Answering Machine Knew Read online

  A silver wine cooler set next to the toaster on the counter. “Sounds like a woman that's going to be missed by many for all the good she did. Volunteers are hard to find these days,” I said as I leaned against the counter. I pulled the ice bucket out and looked in. A small pool of water was in the bottom. “Did your mom drink wine?”

  “On special occasions, she would have a glass when everyone else did. She didn't drink it here at home by herself. Just when we went out to eat,” he answered.

  I nodded as I eyed the refrigerator. “Did she keep much food in her refrigerator?”

  Bill shrugged.

  “I was just thinking you maybe should clean it out, before the food spoils,” I suggested as I opened the door.

  “Oh, gosh, I didn't think of that. Thanks for mentioning it,” he said, coming to look over my shoulder.

  I put on a glove and pulled out a bottle of wine. “Look what I found, a bottle of wine beside a deli platter of half eaten cheese and crackers. It's been opened.”

  Bill's mouth dropped up. “No kidding!” That was all he could manage.

  I didn't elaborate. Let the poor man come to his own conclusions about his mother. “The condiments and jelly you could take home and finish. The wine bottle has to go with me. I want it dusted for prints.”

  Bill Hutson gave me a curious look, but he didn't ask why. My guess is he suspected why and didn't really want to think of his mother getting cozy with men other than his father.

  “Did your mom have a rural garbage pickup out here?”

  “Yes, I just called to stop the pickups,” Bill said.

  “Where did Mrs. Hutson keep the garbage cans?”

  “In the garage. Want to look in them?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I'll show you,” Bill said as we walked to the garage. He pointed. “The trash cans are right along the wall in front of the car. What are you looking for?”

  I debated telling him his mother's right hand was cleaned after she died then decided against it. “I don't have anything in mind. Just want to make sure we don't miss anything.”

  Bill lifted the lid on the first can. The black sack in it was empty. He lifted the lid on the other can. The sack was half full of empty cans and plastic milk and juice bottles.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary in these cans is there?” He asked.

  “No, not a thing unusual,” I replied.

  By that time, Briceson carried the answering machine to the car.

  After Hutson locked the back door, I told him we were thinking about going across the road to visit with the neighbors behind the bean field. He could go ahead and leave.

  Briceson back around and started down the driveway. “You want me to go on across the road to the Baxter place?”

  I shook my head. “No, I just told Hutson that to stall. Slow down and let the man get a head start on us. I want you to stop at the end of the driveway. We're going to do some looking around, and I don't want Hutson watching.”

  After Briceson stopped, I told him to walk the ditch on his side and I'd walk the ditch on the other side. If we didn't find anything, we'd cross the road and walk the ditch by the mailbox.

  “What are we looking for?” Briceson asked.

  “A bloody towel or washcloth or some kind of material that was used to wash up Alice Hutson's hand after she died,” I said. “Grab one of those large evidence bags in the back seat and give me one just in case we need them.”

  I'd never make a very good outdoor hiker in wilderness areas. The thick ditch vegetation, grass, Queen Anne's lace and someone's discarded tiger lilies, came up to my knees.

  Right away I wished I had a stick or something to bend the plants over so I could see under them. This looked like a good place for snakes to hide. If I had been thinking, I'd have told Briceson to walk both sides the ditch while I waited for him in the car. Too late now.

  I walked as far as a field drive and crossed over to walk the opposite ditch. Briceson had done the same and had just came past the mailbox to meet me when he let out a whoop and bent over. Hanging out of his clear bag was a hand towel that was more red than its original blue.

  I've never been so glad to get out of a place in my life. The ditch bank was steep, but I made it and walked in the road to meet Briceson. “Good job,” I praised.

  “How did you know this towel would be in the ditch?” Briceson asked.

  “Simple, you have to learn to think like someone that's guilty of something. It wouldn't do to leave the towel lay around in the house so why not get rid of it in a ditch full of weeds and grass where it would be concealed,” I explained.

  Chapter 8

  We checked in at the station so the chief knew what we'd been doing, but I didn't give Briceson a chance to sit. I told him, “We need to keep moving if we're going to stop at the lab and the morgue before lunch. We need the results back as quickly as possible.”

  Briceson leveled me with a questioning look. “Was there a reason you didn't let me check the message on the machine in the bedroom?”

  “Like I said, I didn't want a print smudged on the play button. The other reason is I didn't know who placed the call. So I thought it was better not to play it for the first time in front of Bill Hutson.”

  Briceson frowned. “Why?”

  “He doesn't know his mother had two boyfriends that showed up at night after he checked on her. I didn't want to break the news to him unless we have to.”

  Briceson whistled. “Isn't that something that a woman her age had two suitors? Apparently, the old lady wasn't as sick as she let on to her son.”

  “Apparently not,” I agreed.

  “How are we going to find out who the men are?”

  “I have an idea formulating in my head. Mabel Baxter didn't know them, but she could tell me the color of the cars that drove in and stayed for a while. We do have a picture of the car tracks in the garage to match to a car if we can find it,” I shared. “Did you find out anything about the Baxters?”

  Briceson whipped out his note pad. “Henry and Mabel Baxter own a small acreage behind the hill in the bean field. They're retired,” He recited.

  “We already knew that much,” I said dryly. “Mabel Baxter doesn't have much to do to keep her busy. She was quick to brag she'd spotted the men coming and going while she watched from her upstairs window.”

  Briceson grunted. “No doubt she's the type of nosy neighbor that uses binoculars to get a better view.”

  “No doubt,” I agreed, smiling.

  I glanced at the wall clock. “It's lunch time. I've got to call the morgue before we leave to let Doc know we're dropping off some evidence. How about having lunch with me? I'll buy.”

  Briceson looked shocked. “Really?”

  “I'll even drive my car and let you ride in it,” I tormented.

  I poked the desk phone speed dial for the morgue, and Doc picked up right away. “It's Detective Brown.”

  “What's the word?” Doc asked.

  “The word about what?”

  “Is our date on?” Doc sounded hopeful.

  “Oh, sure. I guess so.” I didn't want to get distracted. “Doc, I called you on police business. We've got that hanky I told you about and a bloody hand towel we want tested for DNA. Did you check to see if the murdered woman was sexually active the night of her death?”

  “I did, and she was,” he answered. “See you at six.” He hung up before I could disagree. Not that I would have anyway.

  We drove by the police lab and then over to the morgue. Doc was out of sight so I told his lab technician I'd called ahead about testing the hanky and hand towel and left the bags with her.

  When I parked in the community building parking lot only a few spaces remained. I'd noticed when I'd drove by before the place has a full house most of the time.

  Briceson said, “This is the old folks gathering place. Why are you stopping here?”

  I tried to stifle a giggle. “We're eating lunch with these old folks to
day. I said I'd buy, and here is the cheapest meal in town.”

  Briceson frowned as he stepped out of the car. “If you're short of cash, I could spring for Pizza Ranch all you can eat chicken and pizza for the two of us.”

  “No problem, but thanks for the offer. I'm not short of cash, and I invited you. Remember that idea I said I had in my head. Mingling with the senior citizens is part of our investigation into a murder. I figured on taking the meals off on my expense account,” I said bluntly.

  Briceson shook his head in disbelief. “What are we investigating?”

  “I want you to visit with some of the women, and I'll center in on the men. We want to know how much we can find out about Mrs. Hutson's after hours social life.”

  “Huh?” Briceson puzzled.

  “If she had steady boyfriends her son didn't know about, these people will be the group that knows. Never seen an elderly woman yet that didn't like to gossip. One Mrs. Hutson's age that had the attention of two men would most likely do some bragging or be found out by her friends,” I said.

  “Then you sit with the old women, and I'll talk to the men,” Briceson decided quickly.

  “No, the women will like you just fine,” I countered. “Besides, I'm probably sharper at spotting men that might have been interested socially in Mrs. Hutson than you would be. If they hit on an older woman, they're likely to hit on a younger one.” I grabbed Briceson by the arm when he hesitated at the door. “Now come through that door with me, smile and act like you like being there.”

  The line had shortened by the time we got in it. Most of the tables were already full of people with plates. While they ate, they chattered like they hadn't seen each other in weeks instead of a few days. At their age, who knows how short their memories were. A few days might seem like a long time to them.

  A short, curly permed woman in front of me turned to look me over. “You must be new here. I don't remember seeing you before.” She really checked me out and admitted, “I don't think I have anyway.”

  “You're right. I haven't eaten here before.”

  “Aren't you just a little young to want to eat in this place?” She asked bluntly.

  I smiled my best friendly smile. “Looks can fool people. I'm older than you think, but this is my first time. How's the food?”

  “Good! I've only had one bad meal in all the time I've come here to eat,” the woman said seriously.

  “I'm Renee Brown. What's your name?”

  “Ada Gray,” the elderly woman said slowly as she peered around me at Briceson. “You came with a policeman. Are you in trouble?”

  “No, actually I'm in law enforcement, too,” I said.

  “Is someone here in trouble?” Ada whispered, taking a concerned look around the room.

  “Not that I know of. Is there someone here you think needs arrested?” I said softly, smiling like I was joking.

  “Mercy, no!” Ada gasped, patting her chest.

  That's when I laid it on plenty thick. “Good because we hate to mix business with pleasure. We're just looking for a good meal with some nice folks.”

  Briceson leaned forward to hiss in my ear, “If they are past due for one bad meal, this will probably be the day we get it.”

  I elbowed him in the stomach. “Ada, do you know what the meal is today?”

  “Yes, of course I do. The menu is always listed in the newspaper,” she said disdainfully as if I should know that fact.

  “Oh sure, but I've been so busy I didn't have a chance to read the papers the last few days,” I excused.

  Ada frowned at me. “I see. Good to know our police force is on the job. Hope you didn't arrest anyone I know.” Then she remembered the menu. “Today we're having liver and onions and fried potatoes with chocolate cake for dessert.”

  I looked over my shoulder. Briceson was already turning green at the thought, and he hadn't even seen his plate yet. Liver and onions was going to do to him what looking at his first murdered body didn't. Oh, this is going to be fun. I hope he sits close enough to me so I can watch.

  Seating was limited by the time we looked. Just a chair here and there in tables filled with a mixture of women and men. I had the feeling these old people were clickish. They probably sit at the same table every time.

  I nodded toward a table of mostly women, meaning for Briceson to sit with them. He held his plate out almost at arm's length like it was dangerous to his health. In the other arm, he cradled his coffee and chocolate cake like that would save him from starvation.

  I let a chuckle escape as I headed for a table made up of more men than women. That might mean the men were single. I figured if I was a single elderly widow that was the table I'd pick. Easier to have my choice of men.

  I asked sweetly as I studied the senior citizens already shoveling in their liver and onions, “Is this chair taken?”

  The diners looked in the direction of my strange voice. A tall, distinguished, gray haired man, in a dress shirt and slacks, on one side of the empty chair stood up. “No, ma'am, you're welcome to sit with us.”

  “Thank you.” I set my plate and coffee on the table and stepped in front of the chair. The gray haired man slipped behind the chair and pushed it forward.

  A bald, chunky man, in khaki slacks and a knit green and white striped shirt, on the other side of me chuckled. I eyed him. The man's humor dried up on his face. He sure hadn't made a move to be a gentleman and hold my chair for me. “My name is Renee Brown.”

  The more stylish of the two women at the table spoke. “You're a little young to be eating with the senior crowd.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Can't I eat here? Is it not allowed?”

  “Of course, it is,” the gentleman said as he narrowed his eyes at the woman across from him. “It's just we aren't used to pretty young women wanting to eat with us. My name is Bradford Cummings.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cummings,” I said.

  The silver coiffured woman said, “I'm Gloria Cummings, Bradford's wife.”

  The hour glass shaped woman next to her said, “I'm Sylvia Jones.”

  The chunky man chimed in, “I'm Tiny Jones, her husband.”

  The other man at the table had watched the conversation with quiet interest. A man of medium height, he had salt and pepper hair and wore a long sleeve shirt and jeans. “I'm Tom Ryan. Tell me what brings you to our Senior Dining to eat. You seemed to be with that police officer at the next table.”

  “I am with him. We work together. I'm a detective on the Wedgewood Police force,” I admitted.

  “Interesting.” Ryan's eyes bored into me with renewed interest. “But you ducked the question. Why are you here?”

  This man was sharper than most of these old folks to suspect my motives. “I lost a bet with Officer Briceson so I had to buy him lunch at the eatery of my choosing. This is the place I picked, because I thought it'd be easier on my purse.”

  Saving money anywhere they could was something older people on fixed incomes knew a lot about or so I thought. They believed me, and the statement ended up being amusing to all of them. They lost that intense look and went back to eating.

  I cut off a piece of the liver and chewed it. Not so bad if I cut into the middle and stayed away from the hard edges. “Looks like the center had a nice turn out.” I said to no one in particular.

  Bradford Cummings agreed. “Absolutely. That's what keeps this community building going. Takes a lot of this town's efforts to support the center and keep it running. People appreciate these home cook meals and the chance to get together.”

  Cummings talked like he might be a councilman or politician. He was good with words.

  “Oh, Brad,” his wife said. “That's a man's view point, Miss Brown. Most of us women will tell you we come here because we hate to cook and hate to do the dishes even more. We'd rather let someone else do the work and pay for the meal.”

  Sylvia Jones stopped her fork mid way to her mouth. “Amen to that.”

  Tiny shook his fo
rk at the causal dressed man across from him. “The single men like Tom Ryan here find it easier to come here to eat when they can rather than cook for themselves. Ain't that right, Tom?”

  Tom nodded agreement.

  I glanced over at Briceson's table to see how he was doing. His plate looked untouched, and as he ate the cake slowly, he visited with his group. Just for fun, I thought I'd phone him and rub in that his plate was still full of food. He should eat dessert last. With the phone on my leg under the table, I poked the words and the hit speed dial button.

  As his cell phone gave a muffled buzz in his slack's pocket, Marceil Pestkey, my mother's best friend, looked around the table to find the offending person. She focused on Briceson across the table from her. “Oh, that hateful thing. Why is it that people have to call others right at meal time.”

  Briceson slipped his phone out of his slack's pocket and held it in his lap. He glanced down and saw my number. He shut the phone off and slid it back in his pocket. No way was he going to upset the old women. Looking very contrite, he said, “I agree with you. I'm very sorry, ladies.”

  Ada Gray added, “I agree with Marceil. That's downright rude, and it happens all the time.”

  Marceil said sympathetically, “Just ignore whoever it is, Officer. They can call back. You should enjoy your meal.”

  “Thank you, ma'am. I think that's good advice.” Briceson raise his voice to make sure I heard.

  Just for fun, I called him again. Most of his table mates had keen hearing and perked up.

  “For pity sakes,” Ada grumbled.

  Marceil Pestkey protested, “Persistent cuss. You better give that caller a piece of mind later on.”

  “Yes, ma'am, I sure do intend to do that,” Briceson assured her. He gave me a grouchy look and mouthed the words, “Cut that out.”

  I grinned at his discomfort. Hey, I was in a good mood. This had been a fun time with the senior citizens if anyone asked me.