TWENTY-EIGHT AND A HALF WISHES (A ROSE GARDNER MYSTERY, BOOK 1)

CHAPTER THREE

Chapter Three 

Henryetta is a pretty safe town, so, any time there’s a murder, word spreads fast. Especially if it's the murder of an upstanding citizen in the community, meaning anyone who wasn’t a derelict, habitual drunk, or criminal. While some would argue Momma’s qualifications as an “upstanding citizen,” there was no denying she didn’t fall into the other three categories.

The police showed up about five minutes after my neighbor called. They blazed down the street, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The people soon followed. Kids might run out of their houses giddy with excitement at the first strains of music from an ice cream truck, but for the adults of Henryetta it was sirens. Fire truck sirens would do, but nothing piqued their excitement like the wail of a police car.

In all the ruckus, my neighbor acquired a shirt and someone brought me an afghan and threw it over my legs. Why someone thought my legs should be covered on a sticky, hot evening was a good question. It must have been a way to feel useful, like boiling water in a medical emergency. Nevertheless, I sat in the old wicker chair with a crocheted afghan across my legs, in too much shock to think about removing it, even as the perspiration pooled under the woolen threads.

When the police got out of their patrol cars, my neighbor met them at the curb. Flashlight beams bobbing wildly, they ran for the open side door of Momma’s house. An ambulance pulled up, followed by two more police cruisers. I didn’t know how many police cars the city of Henryetta owned, but I was willing to bet money all of them were currently parked in front of my house.

The crowd in the street continued to grow and my neighbor made his way back to his porch, clearly uncomfortable. I suspected he hadn’t been in this type of situation before, which I supposed was a positive character trait. He stood about three feet away and crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight from side to side. He snuck glances at me like he wanted to say something until he cleared his throat.

“So…can I get you anything?”

His question stumped me. I had no idea if I needed anything. My mind felt detached from my body, like I was watching a movie playing in front of me instead of real life. Maybe I should ask for popcorn. I looked up at him with an expression of bewilderment.

He took pity on me. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

He disappeared and left his front door open. A shaft of light made an abstract geometric shape on the front porch. The light attracted moths and June bugs, which flittered around and ricocheted off the columns that held up the porch roof. He emerged from the doorway and swatted the bugs away with one hand, a glass of ice water in the other.

“Thank you,” I said as he handed the glass to me. “I’m sorry, I don't know your name.”

“Joe McAllister.”

I nodded my response, wondering why he didn’t ask mine. “I’m Rose.” I was sitting on his porch while the coroner put my Momma in a body bag. This seemed like a first-name-basis situation.

He nodded curtly. “Yeah, I know.”

Unsure what to make of that, I realized I was in no shape to reason anything out.

Another car pulled up and Violet burst out like a ball from a cannon. “Rose!” She scanned the crowd searching for me in the madness.

I was about to call out to her when Joe shouted instead. “She’s over here.”

Violet jerked her head toward Joe and ran, leaping onto the porch. She collapsed on her knees at my feet. “Is it true? Is Momma dead?”

Tears welled up in my eyes, but didn't fall. I nodded my head.