moved to my coat pocket.
The bay’s brackish ripples were golden reflectors among the reeds. Nobody. Nothing. Anywhere. Then, what luck when after a few more scans I noticed a dirty grey fluffy tail swaying in the morning’s high tide. I plodded out to grab my evidence before it could float away.
Inches from plucking up the poisoned squirrel, I saw instead the dirty white fluffy pompom hanging onto a green plaid Tam hovering above the sand. A copper penny dissolved in my mouth. I knew whose beret it was. “He’s dead,” I blurted. Scottie would not drop his signature cap and leave it to be carried out to sea. I zipped my unexpected evidence (of what I wasn’t sure) into a freezer baggie big enough to hold a squirrel. Then I did a cautious three-sixty.
A wool beret would drift to deep water with the evening tide. A body, however, was not a beret. You’d need to drag it past the knee-high breakers to guarantee it wouldn’t wash back like the other trash. Every year, the Coast Guard gaffed dozens of drowned swimmers and boaters from the bays with more souls lost to the Atlantic. Once a body made it past the Inlet, it would be long gone.
Now what? Even if hair or tissue samples could identify this beret as Scottie’s, what did that prove? Nothing. He’d have to turn up as a body, a missing person report, or an asshole that’d simply lost his favorite hat. If Scottie was dead, whoever killed him and disposed of his body was probably the same person who just zoomed by driving, what I assumed was, Scottie’s Animal Control truck. Who would be way out here with him? Who would Scottie trust? Who would know? Guess I needed to return his stupid hat.
The Rustlers Inn was packed on the day before Christmas. No big, white, shiny Animal Control truck in sight. I walked inside, looked around, and asked for Jennifer, my waitress who knew everything about everybody, even assholes. She was off. New Year’s Eve was her last night until Memorial Day. I’d have to catch her then. Jenn would know what was going on with Scottie. He looked like the kinda guy who wouldn’t miss a good party. If he was alive.
I ducked into the little Cowgirls Room. On my way out, I noticed the snapshot of Cindi covered by a New Year’s Eve Party flier. Oh, how sad. When I pulled the pushpin holding the notice to remedy that, several photos underneath fell to the floor.
After repositioning the flier and making the photo of Cindi visible again, I picked up the remaining pics, apparently from a previous year’s Holiday Hoedown. Nope, no Cindi. But wait; there was our man Scott, the only person not wearing a goofy paper cowboy hat, with one hand clutching a cold beer, and the other, a hot waitress, Jennifer. Curious. I stuffed the faded photograph into my peacoat’s pocket, brushing the still-cold gun, then slunk off.
I’d never been in the bar’s rear parking lot, with one corner encroached by a rollback dumpster and a prefab gazebo. Wedged against the dumpster was an old red pickup. Wow, a Chevy LUV. I hadn’t seen one since I left my first husband. The driver’s door displayed a whopper-jawed magnetic Rustlers Inn’s Chuck Wagon sign. Coming closer, craning for its original AM/FM radio, I caught sight of a cardboard beer box peeking from under the passenger seat. Was that broken headlight glass and dried kudzu leaves?
Walking around onto the gazebo, leaning over its rail, gripping the dumpster for dear life, I focused down into the dark corner to confirm, without a doubt: the truck’s front-end damage. Another copper penny dissolved in my mouth.
Fight or flight marched me back inside where I bellied up to the bar. “Hey, it’s me again.”
“Yeah. What’s up?” This old guy had told me about Jenn.
“I saw your catering truck around back. I’m not much of a holiday hostess. Do you guys have a menu or something I can take with me?
“Yeah.” He reached behind the cash register, rattling some keys, then pulled out a soiled paper placemat, and sailed it down the bar to me. “But we only use that piece of shit during the summer, mostly to deliver crabs. Just me and Jenn can drive a stick.”
I nodded, thanked him, didn’t touch the menu, and made my way back outside to my Crown Vic’s trunk with its handy-dandy slim jim.
I was wrong. It was Love after all. Better yet, a love triangle, which made for an even juicier story. Jennifer killed Cindi. Now she’d killed Scottie. Means, motive, and opportunity. Twice.
Means? Without Scottie’s body, who knew? Did it matter? Jennifer’s motive? See above. And when some afternoon delight turned sour, Marsden Creek gave Jennifer the secluded opportunity to snuff her boyfriend.
Now, what about Cindi’s hit-and-run? I always figured Scottie clipped her with his Animal Control truck. But given this damage on the LUV, Jenn’s means was parked right here. Motive? My money was riding on Love, although, maybe Cindi’s outburst over the dead squirrels scared Scottie’s girlfriend into murder. Jennifer’s ten-minute smoke break gave her ample time to snitch the keys, jump in the Chevy, haul up the street, swing onto Ball Park Drive, knock down, pick up, kick, drown a Patrón-drunk Cindi, and be back behind the bar before anyone needed another cold one.
The waitress parked the old LUV kissing the dumpster so next time the rollback gets loaded, the poor little truck’s right front end gets smashed. Again. Afterwards, Jenn would add the broken headlight glass she’d collected at Cindi’s murder scene. Cover-up complete.
Back in the parking lot, leaning over the plastic porch railing, I wasn’t sure what the lockout tool snagged, but I gave the metal bar a yank. Instead of the Chevy LUV’s passenger door lock popping up, its window dropped down. I reached for the beer box.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I recognized her voice. Leaving my evidence on the floor, I grabbed an old placemat wedged in the seat, and came back out through the window all smiles.
“Oh, hi, sorry, I was trying to get one of these menus,” I yelled, waving the yellow paper as a white flag. “Jennifer?”
“Yeah?” My waitress, with her tad-too-tight denims still damp below the knees, took a step down the concrete kitchen stairs. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Yeah, hi, the big tipper,” I smiled. She didn’t. Watching her hands, I stepped down off the gazebo, talking all the way. “Yeah, I was just in there, looking for you and I saw this catering truck and the bartender showed me a menu because I’m not a very good hostess, but he said you guys only use it in the summer for cra—“
“Shut up.” She reached back to close the kitchen door and stood her ground. “Good thing I stopped by to pick up my Christmas bonus. And now you see why I’ve gotta hang around for trash pickup.” She nodded towards her next crime scene, complete with the waiting beer box of evidence. “Cindi was never gonna stop harping about those fucking dead squirrels. Scottie was only trying to do his job. But like usual, I had to take care of his mess.”
“So what just happened out at Marsden Creek?”
“The asshole. Did he appreciate what I’d done for him? For us? No. No! Of course not. He told me I was crazy.” She slipped her hand inside the pocket of her leather jacket and started down the stairs. “Why do men always want what they can’t have?”
I had no answer for her. Instead, I widened my stance, put my hand in my pocket, too, anchoring my finger on the trigger. Like riding a bike.
Then, faster than I can recount, Major the Wonder Dog came charging from around the corner, snarling at the waitress, startling her long enough for Miss Minerva to stride up and bonk Jennifer with her cane, dropping her face first into the oyster shell parking lot. Minnie picked up the unfolded Elvis Presley commemorative knife clenched in the unconscious culprit’s fist.
“Looks like I got here just in the nick of time,” she winked. “Isn’t that what you writers call it?”
“Yes, Minnie, that’s what we writers call it.” I picked up her pug, wiggling and snorting at my feet, met my savior halfway, and kissed them both. “Thank you. Thank you so much,” I whispered. “Just in the nick of time.”
We locked arms and walked through the gathering bar crowd, a few crouched beside Jennifer, most meandering and mumbling, not sure what happe
ned. We heard the sirens as we went inside.
Major had the run of the joint. Minnie hopped up onto the closest bar stool, reached over, and swallowed whatever was in a deserted double shot glass. I plopped beside her.
“What are you doing here, Minnie?”
“Now, now, sweetie,” she patted my hand. “I had to come back. I was afraid for you. But, I must confess, I was more afraid for myself. Remember, Alice, how I said I was too old for all this? Well, I’m not.” The energized 80-something munchkin reached over the bar to fill a draft mug. “We flew in this afternoon. Had my driver bring us here for Happy Hour. Major loves their chicken wings.” The little dog was over by the kitchen door, gnawing on what I wasn’t sure. “I had planned to call to ask you to please pick us up here at the inn. As I was leaving the limo, I noticed a large, white Animal Control vehicle parked in the handicap zone by the front door. Suddenly, Major heard your voice and took off with me not too far behind. Never travel without my West African walking stick, and, well, now you see why.”
Only Miss Minerva’s reputation kept me from being searched, handcuffed, and booked. Her eloquent explanation had a burly police officer riding with Jennifer to the ER, and county CSU processing the Chevy LUV. Minnie dropped Jennifer’s sticky Elvis knife into a paper bag as instructed and was