Murder in the Milk Case (2 page)

The pungent odor of old coffee baking in a carafe in the little kitchen-like corner of the room mixed with the more pleasant smell of popcorn. I glanced around the blue-walled room for what seemed like the millionth time. A pile of certificate frames lay stacked on the gray counter, along with an open toolbox, one with molded indentations for each tool. I love tools and wanted to see exactly what was there, but several deputies in uniforms, plus the detective, whose last name was Scott, had ordered me to sit and stay. They had isolated a number of people in different locations, and I was sure they meant every word they said.

I crossed my legs and wondered how long it would take for word to get out to the general population of Four Oaks that Trish Cunningham, a.k.a. the woman who is always in trouble, had found a body. And not just any body. Jim Bob Jenkins, the pharmacist. Murdered. With a knife in his gut.

My stomach turned over. In an effort to forget the dead man, I turned my attention again to the tools. The hammer was missing. I wondered if that was the one that Daryl had been carrying. I paused midthought and planted both feet on the floor. Had I told the detective about Daryl having a hammer? I wasn’t sure. Did it matter? And then there were the knives I’d seen next to the sink in the deli. Had I mentioned those? The events of the morning had taken on a dreamlike quality, melting together in a collage of scenes that had no particular order. Was there anything else I hadn’t told him?

I heard footsteps outside the door. A deputy stepped into the room. He resembled Santa Claus, minus the beard, but I knew from speaking with him earlier that he was a hostile alien impersonating the merry Christmas elf.

“Mrs. Cunningham, Detective Scott wants to talk to you again. He’ll be here in a moment.”

“Okay.” I bit my lip. I wasn’t feeling well. I was tired. I just wanted to go home.

The deputy stood by the door, arms clasped in front of him, studying me as if I were a splotch of something unpleasant on a microscope slide.

After several minutes, the silence was unbearable. I met his gaze head-on. “So, are you guys done yet?”

He averted his eyes. “No ma’am.”

I frowned at him. “Well, what all do you have to do? I mean, how long does this take, anyway? Is it like hours or all day or what? I want to go home. My daughter is in kindergarten. She’ll be home at lunchtime.”

His bushy eyebrows edged up his forehead as his glance swept over me. “Um, well, I understand, ma’am, but we have to investigate till we’re satisfied. You can go home when Detective Scott says you can.”

“Okay, but I should call my car pool partner. I don’t want Sammie dropped off if I’m not there.” I crossed my legs again. “Is this like one of those forensic shows where crime-scene cops crawl all over the place with chemicals and cameras and stuff? Using tweezers and tape? And what about Jim Bob, er, the body, uh, the corpse. Who takes care of him? Is there a morgue van that carries him—the body—away?”

“Everything’s under control, ma’am,” the deputy mumbled.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Just what I said.”

“Oh.” I sighed. “I get it. You can’t tell me anything. Like on television. Everyone’s a suspect until proven innocent. I found the murdered man. I’m at the top of the list. Hey, I watch television. I know how it is.”

His mouth opened and closed a few times, but he was spared answering by the entrance of Detective Eric Scott, who wore a suit. While he wasn’t an alien, the detective had lost any sense of humor he ever had, and I had yet to see him smile.

After glancing at me, the detective turned to Santa Cop. “Fletcher? Everything okay here?”

Did he think I was going to threaten the deputy with bodily harm? All one hundred pounds of me? Or did he think I had suddenly confessed to murdering Jim Bob? I eyed Santa Cop, who eyed me.

“Things are fine, Sarge,” he said.

“Good.” Detective Scott turned his enigmatic gaze on me. “Mrs. Cunningham, I’d like to go over your statement again, if you don’t mind.”

And if I did mind, would I be hauled off to jail? Feeling irritable, I wondered if imprisonment would be a better alternative than answering a million questions. I decided No and nodded. “Fine. Go ahead.”

“Please tell me again what you did from the time you arrived in the parking lot of the store.”

I proceeded to do so. They were checking their notes. When I got to the part about having to use the bathroom, both men jerked their heads up and stared at me.

Detective Scott’s lips narrowed. “Mrs. Cunningham, you said nothing about this earlier.”

“I didn’t?” I tried to remember. “Well, it’s all very confusing. I mean, I had no list and I didn’t have any coffee.”

“What?” the detective asked.

I shook my head and stared at the ceiling, trying to think. “Well, I really don’t know what to say. There were the knives in the deli. And Daryl’s hammer.” Was there anything else I’d forgotten? I met their gazes. “Did I tell you about those things?”

I had never experienced stares and vibes quite like those emanating from the two officers who stood across the room from me. I felt much worse than something icky on a microscope slide—more like a butterfly pinned alive on a display board.

Detective Scott slapped his notebook shut. “Mrs. Cunningham, we need to continue this interview at the sheriff’s office.”

My mouth fell open. The sheriff’s office? I shivered, feeling like I’d been dropped into a play where all the cast members knew their parts but me.

Detective Scott noticed. His expression softened a fraction. “This is just normal procedure, ma’am. We’ll drive you. And while you’re there, I’ll see to it that you speak to a victim advocate.”

Before I could ask who that was, he had turned to the deputy.

“Fletcher, get her ready to go downtown. You can take her. Get her whatever she needs.”

“You got it, Sarge.”

Detective Scott left the room. Fletcher and I exchanged glances. For just a second, I thought maybe I saw a glimpse of compassion in his eyes. Then he motioned to the table.

“Get your pocketbook, Mrs. Cunningham. I’ll show you to my car.”

I snatched up my purse and hung onto it like it was a life preserver.

Chapter Two

At the sheriff’s office, Fletcher escorted me into a room barren of anything but a table and chairs for my first-ever police interview. He seemed resigned to my chatter, which is always worse when I’m nervous. He got me a cold bottle of water, and while I yammered on, he kept eyeing me. That encouraged me to keep on talking, although after I called him Deputy Fletcher several times, he informed me that he was a corporal, not a deputy. When I asked his permission to make a phone call to arrange for Sammie to be taken care of, he agreed with alacrity, probably relieved that I’d be babbling at someone else.

That was the extent of our conversation because while I was on my cell phone, a well-dressed, proper young woman walked into the room. I hung up, and Corporal Fletcher introduced her as the victim advocate, then he left. For some reason, I found myself wanting the big man to stay. Maybe it was one of those captor/captive brainwashing things that happens to some kidnapping victims. He’d been nice to me, so I felt pathetically grateful.

The advocate seemed very concerned about my well-being, asking me about my distressing experience and assuring me that she would do whatever she could to help me through this difficult time. “After all,” she said, “finding a body is very, very disturbing.”

No joke. I nodded and smiled as she spoke, only responding with “yep” or “nope” when I had to. Call me suspicious, but I didn’t believe she was on my side. In fact, I wanted Corporal Fletcher to come back. At least he was obvious about how he felt.

When she left, Detective Scott joined me. He greeted me with a polite, professional smile, inquiring after my well-being. I didn’t bother to tell him that my well-being would be better if I never saw him or another law-enforcement officer again for the rest of my life. He informed me that our interview would be taped. Then, question by question, he grilled me. Not a moment of my time at the store was left out. He even wanted to know what I’d done in the bathroom. I laughed. My first good chuckle of the day. He wasn’t amused.

When we were finished and I had signed my official statement, Detective Scott wanted someone to drive me straight home. I assured him I was going to be okay. I just wanted someone to take me back to my SUV, which was still in the grocery store parking lot. He frowned at me. I wasn’t sure why. Worry? Or maybe suspicion because I wasn’t collapsed in an emotional heap? Now that I thought about it, when I made that unfortunate run to the ladies’ room, I could have stabbed Jim Bob. And I suppose that my own reaction, or lack thereof, when I found Jim Bob could be a sign of guilt. I hadn’t fainted like Frank. Did Detective Scott think an innocent woman would have at least screamed? The thing he didn’t know was that I’d been raised on a farm. Though finding a dead person is distressing, death doesn’t surprise me like it might someone who’s never dragged a dead cow from a field on a chain behind a tractor.

A young, clean-cut deputy drove me back to the store. He waited until I unlocked my SUV before he took off. While I fumbled with my key in the ignition, I heard a tap on my window and looked up. Frank Gaines stood there. I hadn’t realized he’d returned. He’d been taken to the sheriff’s office for an interview, too, and crime-scene people closed the store pending collection of evidence.

I rolled down the window. His crisp, red jacket, complete with a bright yellow store logo, looked garish in the sunlight.

“What did you tell them?” he demanded, not wasting a breath on civilities.

“Hello, Frank,” I said. “How are you?”

He snorted. “How do you think I am? What a stupid question. Anyway, what did they ask you?”

Frank and I had had some confrontations when we were kids because of his obnoxious personality. So I decided if he was going to be unpleasant right now, I would be, too. Not the godly response, but I was past irritable and into serious grumpiness. I wanted to annoy someone.

I stared at him with a purposefully vacuous, dumb-blond look. “They who?”

The muscles in his jaw worked, and a red flush crawled from his neck to his cheeks like a rash. That concerned me. I didn’t want him to die of a coronary. All we needed was another body at the Shopper’s Super Saver.

“Oh, you must mean the cops?” I asked innocently.

He glared down at me. “Who else?”

Even if I were going to tell him, which I wasn’t, my brain had shut down. I’d be lucky to find my way home, let alone speak coherently.

“Well?” he asked impatiently, glancing at the squad cars still parked in the lot.

“I don’t know.”

“What?” He stared at me, looking ready to explode. “How can you not know?”

Would it be possible to carry on a whole conversation with one-syllable words?

Tiredness enveloped me like the proverbial shroud. I didn’t have the energy to continue messing with his head, so I dropped my stupid act. “Look, Frank, I’m tired and crabby. I can’t think. I’m liable to say something I don’t want to if I continue talking. I’m positive they didn’t ask me anything they didn’t ask you.” I turned the key in the ignition.

He gripped my windowsill. “Can’t you just—”

“No, I can’t,” I snapped. I wished he would go away. Would I be hauled to the sheriff’s office again if I ran over his toes?

He didn’t move. I looked at his face. The redness had subsided and his expression was smirky, a look I recognized from years of attending school with him— starting with kindergarten. I call it his tattletale face. His biggest claim to fame had been telling on people. Mostly for purposes of payback. A lot of people outgrow their juvenile behavior. Not Frank.

He leaned down, and I could see the hairs in his nose. “You had a huge fight with Jim Bob last week, remember?”

I glared at him. “I wouldn’t call it huge.”

Frank laughed, but not pleasantly. “You threatened to get his license as a pharmacist taken away. Everyone heard you within a mile radius.”

“Yeah? And so what, anyway?” Oh, that sounded adult. I guess in terms of outgrowing juvenile behavior, I couldn’t throw stones. Still, he had a point. I had argued with Jim Bob. And I hadn’t told Detective Scott about it.

“Didn’t Jim Bob see you again after that?”

I blinked. How did Frank know that? Then I wanted to kick myself. His smirk grew. He knew he’d scored a hit. “The cops need to know everything you know. For purposes of finding motivation for the killing. That’s what they told me.”

I doubted the cops told Frank anything. I shrugged, refusing to wilt under his implied threat even though I was close to hyperventilating. Motivation was a word that scared me. Mostly because I had plenty of it.

He smirked again and backed up, giving me a tiny little wave before he turned around and walked away. I asked the Lord to forgive me even while I thought how nice it would be to plant a foot hard on Frank’s behind. As I pulled from the parking lot, I knew I hadn’t heard the last of my unfortunate encounters with Jim Bob.

I slouched on the overstuffed, denim-covered couch in the family room. Max had called. I whined about how I’d wasted all that time shopping and didn’t even get to bring my groceries home. He listened sympathetically and promised to pick up some milk.

I shivered, yanked a crocheted afghan from the back of the couch, and wrapped myself up in it. Sammie was in her bedroom with enough soda, potato chips, and chocolate chip cookies to put a healthy person in a diabetic coma. I’d done that out of desperation to be alone. Poor kid would be bouncing off the walls in an hour.

When I’d picked her up from my car pool partner’s house on the way home, the woman handed me Sammie’s backpack and whispered, “I didn’t tell her about what’s happening, but I’m going to tell my kids tonight. I’m sure it’ll be all over the kindergarten class and the school tomorrow.” No doubt. I was sure my latest misfortune would be all over Four Oaks by dinnertime.

My Bible and the cordless phone sat on the end table, along with my latest mystery from the library. I glanced at them but didn’t think I’d be able to concentrate because my mind was running amok. I thought about calling Abbie, my best friend, but I didn’t want to talk. I had some serious thinking to do. Finding a murdered man was bad. But worse, I had known him and disliked him. In fact, if I were honest with myself and God, I felt a sense of relief that Jim Bob wouldn’t be around to threaten me anymore. Now how could I reconcile that feeling with what should be grief that a man had died?

I reached for my Bible, running my fingers over the worn leather cover. It was my lifeline. At my most helpless times, just holding it gave me comfort. But that didn’t happen today. The guilt was too strong. I was thinking hateful thoughts and reduced to quibbling with Frank. Worse, I hadn’t told Detective Scott about my argument with Jim Bob. That alone would give me enough motivation to be at the top of his suspect list. Even Max didn’t know, because I didn’t want to tell him until I found out if what Jim Bob had said was true.

The phone rang. Unfortunately, the caller was my mother. I love my mother, but I like to be prepared for the conversational assaults that often occur when we talk.

“Hi, Ma.” My voice was tense, and I tried to relax.

“Well, I would have thought you would call me first,” she said. “I had to hear all the gory details from Gail’s sister’s neighbor. After all I’ve been through with you, and this is how you repay me? By not telling me things?”

“Sorry.” I stared at the ceiling. I tend to avoid telling my mother most anything because it’s just too hard to deal with the aftermath. Questions, sarcasm, accusations—I never know how she’s going to react. Still, I could tell she was worried about me.

“I’m fine. I’m just not thinking clearly.” And that wasn’t the half of it.

“Well, I guess you have good reason to not think—for once. If I’d found a murdered person, I wouldn’t think, either. I mean, the pictures left in your mind would—”

“Yep, I’m just fine,” I said. “Sitting here on the couch.”

“Where is Samantha?” she asked.

“In her room eating cookies and potato chips.” My stomach growled, and I sat up quickly, an action I regretted. Spots in my vision made it difficult to hear my mother, an oddity for which I had no explanation.

“Cookies and potato chips? At the same time? In her room?”

I glanced at the clock. Three. “Yes.”

“Well, I never! Do you do that all the time? Land sakes! That child will have clogged arteries before she’s twenty if you keep that up.”

This coming from a woman who sells doughnuts for a living. I braced myself for the onslaught of lecture number one thousand, three hundred and fifty about How to Care for Children. While waiting for the tirade to end, I slowly made my way to the kitchen and heated up some coffee. Then I went to the pantry and reached behind the cans of baked beans where I’d hidden my emergency stash of chocolate. Finally, armed with a large dark-chocolate bar and a strong cup of coffee, I sat at my round oak kitchen table with the phone resting between my head and shoulder, still listening to her with only partial attention. When my mother is on a rant, I only need to grunt now and then to keep up my end of the conversation.

“. . .although I suppose the children are fine so far.” She took a deep breath. “Was it really Jim Bob?”

For anyone who isn’t used to her, my mother’s machine-gun conversational techniques can cause mental whiplash. I’ve just learned to anticipate the rapid shifts in topic.

“Yep, it was Jim Bob.” I stared at my coffee, trying not to remember the knife in his stomach.

“Brutally murdered?” she asked.

“Um. . .yes.” Is there any other way to be murdered?

She clucked her tongue. “Well, I’m not surprised.”

I wasn’t, either, but I wondered just what my mother knew about him. I was sure she didn’t know he’d threatened me.

“Your name will be in the paper tomorrow, you know,” she informed me.

I grunted. Relieved by the change of topic, I jammed another huge piece of chocolate in my mouth, followed by a gulp of coffee.

“Were you wearing nice clothes?”

“Why?” I asked with my mouth full. Isn’t it enough that I always wear clean underwear because of her constant dire warnings that I might be in a tragic accident and the rescue workers will see my underclothes?

“Why?” My mother’s tone indicated I had lost my mind. “You can’t be serious. Didn’t someone take your picture?”