Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 03 - Haunted (21 page)

“Thanks,” I said. I caught the look Eleanor shot her husband. Either she wasn’t much of a cook, or her husband was just being polite. Either way, she didn’t appear to appreciate his remark very much.

“And I really appreciated the little breakfast steak you added to my plate,” he said.

“Out of pure habit, I started to fry some bacon,” I admitted. “Then I remembered your pork allergy. So instead I substituted the little breakfast steak for the bacon.”

“Well it was delicious. The only time I get any meat is when I go out for lunch at work. I become a ‘quarter-pounder-aholic’ at lunchtime. Eleanor has being trying—unsuccessfully, I might add—to turn me into a vegetarian for years. She thinks red meat is bad for my health, and she has issues with the slaughter of farm animals as well. I appreciate her concern for my health, but I really do crave meat sometimes. I think I’m protein-deficient.”

“Well, I’m sure Eleanor is right about the red meat. We probably all get enough protein in things like eggs, cheese, and beans. But I’m glad you enjoyed your meal,” I told him. Then I turned to Eleanor, who, I was glad to see, was only a vegetarian, and not a vegan. “Was yours okay? I hope your eggs were the way you like them.”

“Yes, it was all fine,” she said, as she stood up and pushed her chair toward the table. “Let’s get going, Steve. We have things to get done today, as I’m sure these good people do also.”

“My breakfast was great too,” Stone said. “As usual, everything was perfect. Like Steve, I liked the addition of blueberries to the pancakes. Now we better get the kitchen cleaned up and get ready for the funeral this morning.”

* * *

The funeral went smoothly. I didn’t really talk to anyone, other than a casual greeting here and there. I was hurting all over and was having trouble concentrating on anything else. Whenever I have an excuse to ask for a prescription for pain pills, I do it. Even if I don’t need them for the current ailment, I fill the prescription. I never know when I’ll need one and will be glad to have a stash on hand. I had utilized one of them before leaving for the church, and it was just beginning to kick in.

I noticed Melba was sitting a few pews in front of us, with a couple of young men sitting on either side of her. Those were obviously the orderlies Wyatt had said were assigned to accompany her. They looked about fourteen years old. One spent the entire service picking at his acne, when he wasn’t picking his nose instead. I guess I expected them to look more like secret service men than ninth-graders.

Clarence sat on the front row, next to his daughter, Sheila Talley, and a man who was probably Sheila’s boyfriend. Sheila was blowing her nose frequently, and her boyfriend looked fidgety and very uncomfortable. He appeared as if he’d rather be having a colonoscopy than sitting in church at Walter’s funeral. I watched him brush his bangs back for about the tenth time.

It looked like most of the cheerleading squad had skipped their college classes and were lined up on the second pew in the sanctuary. Neither Sidney and her parents, nor Audrey McCoy, were in attendance, which didn’t really surprise me in either case.

Walter’s half-brother, Chuck, was also not in attendance, but there might have been a turkey shoot he couldn’t afford to miss. It reminded me that I wanted to ask Detective Johnston how much scrutiny had been given to Chuck and his relationship with Walter.

Wyatt was sitting on the other side of Stone, listening intently, as Father Erickson gave a very moving eulogy about the deceased. There were tears in nearly everyone’s eyes by the time he had concluded the service. I was dabbing at my own eyes throughout the service and heard Stone sniffle beside me. I loved the fact Stone was softhearted and sensitive in situations like this.

Afterward, the congregation filed out of the church to walk slowly to the cemetery, located directly behind the church. There was absolute silence as the crowd formed a circle around the opened pit next to the gravesite of Henry and Marian Jobe who, Wyatt later told me, were Walter’s grandparents on his mother’s side.

A short, somber sermon was given at the gravesite. Following the sermon, many of Walter’s family and friends placed red roses on the top of his pine casket, many still with tears in their eyes and tissues in their hands. The crowd disbursed before the casket was lowered into the ground. I was relieved, because the lowering of the casket is always the toughest part of any funeral, unless, of course, taps are played, echoing off in the distance, like at military funerals. That reduces me to tears every time.

The whole thing still didn’t seem real to me. Just days ago I had spoken with Walter about his ambitions, goals, and plans once he’d received his college degree. He’d wanted to be a teacher and high school basketball coach. Before settling down into a teaching job, he wanted to be a missionary and travel to places like Africa, to help underprivileged children there.

After his missionary work was completed, Walter wanted to write a book about his experiences, to help bring awareness to the need for food and clean water in many regions of the world. He was a thoughtful, compassionate young man, I thought. It was uplifting to see young people pursuing objectives such as missionary work. The next generation was the future of our nation.

Now Walter’s dreams were being buried with him. I pulled my own tissue out of my pocket and dabbed my eyes once again. As we walked back to Stone’s Corvette, I talked about the things Walter had told me he planned to do in his life. Just discussing Walter upset me to some degree, so Stone put his arm around my back to comfort me.

“Stone! Lexie!” We heard a deep voice holler across the parking lot. “Wait up!”

It was Wyatt, and we waited for him to catch up with us. When he got closer to us, he asked. “It was a nice service, wasn’t it? Father Erickson gave a great sermon.”

We both agreed. We spoke briefly about the eulogies and sermon, and then Wyatt told us he wanted to speak to us about Sheldon Wright. “One of the detectives from the St. Joseph Homicide Division spoke with Mr. Wright last night on the phone. Wright told the detective that he did indeed own a navy blue SUV, but so did millions of other people. He’s right that just about every other car on the road these days is an SUV, so owning a dark SUV means literally nothing. He promised to bring it in to the police this Saturday if we wanted to look at it, and of course we do.”

“But won’t that give him several days to get the headlight fixed?” I asked. “And there is still a law of averages factor to take into consideration. What are the chances of Mr. Wright, and my assailant, both owning dark SUVs?”

“Pretty good, actually,” Wyatt said. “But you are right about giving the suspect too much time to fix the busted light. It doesn’t take a nuclear scientist to replace a headlamp. I think they should have gone to his house and checked out the SUV last night or, at the very least, this morning. I would do it myself but the detectives from St. Joseph would not take lightly to my interference.”

“Did Mr. Wright have an alibi?” Stone asked Wyatt.

“Apparently he was home alone the day of Walter’s murder, and he claims he was in Melba’s hospital room for several hours after Lexie left yesterday. He claimed to know nothing about the accident in the parking lot, and said it was all cleared up by the time he exited the building,” Wyatt said.

“Why did he spend several hours with Melba?” I asked.

“He said they were working on updating her vital documents. There were a number of changes that needed to be discussed and made in her will and power-of-attorney. Melba was only coherent part of the time, so the process took longer than expected, Wright said.”

“I would love to see the changes he made in those documents. Can’t those documents be checked and scrutinized by the police department?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t really know. It would probably take a warrant,” Wyatt said. “And there’s always attorney/client confidentiality laws.”

“How can it be legal for an attorney to make important changes like this while his client is only partially coherent?” I asked. “Isn’t the client supposed to be of sound mind and body when such documents are altered and signed? That’s a law too, isn’t it?”

“I should think so,” Wyatt said. “I don’t trust this attorney at all, and like you, I have reason to believe he is the one responsible for running into you with his vehicle yesterday.”

After a few more remarks about the funeral, we said our goodbyes and headed toward our separate vehicles. Wyatt had to report back to work at the police station.

We’d arrived early enough to get a good parking spot, which was nice, because I was still experiencing quite a bit of discomfort in my leg. Stone helped me into the car and said, “We need to get you home and have you put your leg up for a few hours, before Wendy arrives with Andy this afternoon. You’ve had a long week.”

“Wendy told me spaghetti and meatballs is Andy’s favorite meal, so I thought we’d have that, along with a salad and garlic toast for supper,” I said. “That will be an easy meal to fix, and I can make an extra little pan of sauce without meat for Eleanor.”

Stone rolled his eyes, and said, “Pain in the ass.”

* * *

“We’re here!” Wendy called from the front door. Stone and I put down our coffee cups and hurried to the foyer. Hugs were exchanged all around as Stone asked Andy how his flight was.

“Fine, even though I could have made a lot smoother landing than the pilot did,” Andy said. “It felt like we touched down without the landing gear engaged.”

“Has any commercial airline pilot ever passed muster with you?” Stone asked, joking with his nephew. He had flown with Andy numerous times and knew he was an exceptional pilot. I had even flown with him and felt very safe in his capable hands.

“Rarely has a commercial pilot passed muster with me,” Andy replied good-naturedly. “And this one really could have used some remedial training. But then I would need some training myself to feel comfortable behind the controls of a Boeing Seven Thirty-Seven. That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“I’ll say! What time is your appointment with the realtor tomorrow morning?” Stone asked.

“We’re supposed to meet the agent at her office at ten o’clock and then follow her to the property. Are you going to be able to go with me, Uncle Stone?”

“Sure. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Andy looked at me, and said, “I’d like you to come too, if you’re available. Wendy is going with us, as well. I’d like as many opinions as I can get before I make a major decision like becoming a cattle baron.”

I laughed, along with everyone else, and agreed to go. I’d been anxiously hoping he’d extend an invitation to me. I was aching to see the property so I could gauge both Stone’s and Andy’s reactions to it. There was nothing I’d like more than to have Andy living nearby. Still, if I thought buying the farm property was a bad move on his part, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell him so. As Stone had said, Andy’s success and happiness were the most important things to take into consideration.

After a few more minutes of pleasantries, Wendy went upstairs with Andy to help him get ensconced in one of the second floor suites. I was certain Wendy would be staying in one of the inn’s suites also, for at least as long as Andy was in town. She wouldn’t be content in her lonely apartment while Andy was staying at the inn.

Stone and I went back to the kitchen for another cup of coffee and discussed how good Andy looked and how happy he seemed to be. He’d recently taken a trip to the Bahamas with some friends and was sporting a nice tan. And, as always, he looked lean and fit. Like his Uncle Stone, Andy had pretty blue eyes and long eyelashes. His light brown hair had natural blond highlights in it. He would one day look distinguished, with silver hair like his uncle’s.

I knew Wendy and Andy would be back down momentarily, so I put a fresh pot of coffee on to brew. The spaghetti sauce was already simmering on the stove. Thanksgiving was just a few weeks away, so I thought a pumpkin pie was a good idea for dessert, and I had one baking in the oven.

“Man, it’s almost torture sitting in this kitchen tonight,” Stone said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The wonderful aromas are making my mouth water and my stomach growl,” he said. “How long until dinner?”

“The Dudleys will be down for supper in about thirty minutes. The salad is ready and in the fridge, but I need to get some water boiling for the spaghetti,” I told him. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and set the dining room table for six?”

“Glad to be of service,” he said with a salute. “I’m nothing if not useful, except maybe extremely hungry.”

* * *

Thursday morning dawned sunny and mild. It was a beautiful day, perfect for looking at farm property. Some of the soreness had left both my legs and hip, and my ribs. Even my wrist moved more easily, and with less pain. I had patches of deep purple bruising in several places on my body and was praying I’d made my last emergency room visit in a long time. Fifty is too old to be getting tackled by college football players and run down by large vehicles. It’s a wonder I didn’t break my left hip. When one turns half-a-century old, she should be living a more cautious, docile lifestyle, and sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch, knitting and sipping a lot of coffee. I had the coffee part down pat, but the knitting part didn’t mesh well with my personality. That’s why God created Walmart.

The cautious, docile lifestyle just wasn’t me, but a cup of coffee always sounded good. No one else was awake yet, and the house sounded eerily quiet. I could hear the clock ticking on the fireplace mantel in the living room and it was grating on my nerves. So I poured myself a cup of java and went out on the porch to drink it while I read through the morning paper. An article on the front page caught my eye.