Real Women Eat Cake: A Yellow Rose Cozy Mystery (Yellow Rose Mystery Series Book 1) (4 page)

Betty had been interviewed by Lieutenant O'Brien. The Q&A had been brief and professionally done. She still wasn't sure why Martin felt he needed to arrive before her, but she'd question him on it later.

In the meantime, Betty had borrowed Martin's phone directory and gotten Arnold Sanders' address. Toby's father apparently lived outside the city limits. She drove over and parked by the curb behind a rusting green Impala. She went up to the front door, which had a latched screen door in front of it. Pushing the button gave her thumb a tingling sensation as a shrill noise emanated inside.

The door opened and the frame was filled by a large pale-skinned man with dark circles under his eyes dressed in a white T-shirt and well-worn jeans. Betty didn't have a carry-and-concealed license, but the idea was suddenly very appealing to her.

The man stood six-four with wide shoulders and arms as thick as her legs. The rest of him was proportioned accordingly. Betty pegged him at around thirty, with wavy dark hair and a set of thorns tattooed around his left arm. He looked at Betty without expression and said, “Yeah?”

“Hi. I'm Betty Hitchens. I understand Arnold Sanders live here. Is he available?”

The giant man rubbed his chin. His gaze was even and unemotional.
He could be pondering my request, thinking about a leaky pipe, or considering tearing off one of my arms and beating me with it,
thought Betty. It was hard for her to tell.

“Food’s cooking,” he said. With that, he turned and walked inside. He gave a backwards motion with his arm and said, “Come on in, if you want.”

Oooh, that's probably not a good idea.
Still, Betty was bound and determined to get her information. She fingered the small chemical spray container in her pants pocket and followed the man inside to the kitchen. Bacon grease popped and sizzled in a cast iron skillet. The man lifted a half dozen slices individually with a fork and placed them on a plate covered with a paper towel. He stirred a pot of oatmeal, then killed the flame underneath it. A Denver omelet the size of Colorado overflowed on a plate next to the range. He took a long pull from a half gallon juice container before digging into the oatmeal, crushing two pieces of the bacon into it first.

“I’m Jim, Arnold’s cousin,” he said between mouthfuls. “He's not here any more.”

Betty nodded thoughtfully as if absorbing ancient wisdom from an all-knowing sage. She didn’t want to speak or move too quickly in the off-chance Jim was high strung underneath all that nonchalance. A meaty arm swung up and down like a piston as he ate the oatmeal.

“Any idea when he’ll return?”

“He's not coming back,” he said. “Moved.”

“Can you tell me where?”

“Out of town.”

“Got an address or a phone number?” Betty said, hoping she wasn't testing the man's patience.

“Think he headed to Frisco.”

“But you’re not sure?”

Jim shook his head.

“Any idea why he left?”

“Didn’t say. Might have something to do with his legal problems.”

Oh, goody,
thought Betty.
More problems.

“Here’s my card,” Betty said, placing one of her new business cards with her work number on the counter next to the toaster. “I’d appreciate a call if you hear from him.”

Jim gave Betty a look that told her he didn't want to get involved.

“Your choice as to what to do with it,” Betty continued. “You could leave it at a restaurant that draws cards for business owners next time you eat out if you like. I could win a free lunch. I’d even share it with you.”

Jim put his fist to his stomach and gave a soft belch. “Anything else?”

Betty told him no and thanked him for talking with her. She offered to let herself out and was met with no objection.

Frisco was over four hours away. She decided to let the police track Arnold down, assuming that’s where he really went. Her only regret was that she hadn't made a pitch for her cakes. She was pretty sure Jim could pound down at least one a day. She got in her car, knowing where she needed to head next.

Down by the lake the next morning, the air was fresh and crisp – like the spray from an apple after taking a deep bite. Martin Lane parked and made his way down to the lot. Crumpled fliers and plastic bottle caps littered the grass. He picked up one of the fliers, crushed it in his fist, and tossed it at a rain-soaked plastic bin. It circled the edge, then teetered over the side. A sinewy looking young woman wearing a wrinkled canary-yellow polo and shorts covered in grass stains crouched down, stood full length and threw away the trash, sighing in the process.

Yeah, well. We can’t all be NBA all-stars.

The LAKE TRAVIS sign shown bright as the sun's light reflected off its surface. Bungalow type trailers bordered the blue edges of the lake. People puttered around in small groups wearing cargos and sandals, but Martin was comfortable in his lace-ups. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d driven this far out of the city. Out here it was quiet. The kind of quiet where he could actually hear himself think. A few yards ahead he caught sight of the rental office, but the manager wasn’t inside. He backtracked, calling out to the woman picking up the trash.

“Any idea where I can find the guy who runs this place?”

She looked like she wanted to turn and go but answered the question anyway.

“Hold on for a second.” She raked the loose hairs falling into her eyes. “I’ll go get him.”

Martin looked around as he waited, taking it in. Though the thought of being out of range for cell phone service would give Betty the hives, he knew she would love the idea of sinking her toes into the chilly water out here as the sun rose, then strolling around edge of the water by nightfall. More than once, she'd recanted camping trips as a child with her father with great fondness.

The woman pointed at Martin, and the manager headed his way.

He waved. “I’m Karl Valdez, shift manager. Justine says you’re looking to rent a cabin. Got a couple that just left and – ”

Martin smiled, shaking his head. “I'm looking for someone who might be staying here.” Martin showed him his ID and explained why he was there. The manager spread his hands, not interested in saying much more.

“You’re going to have to be more specific. I’ve got people coming and going all the time.”

“Molly Sanders,” Martin said. “Think she may have checked in here Monday night.”

“The cabins are that way,” Karl said, glancing over his shoulder. “Up half a mile on that strip of land, going deeper into the woods. I’m sorry, if I had a date or something I could be more specific. Are you trying to chase down one of the guests staying here?”

“Maybe,” Martin said. “And she might still be here.” From the way he talked, it sounded as if the police hadn't visited the area yet.

Karl gestured for Martin to follow him, and they both walked toward the rental office. Everything about Karl gave Martin the impression that he liked keeping his head down – being distant. He had a slim build and a tight-faced expression. Made that much tighter with a stranger sniffing around asking questions and following a lingering scent. Edging behind his desk, he read through the reservations stored on his computer.

“Sanders, Molly,” he read at a plod. “She checked in late Monday night. Got lucky with a cancellation. Arrived alone.”

“What cabin is she in?”

“Was in 120A. Gone now.” A noise came from up front. A family of three wanting to check in. “Excuse me,” Karl said, getting up. “Customers.” The word 'paying' was implied, though not stated.

Martin looked over at Justine. She busied herself by tying her hair in an unkempt topknot. As he watched her, it struck him that Karl had no clue what went on in this place. But the workers – they knew. He edged over to Justine, curious to know her story.

“I’m sorry about earlier. What can I say? I need to work on my layup.”

“Uh huh,” she said, tilting her head in the opposite direction. Her shirt snagged on a potted flower, tipping it and spilling soil onto the floor. She cursed under her breath as she cleaned up the mess.

“Look, I have to get back to work. I’ve got bathrooms after this.”

Martin nodded and decided on a new strategy.

As the morning radio personalities buzzed the airwaves reminding listeners the world was still there, Betty drove, trying to organize her thoughts. She'd meant to go by the shop, but instead found herself driving up near the north end of town along the I-35 access road. She took a left and drove into the parking lot of a convenience store and parked in one of the few available spaces.

She later attributed what she did next to stress. Her nerves had been on edge for the past several days with no let up in sight. She didn’t like revisiting old habits, yet she also didn’t like constantly feeling like her head was about to crack open.

“Marlboro Lights. Box,” she told the woman behind the register.

The woman pulled a pack down from a nearby shelf. “Anything else? Lighter?”

“No. That’ll do.”

Betty gave her the money and stuffed the change into a side pocket. Outside, she threw the box’s plastic wrapper into the trash, a
Don’t Mess With Texas
sticker clinging to the side. She tamped the box, flipped open the top, and pulled out a cigarette.

She was standing a few feet to the right of the entrance to the store, underneath a covered area that resembled an old-fashioned porch. To her left was a bench where three men in their late sixties to early seventies sat. They’d been in deep, unhurried conversation when she’d gone in.

“Need a light?” one of them asked.

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

The man eyed her like he had something else he wanted to ask. A green sign with large yellow lettering hung above his head. Spit-free Hard Snuff. A thin line of brown spittle lined the left side of his chin.
Guess some people do need a good spit every once in awhile
, she thought. He returned his attention to his companions and rejoined the conversation. For a few minutes they discussed the weather and how the heat from the past summer had adversely affected various crops across the state. Talk of politics surfaced. Several local citizens were considering running for the city council next year. Their merits and backgrounds were discussed.

The conversation continued with shifting topics and varying points of view. Illegal aliens. Alien kidnappings. Kidnapped neighbors. Neighbors arguing. “The world hasn’t made sense since Dan Rather stopped doing the news,” one of them said. Betty decided a jolt of something highly caffeinated would help her headache. Plus something upbeat on the radio.

As she was leaving, she threw her cigarette into the trash. Since she was tempted to keep the remaining nineteen, she thought it best to toss them as well.

The trio on the bench watched her. “Expensive habit,” said the one who’d originally offered her a light.

“So are long-term medical bills. One of the reasons why I stopped years ago,” she said, heading inside the store for a diet soda. Soon she was back in her car and on the road.

Betty hadn’t dropped by The Shop, owned and operated by Ojudh, in some time. A thinking woman cannot wind down if she never takes a break and remains semi-isolated from her friends.

Ojudh was a Belizean who'd set up a tattoo/coffee shop in town years ago. Nobody knew much about him except that he was strong, quiet, and great with tattoos. He also let some of the younger crowd hang out in the coffee end of the shop, sometimes dispensing advice, sometimes simply allowing a safe place for them to hang out. Betty liked the custom coffee blends and recommended them to her customers and friends alike. He stopped briefly in the midst of outlining a fresh new tattoo.

“Hold on, Betty. I'll be over there in a second.”

Some scrawny kid was resting back into Ojudh’s chair getting a Celtic cross etched onto his shoulder.

“Smells like you’ve been getting into some hard kicks,” Ojudh told the kid while pushing up his glasses and continuing to darken the outer illustration with the buzzing beetle. A part of Betty felt like she’d gotten trapped in a bee hive.

Listening to the motorized needle pop and prick away at the kid made Betty feel queasy. Not much scared her, but she hated needles almost as much as she did spiders.

The kid in the chair laughed.

“I’ve got all the time in the world to do whatever I want, O,” the kid replied.

Ojudh looked at Betty. She was sure he was laughing in his head.

“All of the time in the world? Are you serious?” Ojudh never lifted his head from his work, talking as he drew. “No one’s got all the time in the world kid. You’ve got a set number of years, to grow, make mistakes and that’s it. If there’s anything that you want to do, better do it now.”

Ojudh offered up the kind of life advice kids need to hear. Of course, it would mean absolutely nothing until they were down the road in ten or twenty years and regretting the opportunities they had let slip away.

“Meh, I’ve got no regrets. I’m only trying to stay out of the fight with those McClatchy jerks.”

Betty had no idea who the McClatchys were. Just as the kid didn’t give Ojudh’s advice much thought. At his age, she'd been throwing paper air planes in the class room and passing notes with classmates. Betty tried her best not to put a nostalgic rosy spin on things, but she thought the kid missed out on one of the greatest generations to be a child.

Ojudh placed the tattoo gun on a silver tray and looked up at Betty.

“You’ve finally come to get a tattoo or are you planning on chickening out on me again?”

Betty grinned. “Need to let off a little steam. What can I say? Loud vibrating noises are what I find soothing.” For the most part, she was telling the truth.

As she spoke, out of the corner of her eye she saw Ethan Holt walk in and stand behind a patron at the coffee counter. She barely moved, keeping her back to Brianna's boyfriend.

As he waited, Ethan looked in her general direction, then down at the floor. He patted his pockets like maybe he'd forgotten his wallet and quietly eased outside and walked toward his vehicle parked nearby.

“Well, you know I like to catch up with old friends,” Betty said, “but – ”

“The best times to talk are when we haven’t seen each other for awhile,” Ojudh said as Betty stood to leave.

“And involve snacks,” Betty finished.

Ojudh's turn to grin. “Don’t make me wait too long!” he called out as she hit the door.