Murder On The Mind

Murder On The Mind - Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

We sat down to eat dinner watching the kitchen TV. The top story on the six o’clock news was indeed the anonymous tip the cops had received on where to find the last of Sumner’s remains. The reports sounded so sanitized. The man was viciously killed, gutted like a deer, and the news media tiptoed around the truth. I suppose they were looking out for the tender sensibilities of children in the audience, but was the reality of Sumner’s murder that much worse than the violent fantasy of network dramas?

A brown-eyed blonde reporter with big hair from Channel 7 stood by the roadside with a live report. We even saw our shovel. I was surprised she didn’t try to interview it. She hinted it was the murderer who’d tipped the cops.

Yeah, right.

After dinner, I went back to my room to draw up a research list for the library, but found I couldn’t concentrate. I tried going over the news clippings, with the same results, and instead toyed with the idea of calling Maggie. I thought about her a lot lately. I wondered what her apartment looked like, where she shopped for groceries, what she liked to do on cold winter evenings, if she slept in flannel or nothing at all.... And I wondered if it was too soon to call her again.

I had to force myself to think of other things. Something bothered me about my first visit to Sumner’s neighborhood—nobody seemed to have seen anything the night the body was dumped. People usually want to be helpful, especially in a murder investigation. Of course, I hadn’t spoken with all the neighbors. If I had my own car, I might’ve spent a day tracking down everyone.

Someone had to have seen something the night of the murder.

Stretching out on my bed, I realized that so far I’d been pretty timid in pushing this investigation. Not my usual style. But I’d been busted down to field investigator, and then unemployed for so long. And that stupid mugging.... Richard’s reluctance to believe in me hadn’t helped, either. But ultimately, the problem was mine. So what was I going to do about it?

I’d been a damned good investigator, so why was I holding back? Despite my success earlier in the day, I knew I couldn’t depend on my funny feelings to solve the case. I had to do some real, hard-nosed digging. I wanted to talk with Sam Nielsen, the reporter from The Buffalo News, and I needed to make my peace, or at least attempt it, with Detective Hayden.

I hauled myself up and headed for the kitchen. Searching the cabinets, I found an unopened package of rainbow chip cookies. I stared at the drawing of the little hollow tree. My mother had drilled into me that you should never, ever take cookies from an unopened package when you hadn’t paid for them yourself. Despite the fact that Richard’s millions could buy a lot more cookies, the rule still applied.

I closed the cupboard door and again longed for my own car, so that I could go buy my own cookies, or nachos, or beer. Having no money put a definite crimp in that scenario. I hadn’t owned a car in years, although I’d always kept my license current. In Manhattan, a car was pointless; murders occurred to protect parking spaces. But occasionally Shelley and I would rent a car and spend summer weekends at quaint little bed-and-breakfast inns in Cape May or head for the Green Mountains of Vermont.

I shook my head clear of the memories, then realized I’d remembered something good about my time with Shelley. Two years after her death, it still hurt to think about her.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, I realized that for the first time since the mugging I felt downright bored. I truly was on the mend. I looked around and caught sight of the phone book on the counter. What I really wanted was to call Maggie.

And say what?

Instead, I found myself flipping through the white pages, searching the columns of six-point type. I already knew Sharon Walker’s name wasn’t there, but there was a James M. Walker listed at an East Aurora address.