Shake Down Dead (13 page)

“You have a choice, either toast and
jam or breakfast at the Dixie Diner.”

“No contest. Let me get
dressed.”

We walked out the back door to the
detached garage. Decker put his arm around me and said, “Can I
drive your new SUV? I should check it out for you.”

Laughing, I looked into his twinkling
brown eyes and said, “It doesn’t need checking out, but you’re more
than welcome to drive.”

He gave me a little hug then he took
the keys from my outstretched hands. “You never get all feminist
about me driving all the time. I like that.”

“It’s got nothing to do with feminism.
I’d just rather ride than drive. We live in a very pretty area and
I love to look at the scenery.”

“Whatever the reason, I like
it.”

We pulled into the parking lot of the
Dixie Diner, crowded with eighteen-wheelers on one side and autos
closer to the building. We waited for a grey-haired lady with a
cane to be escorted to her car by an equally old man. They got into
a shiny black Cadillac, the man’s head barely visible over the
steering wheel. Decker pulled into the space they had just vacated
and we headed for the diner.

We weaved our way through the shelves
in the gas station, to the back where the diner was located.
Surprisingly, we found an empty booth near the restaurant entrance.
The waitress plopped down two thick ceramic mugs and filled them
both with coffee. “I’ll be back in a minute for your
order.”

“She’s fast,” I said, sipping my
coffee. “This diner is one of my biggest customers.”

“They buy their coffee beans from you?
No wonder it tastes so good.” Decker said. He picked up the menus
that the waitress had left for us and handed one to me.

I shook my head, “Don’t need it. I know
what I want.”

When the waitress returned to take our
orders a few minutes later, I took the time to look at her. Her
blue and white striped uniform couldn’t hide her curvaceous shape.
Her dark hair was cut into an ultra-short pixie hairstyle
reminiscent of the 1970s. When she asked for our orders, I said.
‘I’ll have the ham and cheese omelet, hash browns and a short stack
of pancakes.”

“Make that two,” Decker said. He looked
at me and asked, “How can you eat so much and stay so
trim?”

“Trim?” I said. I’d never thought of
myself as trim. At a little over five foot, 3 inches, I was
definitely not a size 2, although I still could squeeze into single
digit sizes. “Guess I have a good metabolism.”

We dove into our piping hot omelets as
soon as the waitress plopped them down in front of us. “I know her
from somewhere. Her hair was longer and she was a little younger.
Does she look familiar to you?” I asked between bites.

“Who?” Decker asked, looking around. He
stuffed a forkful of hash browns in his mouth.

“The waitress. I’ve seen her
somewhere.”

“Besides here? I don’t
know.”

“You come here a lot. Do you know her
name?”

“Pam.”

“How do you know that?”

Decker carefully set down his fork. He
folded his hands, smiled at me and said, “Jennifer, I looked at her
name tag. It says ‘Pam.’”

“Duh, some detective I am.”

“See, Jennifer, that’s the thing.
You’re not the detective, I am. You’re just a cute little snoop.”
He reached across the table and patted my cheek.

“Thanks a lot. Hey, Pam! Pamela Frey. I
knew she looked familiar.”

Who is Pamela Frey?”

“Whitney’s cousin. Remember! I saw her
picture in the yearbook. She went to the prom with Whitney and her
friends.”

“She doesn’t look like the type of
person who would hang around with Whitney’s crowd. She seems
nice.”

“You’re probably right. I understand
that Whitney’s father ordered Whitney to include Pam in her
activities.

When Pam returned to the table to
refill our cups and see if we needed anything else, I said, “Pam,
I’m sorry about your cousin.”

“T-t-thanks,” she stuttered.

“I wonder if I could meet with you.
There are a couple things I’d like to know and I think you may have
the answers.”

“I don’t know anything about Whitney’s
death. I haven’t even seen her in weeks. I’m pretty
busy.”

“I promise not to take too much of your
time. Since you were her cousin, you probably knew her better than
most people.”

“Are you a cop, like Jerry?” she asked,
pointing to Decker.

“No,” I said trying to think of
something that might persuade her to meet with me. “Sister
Bernadine asked me to look into Whitney’s death. She’s afraid that
one of the residents at the group home will be arrested and she’s
certain that no one there would hurt anyone.”

“Sister Bernadine? She was my eighth
grade teacher. Okay, I’ll meet you, but it has to be later and I
don’t have much time.”

“Anytime, anyplace, you
pick.”

“Sure, how about tomorrow? I’ll be at
the library tomorrow afternoon. Can you meet me there around five
o’clock?”

“I’ll be there. Thank you so
much.”

“No problem,” she said, slipping the
check under Decker’s saucer. Turning to the table next to us she
said, “More coffee?”

“Nice work,” Decker said. “Does
everyone respond to Sister Bernadine’s name like that?”

“I think so. Everyone loves her, always
have. Even in second grade she was everyone’s best
friend.”

“You’ve know Sister Bernadine since
second grade?”

“We met when she tried to break up a
fight between Megan and me. Been friends ever since.” I didn’t
mention that the venerable Sr. Mary Francis ordered us to all be
friends. Sister Mary was one scary nun—even to second
graders.

We left the diner and walked toward the
car. “So, Decker, what are your plans for the day?”

“I thought I’d go over to Charlie
Jackson’s campaign office and talk to the people there. How about
you?”

“I’m going to stop in at Whitney’s
condo. Maybe I can talk to Henrietta before she gets too
drunk.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Decker drove us
back to my place. We smooched in the car for a little while before
he took off in his big black truck.

I took a deep breath, slid behind the
wheel, and drove over to Whitney’s condo. We were at the Dixie
Diner so long that it was almost time for lunch. It was probably
too late to find Mrs. Wentworth sober. When I got there, I saw cars
lining the street in front of the townhouse. I finally found a
space around the corner and trudged back to Mrs. Wentworth’s
townhome.

When I got to the door, I realized that
it didn’t matter whether she was sober or not. I wasn’t going to
have a private conversation with Whitney’s mother. The place was
full of people. The dining room table was filled with food. Several
were on heating elements on the tale. In Minnesota, a casserole is
called a “hotdish.” A half dozen Jell-O salads, along with plates
and plates of brownies and other bars—some frosted, some
plain—completed the buffet. I picked up a small brownie, even
though I had just finished a huge breakfast, and munched on it. I
listened to Whitney’s neighbors talking in hushed tones while they
rearranged the food and replenished the coffee and paper
plates.

“I know it’s not nice to talk
negatively about the dead, but I can understand why someone might
kill her,” said the brown-haired lady in a dress with purple
flowers splashed all over it.

The other lady, in jeans and a
sweatshirt said, “She was a nasty little bitch. Well, not that
little, as a matter of fact. She’d park in my driveway all the
time, and then get all pissy when I asked her to move her car.
Sometimes I think she parked there just to make me mad.”

That conversation wasn’t going to be
very helpful. I already knew Whitney wasn’t liked by many people. I
walked slowly over to the china cabinet and peeked inside. Lots of
dishes. It looked like a setting for twelve. They would never be
able to have a sit-down dinner for twelve in this townhouse. I
wondered, not for the first time, how Whitney must have felt
working in the house that had been her home for most of her
life.

On the second shelf were three framed
pictures. Whitney and a guy were in two of them. I didn’t recognize
him and wondered if he was from Hermann. It was the same guy in
both pictures. The third picture was much like the one I’d seen in
the newspaper. The same group of girls only they were standing next
to a bright red Thunderbird.

I turned and walked into the living
room. People milled around, talking to each other. Holding court in
the corner of the living room was Mrs. Henrietta Wentworth. In one
hand she held a goblet of red wine, in the other a hanky with
crocheted lace edging. I wondered if Whitney had made it. I watched
her sip the wine, and then pat the corner of her eye with the
hanky. I’m sure she was in mourning for the loss of her daughter,
one more loss in a short period of time.

Still, she was enjoying the attention.
The whole scene looked like something out of a Victorian novel. I
strolled over to the sofa and looked at the photo in front of a
huge lamp with a fringed shade. This one showed Whitney and a
different guy from the one in the pictures in the china cabinet.
They were at a formal event, maybe a wedding or a dance. The
background looked a little like the Hermann Country Club, but I
couldn’t be sure.

I moseyed around the room, trying to
pick up some information that might be helpful in finding Whitney’s
killer. I heard about the outrageous price of gasoline, whose homes
were being foreclosed, and whose teenagers were arrested at a party
down by the river last Saturday night. No one in the room mentioned
Whitney except when they paid their respects to Mrs.
Wentworth.

After giving Mrs. Wentworth my
condolences, II slipped out of the room. I was about to leave when
I spotted someone coming from the kitchen with a platter filled
with bread and buns.

“Oh, no,” I thought as Natalie Younger
spotted me before I could get away. Natalie was Harold’s aunt and
my tormentor since elementary school. She loved to gossip. I found
it hard to escape once she engaged me in a “conversation.” Not that
you could call her one-sided diatribe a conversation. I turned
toward the front door, knowing I’d never make it.

“Jennifer! It took you long enough to
get here!” she scolded.

Sighing, I turned around to face her.
“I didn’t know I was expected.”

“Of course you’re expected. Bernie told
me you were going to solve this mystery and get my little Harold
off the hook.”

Little Harold? Who did she think she
was kidding? Natalie had been avoiding the mention of his name for
most of her life. She once called him “her cross to bear.” Good
grief.

“I can’t believe that Bernie told you
that.” I said.

“Well, actually, Della overheard your
conversation with Bernie and mentioned it at dinner last
night.”

“Great, now the whole town will know
and I won’t be able to get anyone to talk to me.”

“Oh, pshaw, Jennifer. I’ll keep your
little secret. In fact, I may have some information that will help
you solve the murder, just like Miss Marple!”

In one fell swoop, Natalie had managed
to call my investigation a “little secret” and insult me by
comparing me to the oldest mystery sleuth in history. Not to
mention, she used the word “pshaw.” Who says that?

“Okay, I’ll bite. What do you know that
will help me?” I figured it was better to get this over with as
quickly as possible.

“Whitney was seeing someone. You know,
romantically.”

Why not? She was a reasonably
attractive young woman. “What makes this important, Natalie?” I
asked. “So she was dating. Big deal. Do you think her boyfriend
killed her?”

“I didn’t say a boyfriend. I said
someone. She had a secret girlfriend.” Natalie gave a little huff,
crossed her arms and nodded her head.

“Whitney was gay? That sure is
information, Nat. Not sure if it’s important, though. Who was she
seeing? And how do you know about it?”

“I don’t know who the woman is. Heck,
it might not even be anyone from town.”

“And you know about this, how?” I asked
again.

“I overheard someone talking.” Natalie
was twisting the dishtowel that was tucked into the waistband of
her pristine baby blue pants.

“Who did you over hear? Okay, Natalie,
where were you snooping?”

Natalie squared her shoulders and
looked me straight in the eye. “I’m not the only one who snoops.
That’s how you found out who killed Wes last summer.”

“Fine. Just tell me who said that
Natalie was gay.”

“Shush, Jennifer. Keep your voice down,
someone will hear you.”

“Do you really think it matters in this
day and age if someone is gay? Good grief, Natalie, gays can get
married in Minnesota. They’ve come a long way, baby.”

“You may have come a long way but a lot
of people in this town don’t see it that way,” Natalie
said.