Death in the Park Read online

  "How far did you run?" I poured her a glass of water.

  She looked at her fitness watch. "Probably only a mile and a half. It always feels like ten but when I look at the distance, I'm disappointed and thoroughly bummed that I'm getting to be so old that a mile makes me look like this." She pointed to her red face and took the water from my hand. She drank it all down and sighed loudly. "That hit the spot. Are you going to Emi's for frittata? See, there I go thinking about food while I'm still wearing running shoes. Something is seriously wrong with me."

  "Oh stop, Lana. You are always too hard on yourself. You look fantastic. And to answer your question—yes, I'm going to Emi's for frittata. And I'm starved. It was such a long day at work I was going to be lazy and drive over. But looking at you, I think you should probably walk for a cool down."

  "Probably a good idea." She poured herself one more glass of water and gulped it down. "How was day two at the paper? Have you thwarted the police and solved the murder yet? All kidding aside, sis, don't get in too deep. It could be dangerous. Murderers aren't exactly nice people."

  "I'll be careful. But this case might be harder to crack than I thought."

  I whistled for the dogs. They came trotting out from the bedroom where they'd both collapsed into a nap after playing. Newman grabbed his ball from under the kitchen table, and we headed out the back door for the walk to Emily's.

  A warm breeze tickled the tops of the long grasses carpeting the meadows and pastures between the Cider Ridge Inn and Emily and Nick's chicken farm.

  "It's been so warm, I expect we'll be seeing the fireflies do their thing soon."

  "I can't wait. I haven't seen a lightning bug since mom and dad took us on that camping trip when we were kids."

  "Then you're in for a treat. We get a spectacular light show every evening in the summer."

  We made our way to the dirt road that would eventually end at Emily's yard. I found it almost laughable I'd resisted Lana's suggestion that I move to Firefly Junction for so long. It was wonderful being around my sisters again and having both of them at walking distance was a bonus. Even though restoring the inn was a gargantuan and almost daunting project, I woke up every morning excited about the prospect of turning it into a beautiful and bustling bed and breakfast.

  "Where did you spend your day? At the police station where you could secretly ogle Detective Jackson while you picked up snippets of juicy details about the murder?"

  I laughed. "I hardly think the police would have let me just hang around to pick up juicy details. Besides, how could I possibly solve the case ahead of them if the only information I had was from the police? As a matter of fact, Parker sent me on a new assignment that just happened to be at Smithville High. I was sent there to interview a few of the staff about their summer work program."

  "Sounds riveting."

  "I know. That's why I'm so determined to keep on the murder case. I don't want my first story in the Junction Times to be about summer jobs at the ice cream shop and grocery store."

  A group of brown and black orioles had congregated up ahead on the road. Redford rudely plowed toward them sending them up to the surrounding trees.

  "Did you find out anything about the custodian that would help you solve his murder?" There was an edge of humor in her tone, but my sister knew I'd turn over every unturned leaf to get to the bottom of an intriguing story.

  "I found out quite a bit as I ducked in doorways and offices. And just to go back to what you said earlier, I didn't need to go to the station to ogle the detective, he was at the campus."

  Lana turned to look at me. "He was? Did he see you ducking in doorways and offices?"

  "Almost but I still move pretty stealthily. I guess that's because I'm not old . . . like you."

  "Very funny." The sights, sounds and slightly pungent smells of Emily and Nick's chicken farm came into view. Newman and Redford raced ahead to agitate the chickens.

  "Where to next?" Lana asked. "If you can't hang around the police station, how are you going to find evidence?"

  I tapped the side of my head. "I've got a lead on the murder weapon. I think. When I was at the park on the day of the murder, Detective Jackson bravely rescued a discarded gun from the water filled ravine running along the back of the park."

  "That must have been a sight to see," Lana noted.

  "It was at that. The gun turned out to be an antique. One of the officers was a gun expert, and I overheard her saying there was one just like it at the pawn shop. Apparently, the pawn shop owner had asked her to look at it because the person who sold it to him claimed it belonged to John Dillinger."

  "John Dillinger? The big time gangster? Cool. Lucky Dick Larson, he always gets all kinds of cool things into his pawn shop."

  "Do you know the pawn shop owner?"

  Lana and I headed through a tall patch of clover and toward the farmyard.

  "I don't know him well, but you know how I like to find funky things to use for party decorations. Larson's Pawn Shop is on Butternut Crest before the turnoff to Hickory Flats. It used to be an old one room school house, but Larson turned it into a pawn shop. You should go there and find out more about that gun."

  "Yep, I was just thinking that same thing."

  Nick opened up the back gate behind the chicken yard and stepped out with two little fuzzy critters.

  I sucked in an excited breath. "Oh my gosh, are those baby goats?"

  "Emi didn't tell you?" Lana and I both picked up our pace to a near run. "They have two new additions."

  We reached Nick, and each wasted no time picking up a baby goat. They bleated little squeaks and squirmed in our arms, protesting the hugs and snuggles we were forcing on them.

  I rubbed my chin on the soft head of the gray sweetie in my arms.

  "That's Tinkerbell," Nick announced. "And the caramel one Lana is holding is Cuddlebug. Emi was at the feed store and a woman was trying to find a home for two baby goats. The mother was sick and couldn't nurse them, and the woman didn't have time for their bottle feeding regimen."

  "So you're parents now," Lana said with a laugh.

  "It seems so." Nick smiled like a proud, new dad.

  I cuddled little Tinkerbell closer, and she relaxed in my arms. I smiled at Lana, who looked happy with her new friend. "Lana, I'm so glad you talked me into moving out here."

  "And we're glad you decided to move here too." Nick led us back toward the farm. "Especially because now we might need a babysitter."

  Chapter 20

  After a delightful evening of cheesy frittata and baby goats, I fell fast asleep and woke extra early and eager to start my day. I planned to head first to the pawn shop and see what I could find out about the weapon. It was entirely possible that the gun found at the park had nothing to do with Larson's Pawn Shop, but it was the only lead I had at the moment.

  I drove along Edgewood Drive, past the newspaper office and on toward Butternut Crest. I'd called the office to let Myrna know I was going to be in the field and that I'd probably be back at the office by lunch. I'd already discovered that Parker was fairly lax about his staff checking in and giving progress reports. That suited me just fine. I planned to do my first revisions on the summer job program before sending Parker a copy to read through. I was sure he'd be just as bored reading it as I was writing it.

  The one person I hadn't seen since early Tuesday was our 'star' reporter Chase Evans. I tried to pry information from Myrna about how far he'd gotten on his article about the murder, but she didn't know a thing. She had mumbled something about the man was lucky if he could write a shopping list let alone an interesting article and then apparently deciding she'd said too much she sealed her bright red lips shut.

  Lana had told me to look for a gray shingle roof on a red brick building. The red brick was easy to spot in the deep green foliage lining Butternut Crest, the curved two lane road that connected Firefly Junction and Hickory Flats. The jeep waddled side to side on the rough hewn road leading to the small par
king lot in front of the pawn shop.

  The shop was nestled in a clearing. Most of the lot was overrun with wild brush, but I could easily imagine the space as an old schoolyard. An old rope swing hung from one of the tall chestnut trees looming over the parking lot. A bell covered in wonderful green patina hung from a metal hook over one of the front windows. A leftover artifact, most likely, from the days when the teacher called the kids in from play.

  Another bell rattled on the front door as I walked inside the shop.

  "I'll be right with you," a deep voice called from the back.

  I'd mulled over several ways to approach the pawn shop clerk about the gun. After pushing aside some ideas that sounded as flimsy as wet tissue, like pretending to be a gun enthusiast, I decided to try the straightforward pushy journalist approach. I was just going to flat out ask about the John Dillinger gun and find out if it could have been used in a murder. With any luck, I wouldn't get asked to leave the shop.

  The interior of the building was brighter than I'd expected. The few windows on the front were in just the right position to pull in the morning sun. The interior was cluttered but in an organized way. One wall was covered with pawned guitars, brass instruments and hunting rifles. A tall, gothic looking harp complete with carved angel details sat in the corner behind a stack of old records. A long glass counter running nearly the length of the shop contained everything from jewelry to comic books. A tall spinning rack near the harp held old books.

  Behind the long glass counter of various trinkets sat a vertical glass cabinet with a locking door. I stretched up higher to see some of the items on the shelves behind the locked doors. There were a few pistols, two watch boxes with the Rolex label and an ornate, porcelain mantel clock.

  I could hear someone unpacking boxes in the back. I decided to wander over and check out the books while I waited for the store clerk to come out. The sound of tires grinding dirt pulled my attention to the front window. I could only see the top of a blue car, but seconds later, a tall head of thick brown hair emerged from the vehicle. It was Detective Jackson. He paced the path in front of the shop as he finished a phone call. The store clerk, who I quickly surmised was Dick Larson, the owner, emerged from the back room as Jackson walked inside.

  I slipped behind the book rack making myself as invisible as possible.

  "Morning, Detective Jackson." Larson looked to be about fifty with some specks of gray in his reddish beard. He dropped his chin and looked over his wire rimmed glasses at the book rack. I shrank back even more. I didn't need to glance through the racks of old novels to know that Jackson had followed Larson's sight line to the books. I felt certain he couldn't see more than the top of my head.

  "I'll be right with you," Larson spoke my direction.

  "No problem," I squeaked back quietly.

  I pretended to peruse the titles on the rack while Larson returned his attention to the detective. "I have to say, Detective Jackson, I was stunned and relieved when you called to ask about the Remington Rimfire. I can't tell you how distraught I was about it. I was sure I'd placed it right here in the locking cabinet."

  I peeked between an old leather bound copy of Treasure Island and tattered paperback copy of The Great Gatsby. My gaze temporarily landed on Detective Jackson. He was wearing a black t-shirt that was tight across his chest. The edge of a tattoo peeked out from the sleeve of his shirt. The ink stretched and turned as his muscular arm placed something on the counter. I fanned my face and quickly scolded myself for getting sidetracked by a tattooed bicep.

  I tilted my head slightly to the side to see through to the counter. It was easy enough to recognize that the plastic bag Jackson had placed on the counter held a small handgun, the very same handgun the detective had pulled from the ravine.

  Larson leaned over and adjusted his glasses. "Yes, that's it. That's the gun." He looked up at the detective and his red beard danced back and forth nervously. "I swear to you, Detective Jackson, I have no idea how that gun left this shop." He turned back to point out the locking cabinet once again. "The man who brought it to me had a letter that was allegedly written by the notorious John Dillinger. I was having it authenticated. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that it would be an extremely valuable artifact if the letter turned out to be real. Are you certain it was used in the murder?"

  There was a pause. My heart raced and I worried that the men were looking my direction. I shrank back farther and pulled a copy of Frankenstein from the rack. Detective Jackson's deep voice grew quieter, but I could still hear what he was saying.

  "The bullet found matches the gun. And there is evidence that it was recently fired."

  "My stars, that's awful. And risky. I had no idea the thing still worked. If it turned out to be Dillinger's, I was going to have a gun expert check it out and maybe test it. Most collectors want to know the thing is in working condition before they plunk down a lot of money."

  "Do you have ammo for this gun?" Detective Jackson asked.

  "Yes, the man had the letter, the weapon and a small box with three bullets inside it. Of course I always make sure the guns in the shop are not loaded. I put the box of bullets in the back, in one of my storage cabinets. I never store ammo and weapons in the same place."

  "Good thinking, Mr. Larson. Would you mind bringing that box of bullets out here?"

  "Absolutely." Larson hurried to the backroom, leaving Detective Jackson alone with the woman hiding behind the book rack.

  I heard the heavy sound of his boots as he walked over the wood floor to the front window where a ship model sat in a glass case. I peered around the edge of the rack. He was admiring the intricate ship model.

  "You are always hiding in trees, Bluebird.” He didn't look up from the ship as he spoke, so it took me a second to realize he was talking to me.

  "This is technically not a tree. No law against browsing books in a pawn shop," I said curtly as I pushed the book back on the rack. Larson returned and I went back to my act of searching around the shop.

  Larson's face looked considerably paler than when he'd left the counter. His hands were noticeably empty. He was rubbing his head and muttering to himself. "I just don't understand it. Am I losing my mind?"

  Detective Jackson's focus turned back to the pawn shop owner. He approached the counter. "What's wrong?"

  Larson shook his head in disbelief. "I put the box of bullets in a storage cabinet. I remember placing them right next to an autographed picture of Clark Gable. It showed up in an old suitcase and my mother-in-law was a big fan of Gable's, so I put it in the cupboard to give her on her next visit."

  "This long tangent about the Gable picture seems to be heading toward a box of missing bullets," Jackson said.

  The slightly sarcastic statement pulled Larson from his worried thoughts. "Oh yes, sorry. I was just going over the whole thing in my head, and I remember setting the box next to the picture. But, yes, the box is gone. It's as if someone broke into the store and somehow managed to open the cabinet without breaking the lock and then the same person walked straight to the box of bullets in the cupboard."

  "Is anything else missing from the store?" Jackson asked.

  "No," Larson glanced around. "I mean I'd have to check my inventory thoroughly, but everything looks in place."

  "How many people have keys to the locking cabinet?"

  Larson grew more confused and paler with each question. It was hard to tell if he was more worried about becoming a suspect or about losing his mind. I was going for the latter. He looked genuinely perplexed about the missing bullets. "Just me. Oh, and my daughter, Belinda. She works here after school."

  The name Belinda rang like a bell in my head. I wondered how many girls in town could be named Belinda. It was an unusual name. I was deep in thought trying to calculate just how old Mr. Larson's daughter would be when I accidentally kicked a vintage toy truck. It rolled out from its corner and stopped in the middle of the floor. Both men stared down at it and then looked at me.

>   "Sorry." I quickly walked over to pick up the toy and returned it to its spot in the corner

  "Why don't you help this customer before we continue," Detective Jackson suggested.

  "Actually, I was just looking around. I'm new in town and I thought I'd stop in to see what you had."

  Larson seemingly forgot he was being questioned by a detective and switched to gracious shop owner mode. "Welcome to town." He stuck out his hand. "Dick Larson, owner of Larson's Pawn Shop."

  I shook his hand. "Sunni Taylor, nice to meet you."

  "Do you live in Hickory Flats?" Larson asked. "I'm a Smithville resident myself."

  I smiled and walked forward, completely aware that Detective Jackson was casting an annoyed brow lift my way. I took it as a small victory over his habit of calling me 'bluebird'. "I moved to Firefly Junction recently. Cider Ridge Inn to be exact."

  Larson's face beamed with interest. "Is that right? I hear that old place is haunted by the unfulfilled spirit of a man whose heart was broken. Have you run into him?"

  I wasn't terribly interested in following the ghost topic, but since it seemed to irritate the detective even more, I joined in enthusiastically. "There have been some unexplained events, but I confess, I have yet to meet the actual ghost."

  A scoffing sound came from Jackson.

  I looked up at him. At close range he was so tall, I had to crane my neck some. "You don't believe in ghosts, Detective Jackson?"

  Jackson's eyes were an unearthly pale amber color, very unique and not like any I'd ever seen. His lashes were solid black though, and he stared down at me through them. "If you're finished browsing, Mr. Larson and I have some things to discuss."

  Larson's posture crumpled some as he was reminded about the serious topic of missing guns and bullets. "Yes, if there's anything special you're looking for just let me know," he said politely.

  "Thank you."

  Detective Jackson turned and leaned against the glass counter. He crossed his arms, which only made them look bigger. It seemed he was waiting for me to leave.