Read Herring Hunt Page 11

  When I was done reporting, I turned to Nana Jo.

  “Freddie’s son, Mark, found out that our friend Virgil Russell, spent time in prison for fraud, embezzlement, and”—she paused—“manslaughter.”

  Everyone sat up in their chairs and fired questions at the same time.

  “Hold your horses. Virgil was convicted of murdering his partner, a man named . . .” She scrolled her iPad. “Here it is, Max Simpson.”

  I gasped. “Simpson, that’s Melody’s last name.”

  Nana Jo nodded. “Yep. Max had a daughter.”

  “Elizabeth Mae Simpson,” we all said together.

  She nodded.

  Dawson looked shocked. “But that’s . . .” He shook his head. “That’s just wrong. He had his hands all over her.”

  I didn’t understand that either. “If he went to jail for murdering her father, it seems odd she’d be having a relationship with him.”

  We talked until our food arrived, and then we put aside talk of murder until we finished eating. Irma hadn’t been able to clean her teeth, so she drank her dinner and had her food placed in a take-out container. She was pretty tipsy and abandoned our group to flirt with a couple of men at the bar.

  Jenna looked amazed by all of the activity and whispered to me, “Are they like this all the time?”

  Dorothy had joined Irma at the bar and both were drinking like fish. Emma and Jillian looked amused.

  I looked at Dorothy and Irma. “This is nothing. You should see them when they really get revved up.”

  Jenna looked as though her eyes would pop out of her head. “Seriously?”

  I nodded. “They can be a handful, but they’re also amazing at using their connections to collect information.”

  Jenna nodded. “I was impressed. They’ve found out a lot of information in a short period of time. Today is Thursday. It’s only been four days.”

  I thought about that. Had it only been four days? It sure felt like a lot longer. “Well, Nana Jo gave us a deadline.”

  Jenna frowned. “Deadline?”

  I hid my smile. “Yeah. She said we needed to have this figured out before next Saturday’s game.”

  Chapter 11

  Dorothy and Irma were too drunk to get home alone. Zaq volunteered to make sure Emma and Jillian arrived safely back on campus. I suspected Zaq had his own motives behind volunteering for taxi service. He and Emma were hitting it off well. I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it freed me up to get the girls back to the retirement village safely. Before they left, Jillian and Emma hugged me.

  “Thank you for dinner and for including us in your investigation,” Jillian said.

  I hugged them both. “Thank you both. You were very helpful.”

  Jillian looked as though she was working up the courage to speak.

  Emma poked her in the ribs. “Ask her.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “We wondered if it would be okay if... well, we were hoping maybe—” Jillian stammered.

  “We wanted to know if we could continue to help investigate,” Emma finished.

  I was surprised. “Well, I’m not sure.”

  “Please,” they begged.

  “We really want to help,” Emma said. “After all, even though I didn’t like her, she was still my roommate.”

  “And neither one of us believe Dawson killed her,” Jillian said.

  I’d noticed a few looks between Dawson and Jillian while we were eating. Was something developing? However, I couldn’t allow sentimental feelings to influence my judgment. “Girls, I truly appreciate your willingness to help.”

  “Why do I sense a ‘but’ is coming?” Emma asked.

  “But this may seem like fun and games, but it’s serious. Someone killed Melody. The killer may be on campus. If someone thinks you girls are asking questions and suspects you might figure this thing out, you might be in danger.” I shuddered at the memory of what it felt like to be held at gunpoint during the summer. “It’s too risky, and I can’t take the chance you might get hurt.”

  “But we’ll be very careful. There has to be something we can do to help,” Jillian said.

  I thought about it. “Okay. Here’s how you can help.” I looked seriously at the girls and tried to help them see the gravity of the situation. I turned to Emma. “As her roommate, maybe you could check with the university to see if anyone will be claiming her things. See if she has any family. Offer to pack up her belongings.”

  Emma nodded eagerly. “I can do that.”

  I turned to Jillian. “You can help by organizing a memorial.”

  Jillian frowned. “A memorial?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Talk to the administration and put up flyers. Maybe a vigil of some sort.”

  “But I don’t see . . .”

  “Once the memorial is scheduled, then we’ll come and observe the people who show up. It’s a long shot, but worth a try.”

  Jillian’s face lit up. “I get it. You’re hoping the murderer will show up.”

  “Something like that. Actually, I’m hoping we’ll run into people who knew her so we can talk to them.” I looked at both girls. “Can you do that?”

  They nodded eagerly.

  “Good. But please be careful. This is very serious, and I don’t want the killer to get suspicious.”

  They gave me their solemn promises to be careful and left with Zaq. I still felt nervous and wondered if I was doing the right thing by involving them. However, something in the back of my mind told me if I didn’t give them a job to do, they might go out on their own, which could be more dangerous. This way I hoped to control and protect them, if needed. I shook off the doubt and began the process of corralling the girls. Irma took a bit of persuasion, but we finally convinced her.

  As we were leaving, the manager returned. “I hope you all enjoyed yourselves.”

  “Yes. Thank you. The food was very good,” I said.

  “I’m glad you liked it. I hope you’ll come back again soon.”

  Even though I was standing with Nana Jo and Jenna, he stared directly at me.

  Heat climbed up my neck. “I’m sure we will. You’re so close.”

  For some reason, I found it hard to make eye contact and focused on pretty much everything except his eyes.

  “Hi. My name is Josephine Thomas.” Nana Jo stuck out her hand.

  “Frank Patterson.” He shook it.

  “Frank, we’re glad to meet you. This is my granddaughter Jenna Rutherford, and my other granddaughter Samantha Washington.”

  We shook.

  “Sam owns Market Street Mysteries down the street. You should swing by sometime and check it out.” Nana Jo was clearly matchmaking, and the heat in my face intensified.

  “Nana Jo! Everyone doesn’t read mysteries,” I said.

  Nana Jo smiled. “Do you like mysteries, Mr. Patterson?”

  He smiled. “Actually, I do. I just haven’t had much time to read, with opening the restaurant. I hope that changes soon.”

  “Perhaps your wife might enjoy mysteries?” Jenna asked with a coy smile.

  Subtlety wasn’t my family’s strong suit. I tried to give Jenna a discreet pinch and prayed the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

  Frank Patterson laughed. “I’m not married. “

  “Really? A nice-looking man like you? How on earth did you manage to escape?” Nana Jo joked.

  Frank smiled. “I guess I’ve been too busy to settle down.”

  “Sam here is single too. What a coincidence.”

  “Widow. I’m widowed. I’m sure Mr. Patterson doesn’t want to hear about this. Oh my, look at the time.” I grabbed my grandmother and sister by the arms and propelled them toward the door. “Thanks for everything. We’ll see you around.”

  Outside on the street, I scowled at both of them. “What exactly do you two think you’re doing?”

  They smirked. “Who, us?”

  “Yes. You.”

  Nana Jo s
miled. “We’re just being neighborly.”

  I huffed and stomped off toward the bookstore and ignored the laughter I heard from behind.

  At the bookstore, the girls picked up a couple more books in the Mrs. Pollifax series, which they’d started reading over the summer. I was happy they enjoyed the series and decided to continue reading it. Although, Irma preferred more sex in her books and had also started reading J. D. Robb’s In Death series. I preferred cozy mysteries, which tended not to have sex, violence, or bad language. Knowing J. D. Robb was the pseudonym for romance writer Nora Roberts, I thought there might be enough sex mixed in with the mystery to satisfy Irma. So far, she seemed pretty happy with my recommendation.

  After their purchases were made, I drove the girls back to the retirement village and headed back to MISU to talk to the football team.

  MISU wasn’t a large university, so you wouldn’t expect the athletic facility to be large either. However, you’d be wrong. The athletic and convocation center was a large facility which hosted not only athletic events for the university but was also a venue for concerts and other entertainment for the community. I remembered coming there as a child to see the circus. The main auditorium had more than five thousand seats. It wasn’t as large as JAMU’s stadium, which could hold almost ten thousand, but it was still bigger than Carnegie Hall.

  Behind the main facility was another smaller building, which was where the security guard directed me to go after I showed my note and driver’s license. I parked and followed the signs to the media room.

  The media room looked like a small movie theatre with a large screen that covered an entire wall, a projector, and about one hundred seats. Nearly every seat was taken when I entered. I was at the front of the room and felt like all eyes were directed at me. The lights were low, so I took a minute for my eyes to adjust and then hurried up the stairs to find a seat near the back. I was spotted just as I started to climb.

  “Mrs. Washington?” a voice boomed from the ceiling.

  I froze and looked around but couldn’t tell where the voice originated. The lights suddenly came up, and at the top of the theatre, there was a glass booth, just like at the movie theatre. Peter Castleton was waving at me behind the glass and motioned to indicate he was coming down.

  I waited where I was until he and Coach Phillips came through a small door and descended the stairs. When they reached me, Peter Castleton did the introductions. “Samantha Washington, you know Coach Phillips.”

  We nodded and shook hands.

  Coach Phillips was a little taller than me. I estimated his weight at one hundred fifty. I knew from the news that at thirty-seven, he was one of the youngest head football coaches in his division, but given MISU’s success during his first season as head coach, he was getting a lot of attention. He always wore a baseball cap, which he tipped when we were introduced. I suspected the cap was an attempt to hide his receding hairline.

  The players watched us in relative silence. Peter Castleton faced the group. “Guys, this is Mrs. Washington. She’s Dawson’s friend and has been trying to help clear him. She’d like to ask you all some questions. I know Coach Phillips and I would really appreciate any help you can provide.”

  Coach Phillips and Castleton left, along with some other older men I assumed were assistant coaches. I was facing a room full of large men and for a moment, I felt awkward. However, I took a deep breath and reminded myself of the many years, as a high school teacher, when I spoke to students who were a lot more dangerous and probably a lot less interested in what I had to say.

  Before I could speak, a large guy who looked like a small tank raised his hand. He was at least four hundred pounds.

  “Yes?”

  “How’s Dawg?”

  I scowled. “Dog? You want to know about my dogs?” Surely this guy wasn’t asking about Snickers and Oreo.

  The group laughed.

  “No. Daaawg? You know, Dawson.”

  Reality dawned. “Oh, I get it. Dawson is . . . hanging in there.”

  He beat his chest with his fist twice and then repeated the gesture. “Tell him to stay strong. I don’t believe he killed nobody.” The small tank took his seat.

  “I’m really glad to hear you say that. I don’t believe he killed anyone either.” The English teacher in me couldn’t let the grammatical error slide, but it was really the least of my problems. “That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping one of you can tell me something that might help prove he didn’t kill her.”

  They looked around at each other, but no one volunteered any information. Finally, my tank friend raised his hand again. “How you gonna do that?”

  “Well, right now, I’m just looking for any information you can tell me about Melody or anyone that might have a reason to want to hurt her.”

  A guy who was smaller than my tank friend, but bigger than a Volkswagen Beetle, said, “Dat girl was a honey trap. Dawg should a stayed clear.”

  “Did everyone feel like she was a honey trap?”

  The guys mumbled amongst themselves. Most nodded.

  The Beetle said, “She should a stuck with B Ball.”

  Several guys laughed

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “She started with the basketball team but got clocked. Guess she decided basketball was too dangerous.”

  They laughed.

  “Wait. Are you saying she used to date a basketball player?”

  “Yeah.”

  One guy who was sitting near the front said, “Man, I forgot ’bout that.” He laughed. “She got whipped.”

  I cringed but quickly wiped all judgment from my face. If I wanted them to be open and honest, I had to create an environment where they felt free to share openly. “What happened?”

  Several guys started talking at once, so I held up a hand. “One at a time.”

  Tank said, “Well, it must a been right after the winter basketball tournament. The men’s team won the tournament and then the honeys started sniffing round. Next thing you know, Melody is hooked up with the star forward, Trammel Braxton.”

  I pulled out a notepad and took notes as quickly as I could.

  “So, I heard one day, Trammel and Melody were out at a party when Tray’s girlfriend comes up and coldcocks Melody.”

  “Girlfriend? I thought Melody was his girlfriend?” I said.

  Tank laughed. “Apparently, so did she. Unfortunately, Trammel forgot to tell his baby mama.”

  The players laughed.

  “So, this other girl shows up and hits Melody?”

  He snorted. “She beat Melody. She beat Trammel. She beat everybody who tried to stop her from beating Trammel and Melody.”

  Tank was an excellent storyteller, with great facial expressions and body movements to go along with his tale. He burst into laughter at one point. When he pulled himself together, he said, “Man, I ain’t never seen no woman fight like that. She whooped them like Muhammad Ali whooped Joe Frazier in the Thrilla in Manilla.”

  Inside I cringed at the violence. “Anybody know this slugger’s name?”

  They shook their heads. Tank responded, “Nahw. You gonna need to get that from Trammel.”

  “Where might I find this Trammel Braxton?” I asked.

  “He was staying in those fancy apartments on the lake, but now his girl and baby moved up here, and they’re staying in off-campus housing.”

  One young man who had been relatively quiet throughout most of the conversation finally spoke up. “I can tell you where he lives.” He was probably two hundred fifty pounds and about six feet. Compared to the other players, he looked like a shrimp.

  I asked a few more questions, but no one had any other suggestions of possible murderers. I wrote my name and e-mail address on a white board near the front of the room. The guys filed out and most sent a message to Dawson to hang tough, stay strong, or some other manly message as they left. Some simply pounded their chest like the tank had earlier in a Tarzan gesture.

  The shrimp s
tayed until everyone left. He provided directions to Trammel’s apartment.

  By the time I got home, it was dark and I felt exhausted. However, I wanted to get some writing done, which would allow my subconscious to sift through the information I’d learned today.

  Thompkins had mastered the art of silently enter ing and leaving rooms. He entered the servants’ hall and watched Millie and Flossie unobserved for sev eral minutes. Flossie could barely contain herself as she told Millie what she’d seen.

  Thompkins had heard rumors for years about Lord Charles. He knew Lord Charles was a man given to excess. He ate in excess, drank in excess, and pur sued women in excess. However, when he was seen by the maid leaving the room of the Duchess of Windsor in the early morning, this was excessive, even for him.

  “Gawd, you don’t say?”

  Millie’s shock and surprised expression were everything Flossie could have hoped.

  “And that weren’t all.” Flossie looked around to make sure Mrs. McDuffie wasn’t around. “He was wearing pants, but his shirt was unbuttoned, and he was barefoot and carrying his shoes. He was skulking around like a thief in the night.”

  Millie stared openmouthed. “Oh my, poor Edward. I wonder if he knows.”

  Thompkins had heard enough. He moved forward and coughed.

  Both girls were so engrossed in their conversation they failed to notice his approach.

  “Knows what?”

  His question caused the girls to jump.

  “Nothing, sir,” Flossie said.

  “Nonsense. If there’s something going on, you need to tell me at once.”

  Thompkins had long ago learned the importance of a stern look. He applied it to good use. Flossie shared what she’d seen with the butler.

  He frowned. “You will not discuss what you’ve seen with anyone. What happens in this house stays in this house. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” both girls said.

  “Now, get back to work.”

  The girls turned and returned to their duties.

  Thompkins went in search of Mrs. McDuffie. He didn’t have to search long. As he passed the small room he used as an office, he heard the distinct voice of the housekeeper.