If Onions Could Spring Leeks (17 page)

“Just you knowing is comforting.”

“I might have more questions.”

“I'll do my best to answer them.”

“I'd sure love some more of those onion rings,” Teddy said. He'd been told the news. He'd accepted it. In his mind, at the moment there was no need to continue talking about it.

“Let's go in.”

As we climbed the few front outside stairs that led up and into the school, I looked back over the cemetery again. I saw nothing unusual, smelled nothing unusual, but still I tapped down a shiver before it trailed all the way up my spine. Then I went inside and made more delicious things with
onions.

After my cooking-a-thon and confession time with Teddy, I made my way downtown to find Cliff again. He wasn't in his fancy new crime lab this time, but camped out at the police station instead. He wasn't on duty, but had been called in to help with an active evening. Many tourists had had either a little too much to drink, a little too much fun, or had taken in a few too many skits. There was a full moon, and these sorts of evenings sometimes came along with full moons.

Both of the two holding cells inside the station were occupied. A lone young woman had made herself as comfortable as possible in one of them. I inspected her briefly as she slept on the cot, her mouth open and her makeup smeared. Though she'd probably been brought in because she was being disorderly, a police officer might have thought that placing her in a holding cell would simply help her from adding more to her list of regrets.

The other cell was occupied by what looked like a family. Parents and two teenagers. They all seemed sober and non-violent at first glance, though none of them were happy to be there and it looked as if they weren't talking to one another. The cell space was small, but somehow behind those bars no one looked at anyone else. I would ask Cliff later what they'd done.

Cliff sat at his desk, and I'd pulled a chair up to its other side. I'd only meant to make small talk, my real reason for finding him being that I
needed
to after what had happened to Jake and me. I'd needed to talk to Teddy and I needed to see Cliff. I would call Gram and my parents later. I was thinking of the important people in my life, which I recognized was probably because I'd felt so close to no longer having that life. Gratitude, reassurance, whatever it was, I was doing what I needed to do.

But since I couldn't tell Cliff why I'd tracked him down again, I'd just started the conversation with small talk. Naturally, it had morphed into me asking about details regarding Derek's murder.

“I didn't say that.” He smiled. “I didn't say that we definitely thought Derek's killer was one of his ex-wives.”

No, he hadn't said
that
. He'd said that Jim was spending time interviewing four of Derek's five ex-wives again, and that Cliff was going to go talk to the last one.

“But there must be something?” I said.

“We don't have much at all, Betts,” Cliff said as he sat forward in his chair and put his arms on his desk. “We don't like to look incompetent, but Jim is scratching his bald head even more than usual.”

Jim scratched his head often; more than usual wasn't a positive sign.

“Five wives, though? Someone's feelings were bound to get trampled,” I said.

“That's what we're thinking,” Cliff said far too casually.

I inspected his face, looking for and finding his serious, tight jaw and the wrinkle in between his eyes that appeared when he was hiding something. “There's something else,” I said. “You've got something else. Come on, tell me.”

“Can't give you details, but there truly does seem to have been an issue between Derek and Roy, as well as between Derek and Todd Rich.”

I sat up straighter.

“Really? Cliff, you know they were all taking an evening vegetable cooking class from us, don't you?”

“I do.”

I thought hard about the times that we'd all spent together at the cooking school and the Trigger barn. “I never saw anything that would make me think there were issues between either Derek and Roy, or Derek and Todd. In fact, I'm not even sure Todd knew Derek's name. He's been interested in a girl.”

“Let me guess.” He ran his finger down the page of a notebook. “April Young, new in town.”

“That's right.”

“Ms. Young claims that Derek had asked her out. Perhaps Todd heard about this and wasn't happy.”

“Wait. Perhaps? So, this didn't come directly from April or you wouldn't be
perhaps
-ing me. Someone else told you there were issues. Who?”

“Lynn,” he said with a half-smile.

“I see. And no one really believes Lynn, do they?”

“What we believe is irrelevant. Evidence is all that matters.”

Cliff had shaved that morning, but his five o'clock shadow had now grown to its nine-o'clock length. I liked the layer of facial hair, but, oddly, it did make him look somewhat younger and less official.

“You think Lynn knows who killed Derek?” I said a moment later.

Cliff shrugged. “She sure is giving us lots of ‘leads.' The problem with Lynn is that who can tell why she's trying to butt into the case? Does she want to help or mislead, or just have something to talk about? Hard to know.”

“What have Todd and Roy said about what Lynn said?”

“We just crossed over to the part I can't tell you.”

“Darnit. Can I ply the answers out of you with liquor and my body?”

Cliff laughed. “Not much of a drinker, but the other option would be appealing if I had the time.”

“Too bad. As someone else who observed the players involved, though, as far as I could tell, they always got along, or at least didn't
not
get along.”

Cliff bit the inside of his cheek a moment. “I can probably tell you this part. Roy is one of Derek's ex-wife's uncles. Might not mean a thing at all. It is a small town.”

“Which wife?”

“Gina. She works at the post office.”

“Gina, the pretty blonde at the second counter in?”

“Yes.”

“I haven't talked to her yet,” I said. Cliff blinked at my official tone. I cleared my throat and continued on. “What'd she say to you guys?”

“Can't tell you that either,” Cliff said. “Maybe you could mail something tomorrow and ask her a couple questions.
Maybe something specific like was it Derek's money that paid for her fancy car or her second home on the lake because we have nothing that gives us the legal right to subpoena her bank records, at least at this time. There's something fishy there.”

“Really? You want me to do that?” I said.

“No, not exactly. You
could
maybe stop by the post office and offer her your sympathy regarding Derek's death. It would be weird and inadmissible if you got answers to any of the real questions. But I'd love to know her reaction to your offer of sympathy.”

“I can do that.”

“I thought you wouldn't mind.”

“The money angle? I've thought about it, too, but I don't think Derek ever made much money, did he?”

“No.”

“And Lynn doesn't appear to have any money either. I've thought about her bribing people to marry Derek. I mean, it's a terrible thought, but one has to wonder. Derek married some seemingly personable women and those I've talked to don't appear to have any sort of wealth other than what they've earned for themselves.”

“Except Gina. Postal clerks don't make the kind of money her spending habits justify, and her family isn't wealthy.”

“What do Lynn's bank records show?”

“Nothing suspicious at all. Just enough to get the bills paid and have a little expendable income. It all seems to come from legitimate places. And there's nothing to show she's giving her money away either.”

“What's the supposed issue between Derek and Roy? Just the fact that Derek divorced his niece, or maybe, married her in the first place?”

“When Derek and Gina got married, Roy installed all their appliances in their new apartment—nothing like the house that Gina acquired after the marriage, by the way. Hooking things up turned out to be more tedious than normal. Roy—though not typical of him—happened to do a bad job with their dishwasher. Their place got flooded, and Derek could never forgive Roy, even after Roy paid to have everything fixed and replaced.”

“That's nutty. Stuff happens.” I shook my head.

“I don't think Derek had a great marriage with any of his wives,” Cliff said. “But you didn't hear me say that.”

I nodded. “I didn't need to. I figured that out already, but I just wish I could figure out exactly why.”

“Me too. Jim, too.”

“I bet.”

The phone on Cliff's desk buzzed. I noticed that the station had upgraded their phone system with something that looked much more twenty-first century.

Cliff covered the mouthpiece. “Betts, I gotta get back to work. See you later?” he said, dismissing me in the most polite way possible. I got the hint and nodded agreeably before leaving the station.

The boardwalk wasn't crowded, but there were plenty of people out and about. The cookie shop at the end of the street, Broken Crumbs, was still open. The Jasper Theater was also open, currently showing a movie that had premiered in St. Louis a good six months ago, but just started playing here. The theater had undergone some renovations but I hadn't visited it since the grand re-opening.

The first place I saw the ghost of Jerome was outside the theater. It had proven to be an important building when it came to our strange relationship. I wasn't sure I ever wanted to go
back inside it, but I wasn't ready to go home and I was suddenly curious. I took off toward the outside ticket counter.

Once there, I sniffed deeply just in case Jerome—or another ghost for that matter—was in the vicinity, but all I smelled was buttered popcorn.

“One?” the young woman behind the ticket counter window said cheerfully.

“Actually, I'm not here to see the movie. I'd just like to look around the lobby. I haven't seen it since it was finished.”

“Sure, go on in,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said as I looked at the wide double doors next to the booth.

“Go ahead,” she said a moment later.

I didn't realize I'd frozen in place. “Thanks,” I said again.

The popcorn aroma and the sound of it popping greeted me pleasantly as I went through the front doors. When I'd last been in the lobby, the space had been only a shadow of its glory days, but the renovations had brought it back to life while somehow staying true to an Old West style.

The fixtures were polished brass, the walls decorated with old-time pictures. The snack counter was modern glass, but even the machines—the soda and the popcorn—had been re-created with an antique flair. I wondered where the old items had been found, or custom made. I knew the owners were investors who lived in Springfield, but I'd never learned their names.

It was the wall around the other side of the front doors that I was most interested in inspecting. There had been a picture there of a person who turned out to be someone pretty important to Jerome. There'd been lots of things added to the wall, but that picture was still there.

I looked at it a long time and wondered about the past, about how lives changed in the blink of an eye, how everything was temporary—it was supposed to be, anyway. Ghosts weren't supposed to come back and continue on in the wake of their person's death.

“Can I help you?” a voice said over my shoulder.

“Hi,” I said to the man attached to the voice. “I'm a local, Betts Winston, and I just wanted to have a look around the renovated lobby.”

“It's a fine place.” The man used a wooden cane that matched the style of his old-fashioned suit and top hat. I figured he was one of the owners playing a Broken Rope role.

“It is.”

“This place has seen so much,” he continued. “Burlesque, live theater, black and white films, the first ‘talkies,' and now modern motion pictures. Well, perhaps not right up to date, but not too old.”

“I know. I've heard some of the history. It's a great place.”

“Yes.”

The man and I looked at each other a long time. His blue eyes were almost playfully inquisitive.

“Are you one of the owners?”

“I am. Reginald Nelson.”

We shook hands, his eyes remaining an intriguing focal point.

But he ended the moment. “I've got to go, dear. Time to get back to work. I'm sure something needs to be swept.”

“I understand. Thanks for introducing yourself.”

He turned and started to shuffle away, his cane moving in rhythm with the hitch in his left leg. When he reached the doors between the lobby and the theater, he turned.

“Isabelle,” he said. “The answers are all behind the barn. Check the barn.”

He went through the doors before I could react.

“Crap,” I finally said as I hurried to the doors and pulled them open. Of course he wasn't anywhere that I could see, and he hadn't been transparent at all. He hadn't brought a special scent with him, unless it had been buttered popcorn. I hadn't picked up on the fact that he'd been a ghost. I wished I'd tried to touch him.

“Miss, you need a ticket if you're going in to see the movie,” a kid behind the snack counter said.

I closed the doors. “Sorry. Hey, is one of the owners of the theater named Reginald Nelson?”

The kid laughed. “No, I've never met someone named Reginald.”