Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

The Law and Daughter Series

Even in a small town, crime is a reality, and residents have to be careful. But criminals do too, when Fran Valentine’s on the case . . .

MUGGING MRS. JONES

by John M. Floyd

Sheriff Lucy Valentine stood beside her office window, sucked in her stomach, turned sideways, hooked her thumbs in her gunbelt, and studied her reflection.

“Time for another diet,” a voice said, from the doorway.

The sheriff exhaled, then turned and studied her visitor: an oversized lady holding an oversized purse. “Do you ever knock, Mother?”

Fran Valentine raised an eyebrow. “Why should I? This is a county building—my tax dollars pay for it.”

Lucy dropped into her desk chair, which groaned like a sick dog. “That’s probably why my office furniture’s forty years old.”

“Your chair’d be fine if you didn’t eat a superburger at the diner every day,” Fran said.

Lucy heaved a sigh and pointed to a pile of papers on the desk. “I’m working late, Mother, in case you didn’t notice. Was there something you wanted?”

“Nope. Just saw your lights on, and wondered if anything interesting—”

The phone rang. Lucy stabbed the speakerphone button, and Deputy Zack Wilson’s voice said, “Sheriff! Pam Hart’s been attacked and robbed, at her house!”

Lucy and Fran stared at each other, openmouthed.

“—was happening,” Fran finished.

#

They arrived at the scene within fifteen minutes. Wilson and Deputy Ed Malone were both there already. Malone filled them in: Pamela Hart, aged 33, single, 52 Martin Street, had been rushed to the hospital. She was found unconscious in her entrance hall around eight p.m., dressed to go out but minus purse and jewelry. The house was ransacked.

The next-door neighbor who’d found her said he’d seen three different men approach Pam’s house between seven and eight: a pizza deliveryman, a campaign worker handing out flyers, and a deacon at the local Baptist church. He couldn’t remember the order of their visits, but his description of cars and faces enabled the deputies to begin the search for suspects.

“Looks like Mrs. Jones just isn’t safe anymore,” Fran said, on the ride back to the sheriff’s office.

“You mean Ms. Hart?”

“I mean Mrs. Jones. Back when I was in college, a lot of kids took summer jobs selling dictionaries and bibles, door to door. Mrs. Jones—no “Ms.” designations back then, and very few unmarried homeowners—was the name they used to describe the universal target of their sales force.” She sighed. “These days nobody’s safe. Buyer or seller.”

“We’ll find him,” Lucy said.

Back at the office, she phoned the hospital to check on Pam Hart. The doc said she’d taken a blow to the head, but would be okay.

“Guess when she wakes up we’ll ask her who did it,” Lucy said to Fran.

“But our thief might be gone before then.”

Lucy agreed. She was about to say more when deputies Malone and Wilson marched in with three men in tow. All three had been rounded up in less than an hour. One of the advantages of a small town.

The suspects were placed in three separate rooms for questioning, and Fran convinced her daughter—after ten minutes of arguing—to let her assist.

But the interrogations were disappointing. All three said Pam Hart was fine when they left her, all said they’d never been inside her home, and none of them had seen any of the others.

The twentyish campaign worker had looked bored the whole time. “I think I had her interested in my candidate, there at the front door,” he said. “But she seemed to be in a hurry.”

“You see anyone else there with her?” the sheriff asked.

“I told you, I didn’t go in the house.”

“But you saw nothing suspicious from the front?”

He shook his head. “Just a hallway, a rug, a bunch of closed doors.”

“Was she wearing any jewelry?”

“A necklace, I think. Maybe earrings.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No ma’am.”

“But you were standing right there with her.”

A shrug. “I was in a hurry too. I was assigned five streets.”

“Who’s your candidate?” Fran asked him.

The young man held up a leaflet. Beneath a grinning photo were the words ALBERT THAYER, THE CHOICE FOR MAYOR.

Fran groaned. “Al’s running for mayor? What’s his platform?”

“His platform?”

“His stand on the issues. You know, education? Crime?”

Another shrug. “All I know is, he’s a friend of my dad’s.”

Fran rolled her eyes.

The pizza guy was next. Again, Lucy began the questioning.

“We’ve done some checking,” she said, “and we show no record of Ms. Hart ordering a pizza.”

“She didn’t,” he answered. “I got the address wrong.”

“When did you realize that?”

“Just before I rang her doorbell. I was supposed to be at 52 Marshall instead of 52 Martin.”

“Did you see her at all?” Fran asked.

“For a second, through the glass in the door. Doubt she even saw me before I left. She was standing at a mirror in the entrance hall, beside the kitchen door.”

“Was it open or closed?”

“Closed. She was dressed to go somewhere, looked like. Black outfit, sparkly necklace.”

Fran glanced at Lucy, who made a note: CHECK PIZZA DELIVERY, 52 MARSHALL.

Further questioning led nowhere. Five minutes later they spoke to the final suspect, a deacon at Northside Baptist.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” he growled.

“And I haven’t accused you of anything,” Lucy said. “I’m just looking for information.”

“What kind?”

“Any kind. For one thing, what was your business there?”

“At Ms. Hart’s?” Raising his chin, the man said, “To invite her to our church revival.”

“Revival?”

“All next week. You haven’t heard?”

“Sorry. I’m Episcopalian, myself.”

“I’m sorry too,” the deacon said. His look said the poor sheriff was beyond hope.

“Well, did you?” Fran asked him.

“Did I what?”

“Invite her.”

“Of course I did. She said she’d try to attend.”

“And this was about what time?”

“Seven-thirty, maybe eight.”

When they’d stepped outside, the sheriff checked her notepad and spoke with Deputy Malone while her mother scratched her head. When Malone left, Lucy asked, “Any ideas so far?”

“Maybe,” Fran said. “What about you?”

“Well, I’m no expert on religion—”

“You can say that again. I haven’t seen you at church in two months.”

“—but I’d say eight’s a little late to be polling the parishioners.”

Fran nodded. “Me too. How about the pizza man?”

“Ed’s making some calls. I’ll know in a minute.”

She went down the hall, stayed awhile, and returned holding a note.

“The delivery checked out. 52 Marshall Street. Around 8:15.”

“So he did stop at the wrong house, first,” Fran said.

“But he could still have committed the crime.”

“And the campaign guy?”

“Too arrogant, I thought. Besides, I don’t trust anybody who’d campaign for Albert Thayer.”

“You don’t trust anybody, period,” Fran pointed out. They were in Lucy’s office by now, sitting down.

“I trust you, I suppose.”

“I’m your mother.”

“That’s true.”

“And I’m not a suspect.”

“No, I guess not.”

A silence passed. Lucy looked at the silent phone and Fran looked out at the night. The window was up, and a warm breeze floated in off the street. Crickets sang in the patch of woods across the road.

“Know the difference between Baptists and Episcopalians?” Fran asked.

Lucy blew out a sigh. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Episcopalians speak to each other in the liquor store.”

Lucy closed her eyes and shook her head. Fran kept looking out the window, grinning a little now.

Just as Lucy was about to say something, they heard the squeak of hinges on the front door. Both of them watched through Lucy’s open doorway as Deputy Ed Malone stomped in and tossed his hat on his desk. “Any word on Ms. Hart?” Lucy called to him.

“Still unconscious.”

Lucy turned to her mother. “So what’s the next step? I can’t hold these guys all night.”

She watched her mother a moment. Fran’s face had gone serious again.

“Mother?”

“You won’t have to hold them all night,” Fran said.

“What?”

Fran looked up at her and smiled.

“Good grief,” Lucy said. “You know who did it?”

“I know who’s lying,” Fran said. “It just hit me.”

“What did?”

Fran leaned forward, her elbows propped on her knees. “All three suspects said they’d never been inside the victim’s house, right?”

“Right.”

“And yet one of them knew which hallway door—even when closed—led to the kitchen.”

Lucy frowned, and then blinked. “The deliveryman!”

Fran nodded. “He brought pizza, but I bet he left with a lot more.”

While Lucy sat there thinking that over, Fran rose from her chair and hitched her purse-strap higher on her shoulder. “Gotta scoot, Luce. Don’t forget you’re coming over for supper tomorrow.”

“You don’t want to see his face when I arrest him?”

“Maybe next time. Things to do, places to go.”

Lucy looked at the wall clock. “Where’s there to go at 10:30 at night?”

Fran hesitated. “The liquor store, actually.”

“The what?”

“You said you’d like a rum cake—I can’t make one without rum.”

Lucy held up a palm like a traffic cop. “No need to explain. Go where you want.”

“I intend to.”

“One thing, though.” Lucy grinned. “If you see any Baptists in there—”

Fran stopped at the door and looked back at her daughter.

“Don’t talk to them,” Lucy said.