Nobody's There (4 page)

To Abbie's surprise, Mrs. Merkel waited for her at the door so that they could walk into the center together. With Mrs. Merkel leading, they made their way into one of the smaller meeting rooms, where a cluster of six senior citizens were informally chatting.

A hefty woman, her tight curls more gray than black, was saying, “So when she finally came to she saw right away he was dead!”

No one responded. They all turned toward the doorway staring at Mrs. Merkel.

A short, plump woman with thin white hair clasped her hands together and smiled nervously. “Oh, Edna dear, it's you,” she said.

“As usual, you're right on top of things, aren't you, Gladys?” Edna's voice was thick with sarcasm. She strode across the room to join the group. “I would have come to some of the other book club meetings if anybody had given me a ride.”

A wave of guilt splashed over Gladys's face. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. With a visible effort she recovered and added, “We're glad you're back, dear.”

“Not all of us,” one of the men growled. Although he spoke to himself, his words were loud enough to be heard.

“I didn't expect you to cheer, Jose,” Mrs. Merkel
said, “since I'm the only one around here with enough smarts and gumption to disagree with your lame opinions.”

Jose muttered something under his breath, but Gladys smiled at Abbie and asked, “Who is this dear girl? Is this a granddaughter we didn't know about?”

Abbie braced herself for whatever Mrs. Merkel might blurt out about her arrest and probation.
I don't know these people
, she thought.
What difference does it make what they think about me?

She was surprised when Mrs. Merkel smugly announced, “This is Abbie Thompson. She's my driver.”

“Oooh! You have a driver. How lovely,” the short woman said. She put an arm around Abbie and patted her shoulder. “I'm Gladys Partridge, and it's so nice to have you here, dear.”

“Don't get too chummy,” Mrs. Merkel said. “Abbie's on probation. If you're smart, you'll keep a wary eye on her.”

Abbie flinched as Gladys stepped back and one of the other women whispered, “Is she a gang member?”

With a smile Jose took Abbie's arm. “If you're going to be a regular I'll introduce you. We'll start with me. I'm Jose Morales.”

Although Mrs. Merkel scowled her disapproval, Jose made the circle, introducing Abbie first to the woman whose story they'd interrupted, Lawanda Truitt. The others were Olivia Barton, Dolores Garcia, and Sam Granby. Abbie was grateful for Jose's kindness and tried her
hardest to remember their names, settling on first names only. Gladys was short and sweet; Lawanda was tall and heavy; Dolores was round and smiley; Olivia was small and quiet; Jose was leather-skinned and bushy-browed; and Sam was tall, bony, and easygoing.

Lawanda leaned toward Mrs. Merkel. “Did you read the papers this morning? We were talkin' about the murder.”

“Delmar Hastings, the bank president,” Sam said.

“Gulf East Savings and Loan,” Dolores added.

Olivia sighed and said, “His poor wife. At least his children were grown.”

Lawanda took a step forward, picking up where she had left off. “I was sayin', when you came in, that Irene Conley—you know Irene. She's the head cashier in Gulf East Savings and Loan—Anyhow, Irene come to, after bein' hit on the head, and there was her boss lyin' on the floor, shot dead in a pool of blood.”

Gladys closed her eyes. “Delmar Hastings, the bank president,” she whispered.

“I know all that. I read the paper,” Mrs. Merkel grumbled.

Abbie
hadn't
read the newspaper or listened to the morning TV news, so she paid close attention.

“Irene told the reporter from the
Buckler Bee
that she was hit on the head from behind, so she didn't even see who did it,” Lawanda said.

“
Whodunnit
,” Dolores corrected. “That's what they say on TV shows—
whodunnit.
”

Lawanda continued. “I heard on the news this morning that Irene is in such a state she's confined to bed. Won't even talk to the TV or newspaper reporters.”

“Why didn't the murderer kill Irene, too?” Mrs. Merkel asked.

Dolores shivered. “Edna, you sound so bloodthirsty.”

Jose shook his head. “She's not bloodthirsty. She's not good at figuring things out. Anybody would know why it happened the way it did. Hastings saw the murderer's face and would have been able to identify him. Irene didn't and couldn't.”

Mrs. Merkel snapped, “Since you're a lawbreaker, you'd know how the criminal mind works, if anybody would.”

Jose's eyes flashed with anger. “You're the worst kind of backstabbing snitch. The world would be better off without you in it.”

“Now, now,” Gladys said, stepping between them. “That unpleasant business is over. Let's change the subject.”

“Is it over? Not likely,” Mrs. Merkel said. The look she gave Jose made Abbie think of blowguns and poison darts.

Dolores stepped between Jose and Mrs. Merkel. “Speaking of Irene,” she said, “I heard Irene didn't even need that job. Mavis in the beauty parlor said that Irene's parents were the Buck Steavers. You've heard of the Buck Steavers.”

“I haven't,” Mrs. Merkel said.

“Oh. Well, most people have … I think.
Buck Steaver owned a lot of oil wells up in Beaumont. He was really,
really
rich, according to Mavis. Anyhow, he and his wife left Irene a lot of money.”

Gladys nodded. “Then that's why Irene had such a nice car and pretty clothes,” she said. She hesitated. “Unless it's her husband who's rich.”

“Her husband sells appliances,” Dolores answered. “You know—at that big appliance store out near the college. He's not about to make the fortune her parents did.”

“Is he the bald man—the one who always wears bow ties?”

Mrs. Merkel snorted. “When are you two going to learn to stick to a subject? Are you talking about a murder in Buckler or about bow ties?”

Olivia spoke up shyly. “I don't understand how the murder could have happened. I keep reading in the
Bee
that the federal government has statistics to prove that the crime rate has gone down.”

Sam's slow drawl emphasized his words. “It don't matter what the statistics say. All that counts is that a man got murdered in our own neighborhood.”

“I use that bank,” Gladys said.

“So do I.” Lawanda nodded emphatically.

Mrs. Merkel frowned at everyone. “We all do. That's not news. And we don't know anything about the murder that wasn't in the paper, so let's get down to business. What's the book y'all have up for discussion today?”

Gladys smiled. “We aren't going to discuss books today, dear. We have a guest speaker.”

Mrs. Merkel scowled. “We don't need a guest speaker. We're a book club. We're supposed to discuss books.”

Gladys patted Mrs. Merkel's arm as she glanced toward the doorway. Her smile suddenly grew broader. “Sit down, dear,” she said. “Here's our speaker now.”

A young woman, dressed in a dark blue police officer's uniform and carrying a clipboard, strode briskly into the room.

Abbie started at the sight of the uniform, her heart thumping. “I'm here, like I'm supposed to be!” she wanted to shout. “Don't take me back to the judge!”

But the officer paid no special attention to Abbie. She shook hands with each of the book club members in turn, introducing herself as Amanda Martin.

When she held out a hand to Edna Merkel, it was ignored. Mrs. Merkel aimed her laser glance at Officer Martin and snapped at her, “What does a cop know about books?”

“Books?” The officer blinked.

“Yes, books. This is a book club. We talk about books. Or maybe you haven't figured that out yet. I guess with being so busy making the crime rate go down, cops need all the help they can get.”

Gladys nervously waved her hands. “Edna, Officer Martin is our guest speaker. I told you we were going to have a guest speaker.”

Mrs. Merkel shrugged, and her sarcasm deepened. “Don't guest speakers at book clubs speak about books?”

Officer Martin smiled. “Not this time,” she said. “I asked Mrs. Partridge, as club president, for permission to speak to your group about a very important project we're starting in Buckler.” She looked directly into Mrs. Merkel's eyes as she added, “You were right when you said cops need all the help we can get. We have to catch some mean, no-good crooks who are victimizing people in Buckler, and that's why I'm here—to ask for your help.”

M
rs. Merkel shoved between Gladys and Olivia in the front row of folding chairs. Abbie took a seat at the back.

Officer Martin began her speech. “During the past few years thieves and con artists have set their sights on senior citizens. Older people are vulnerable to this type of crime because they tend to be more trusting and less suspicious. There are many crooks right here in Buckler who need to be stopped. There are repair companies that promise to do work, collect their money, and disappear. Or people who advertise a specific product for sale, then substitute something else.”

“They call that bait and switch.” Gladys looked pleased with herself.

“Right. And people who telephone about something ‘free' you've won, then tell you that you have to send money in order to get it.”

“If anyone falls for that scam, he's stupid,” Mrs. Merkel interrupted.

“No. Not stupid. Duped.”

“Same thing.”

Officer Martin went on. “Some scam artists try to get you to tell them your credit card number over the phone. Or they say they're collecting money for relief funds that don't exist. The list goes on and on, and it means that every day people right here in Buckler are losing a great deal of money to these crooks.”

“What are
we
supposed to do about it?” Mrs. Merkel blurted out. “You want us to send sympathy cards?”

“Edna, dear,” Gladys began.

But Jose snapped, “Shut your mouth up, Edna, and let the police officer say what she's got to say.”

With all the book club members glaring at her, Mrs. Merkel leaned back in her chair, folded her arms across her chest, and scowled.

Officer Martin smiled and continued. “A few years ago the Houston Better Business Bureau founded an organization that called upon senior citizens to protect other senior citizens. They named it Silver Sleuths. They've had great success with it. We're setting up a similar organization in Buckler and calling it the Buckler Senior Citizens' Brigade. We've had an enthusiastic response from other seniors in
Buckler, and I hope your group will join us too.”

Mrs. Merkel broke her short silence. “I don't like that name,” she grumbled. “In the first place, I don't like to be called a senior citizen, as if I had to be reminded how old I am. And
Brigade
sounds like something from a 1940s army movie.”

“Edna, I already told you to be quiet and listen for a change,” Jose snapped. “You don't know everything, even if you think you do.” He nodded toward Officer Martin. “Go ahead. Don't pay any attention to Edna.”

Officer Martin hesitated only a moment. Then, with her eyes on Mrs. Merkel, she said, “Those of you who volunteer will be trained for various jobs. Some of you will help us in our office or answer our special phone line for senior citizens' questions or complaints about a company. Some of you will be our eyes and ears in the community. You'll check out ads, making sure consumers won't be tricked. You'll track down scams and fraudulent schemes.”

“Humph! You make us sound like a pack of bloodhounds,” Edna mumbled.

The officer continued. “We plan to set up a special hotline. Some of you can man the hotline from your home. You won't even need to work in our office. And those of you who like to shop can be Mystery Shoppers, checking out the stores—even the flea markets—in our town for suspicious business practices.”

Edna suddenly sat upright and blurted out,
“Buckler's Bloodhounds! That's a much better name than the one you cops thought up. It's got a snap to it.”

“She's a pest!” Jose shouted at the officer. “Argues about everything. She's a pain in the neck. Don't pay any attention to her. We didn't come to hear Edna. We came to hear you.”

Gladys stood up, looked back and forth from the officer to Jose, as if she were at a tennis match following the ball. “Please don't start an argument again, Jose. Edna may be right. I like the name she thought up. If we're going to go sniffing out fraud, then Bloodhounds isn't a bad name. Buckler's Bloodhounds. I do like it.”

“So do I,” Olivia said. “Maybe the six of us could call ourselves Buckler's Bloodhounds.”

Officer Martin smiled. “We're just setting up our plan. The name for our project isn't carved in stone. I like Buckler's Bloodhounds too.” She beamed at Mrs. Merkel, as if she were a child who had stopped being naughty, and said, “Thank you for thinking up such a great name.”