already decided to stay out of this investigation? I fast forwarded through twenty-six messages listening to the last one from the "nice" lady who said her name was Merri Cook, and she was inviting me to come for a chat about her nephew; and this time she sweetened the deal with coffee and cookies.
This really should be left for the police. If Merri Cook had something to add to Billy Wayne's death, the police should be talking to her, not me. But, then I'd have to go through that disgusting Rodney.Besides, she was asking me, not them.
For a moment I actually felt sick to my stomach then remembered I was just hungry. I would get cookies, and maybe some inside information that would lead to a break in this case.
I wondered if Miss Cook made her own cookies, or if they were store bought; then picked up my car keys and closed the door behind me.
In the Caddy, I dialed Caleb's private line and got his voice mail. I hung up. This was okay, really it was. I would see what she had to say. Maybe she would give me a clue, something that would help this homicide investigation and give me my life back. I was also hoping for oatmeal raisin—with walnuts. They're my favorite.
Merriweather Cook's house was in a newish housing development that when first built looked so far outside the city limits as to appear marooned. Not any more, it didn't. Housing developments now coated the landscape all the way to Stockton.
Since it was early evening, children played basketball in the cul-de-sac and a man lifted his hand from watering his lawn and waved as I passed. I parked, got out and walked up the paved driveway to the small tract home she listed as her address. I rang the bell and then noticed that the front door was ajar. Pushing the door open, I called, "Miss Cook? Merriweather? Hello-oo-oo… Anybody home?"
I stepped inside. "Hello-oo-oo?"
Nothing. Did I even have the right house? I backed out the door, and looked again at the house number again, then at the street sign. Right house, right street. But no Miss Cook. Inside the house, I peeked into the kitchen, the stove held a gently whistling teakettle. And there was a plate of homemade chocolate chip, and big fluffy haystack macaroon cookies, complete with paper doily.
So as not to feel completely foolish, I checked out the two bedrooms and a single bathroom off the hall, then stepped out the back door. Rose bushes lined the fence, a sprinkler arched water across a neatly trimmed lawn, and a colorful fabric-striped patio set was parked on a postage-sized cement pad.
Definitely nobody home, and no body lying dead on the floor either, thank God. She'd probably gone next door to borrow a cup of sugar to make more cookies. I ought to move in. I took a cookie and sat down on the couch to wait. Then, too impatient to sit still, I got up, and with a cookie in one hand, I tucked a soft and chewy macaroon into my cheek and ambled over to a side board crowded with framed photos.
The first was of two young women, one thin and one heavy-set. I recognized a younger version of the terrorizing harridan from the funeral home: Margery Dobson. Amazing to think one woman could hold such a sour expression for so many years. The other one had a round face and a placid, agreeable countenance. This, I assumed, was my new best friend, Miss Merriweather Cook. The next photo showed the same women with two boys between them, one tall lanky teenager next to a short, round boy. I swallowed the macaroon and stuffed the chocolate chip cookie into my mouth. With both hands free, I pulled the photo out from its frame and looked at the back. Sure enough someone had written on it: "Merriweather, Margery and the boys." Boys? Didn't her note say, Miss? Maybe like me, she'd taken back her maiden name after her divorce. But did women take back their maiden names if they had a child? Would I, if I had had a child, have taken back my maiden name?
Billy Wayne was recognizable, even with the sulky typical teenager "Why
This really should be left for the police. If Merri Cook had something to add to Billy Wayne's death, the police should be talking to her, not me. But, then I'd have to go through that disgusting Rodney.Besides, she was asking me, not them.
For a moment I actually felt sick to my stomach then remembered I was just hungry. I would get cookies, and maybe some inside information that would lead to a break in this case.
I wondered if Miss Cook made her own cookies, or if they were store bought; then picked up my car keys and closed the door behind me.
In the Caddy, I dialed Caleb's private line and got his voice mail. I hung up. This was okay, really it was. I would see what she had to say. Maybe she would give me a clue, something that would help this homicide investigation and give me my life back. I was also hoping for oatmeal raisin—with walnuts. They're my favorite.
Merriweather Cook's house was in a newish housing development that when first built looked so far outside the city limits as to appear marooned. Not any more, it didn't. Housing developments now coated the landscape all the way to Stockton.
Since it was early evening, children played basketball in the cul-de-sac and a man lifted his hand from watering his lawn and waved as I passed. I parked, got out and walked up the paved driveway to the small tract home she listed as her address. I rang the bell and then noticed that the front door was ajar. Pushing the door open, I called, "Miss Cook? Merriweather? Hello-oo-oo… Anybody home?"
I stepped inside. "Hello-oo-oo?"
Nothing. Did I even have the right house? I backed out the door, and looked again at the house number again, then at the street sign. Right house, right street. But no Miss Cook. Inside the house, I peeked into the kitchen, the stove held a gently whistling teakettle. And there was a plate of homemade chocolate chip, and big fluffy haystack macaroon cookies, complete with paper doily.
So as not to feel completely foolish, I checked out the two bedrooms and a single bathroom off the hall, then stepped out the back door. Rose bushes lined the fence, a sprinkler arched water across a neatly trimmed lawn, and a colorful fabric-striped patio set was parked on a postage-sized cement pad.
Definitely nobody home, and no body lying dead on the floor either, thank God. She'd probably gone next door to borrow a cup of sugar to make more cookies. I ought to move in. I took a cookie and sat down on the couch to wait. Then, too impatient to sit still, I got up, and with a cookie in one hand, I tucked a soft and chewy macaroon into my cheek and ambled over to a side board crowded with framed photos.
The first was of two young women, one thin and one heavy-set. I recognized a younger version of the terrorizing harridan from the funeral home: Margery Dobson. Amazing to think one woman could hold such a sour expression for so many years. The other one had a round face and a placid, agreeable countenance. This, I assumed, was my new best friend, Miss Merriweather Cook. The next photo showed the same women with two boys between them, one tall lanky teenager next to a short, round boy. I swallowed the macaroon and stuffed the chocolate chip cookie into my mouth. With both hands free, I pulled the photo out from its frame and looked at the back. Sure enough someone had written on it: "Merriweather, Margery and the boys." Boys? Didn't her note say, Miss? Maybe like me, she'd taken back her maiden name after her divorce. But did women take back their maiden names if they had a child? Would I, if I had had a child, have taken back my maiden name?
Billy Wayne was recognizable, even with the sulky typical teenager "Why
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