Jeremiah. "I contacted the authorities in Springfield, Missouri, where she lived. They're going to check out her apartment for us since we're so shorthanded." He picked up his notebook and pen and stuffed them in his uniform pocket. "Let's go back to my office and talk about what we've learned."

"I'll stop at the diner to pick up some food for us. I'm starving. Then I'll meet you at the jail." Both guys gave me their orders and jumped in the sheriff's car, and I took George's car.

Leaving Clancy in the car, I walked back to the diner. As I passed some bushes in front of the windows I tripped and landed uncomfortably on my face on the sidewalk. Tears came unwillingly and I could hear myself saying, "Ow, omigod that hurts. Ow." I could hear the faint yips coming from my closed car and so I yelled, "I'm okay, Clancy. I'm okay." The yips stopped.

I looked back to see what I'd tripped on and saw a leg. It was a leg I recognized because it was wide and I knew it was connected to an obese body with a skinny face. I belly crawled back to him and prayed silently that he wasn't dead. As I got close I heard him breathing--laboriously and loudly. I searched around on the ground for my phone and called George immediately.
 

"Get Wilma. I'm in front of the diner. Barclay is here and he's hurt." I paused for the inevitable question. "No, I don't know what's wrong. I just know he's lying here and he's hurt. Hurry."

It seemed like forever before Wilma's truck pulled up, but it was probably only a matter of minutes. Bob Bob and Chip were still with her, and they jumped out of the back seat. Wilma's truck was followed quickly by the sheriff's car, which discharged Jeremiah and George. And it wasn't long before Luigi and Jim Bob walked over separately from the front door of the diner. I guessed it was Jim Bob since he didn't have any calamine lotion on him. I realized in the midst of this chaos that I could finally tell Bob Bob and Jim Bob apart. One had beautiful pink skin and one did not. I found it amusing.

My amusement ended abruptly when Barclay came to. He had a big red bump on his forehead, but he sat his bulky body upright and said, "I know who killed the chicken."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Everyone started talking at once. It was so loud I couldn't tell who said what. My vibes were causing my heart to beat a syncopated rhythm and Clancy was shaking from excitement.
 

Most of us were yelling, "Who is it?" or "How do you know?" But I heard a voice say, "No, you don't."

No, you don't know who killed the chicken? Is that what it meant? Who said that? "Shut up!" I yelled.
 

And just like that, it got quiet.

"Thank you," Wilma said, glancing up at me. She turned her attention to Barclay, "What happened?"

I couldn't believe she didn't ask who killed Missy. Why ask, "What happened?" when she could solve the murder right then and there?

Of course, she was there as a doctor, not a cop. Her main concern was Barclay's health. Did someone hit him over the head? Did he have a heart attack and hit his head when he fell? Maybe the killer wanted him silenced. But I was determined to solve the mystery before that happened.

"Just tell us who killed Missy and how you know it."

Barclay looked at the faces gathered over him. His eyes had fear written in their gaze. Then all at once they lost focus and he passed out.

"Get him in my truck," Wilma commanded and everyone complied. It took all of us to get Barclay's hefty body into the truck. With much pulling and pushing at the end. Sweat poured off my head; I wasn't used to this kind of exertion.

"I'll go with you," said the sheriff to Wilma. "Just in case he wakes up." He turned around. "George, you're in charge of interviewing these people. With Sam's help of course."

Chip said, "What about me? You deputized me before her."