Candy Shop Mystery - Goody Goody Gunshots Part 18

I shrugged and stirred my tea. "I'm not sure if there's trouble on the team or just with my portion of it. Wyatt and Elizabeth pulled the boys from the team, and the boys blame me."

I waited for one of those Well, what did you expect? faces, but that's not what I got. Jawarski's eyes softened, and he touched my hand gently. "Ah h.e.l.l, slugger. I'm sorry. I know how much those kids mean to you."

I could have handled an I-told-you-so, but that just about did me in. His eyes were so kind, I had to look away, and only Karen's voice running through my head and warning me not to screw this up kept me from pulling my hand away from his. A solid block of something filled my throat, and my eyes burned. I hate crying more than almost anything, but still I forced myself to stay where I was. I just hoped Jawarski would appreciate my sacrifice.

Finally, I found the ability to move my head and managed a small nod. "It's fine."

"Yeah." Jawarski ran his thumb across the back of my hand, then slowly let it go. "I can see that." He leaned back in his chair and gazed around the restaurant, giving me a few seconds to pull myself together.

That's the problem with Jawarski. One minute I'm so frustrated by him I'm ready to turn around and walk away; the next he does something so thoughtful I wonder what my life would be like now if he disappeared from it. That thought terrified me. After the breakup of my marriage, I'd vowed never to let myself become dependent on a man again. I'd been so careful to draw clear lines between my life and Jawarski's. I'd kept him at arm's length longer than he wanted me to, and much longer than I wanted to, yet I still hadn't managed to achieve the measure of independence I wanted for myself.

"So," he said after a lengthy pause, "where were we, when we were so rudely interrupted the other day?"

"I think you were accusing me of encouraging Marshall Ames."

Jawarski gave that some thought and shook his head. "No, if I remember right, we'd already worked through that, and you'd just observed that I'm an emotional wreck of a man carting around so much baggage, you keep tripping over it." His face didn't betray any emotion, but his eyes danced with amus.e.m.e.nt, and I knew we'd both moved past the edge of the cliff we'd been standing on yesterday.

"I think you're right," I conceded. "I was in the process of pointing out how annoying all that baggage can be for someone as emotionally healthy as I am."

Jawarski grinned lazily. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He sobered again and said, "Listen, Abby. About what I said yesterday . . . It was a s.h.i.tty thing to say."

I felt my own smile slide from my face. "Yeah," I said. "It was."

"I shouldn't have said it."

"No," I said. "You shouldn't."

He fell silent, and his eyes slowly roamed my face. After a long time, he shrugged. "That's all. I just wanted you to know that it was a s.h.i.tty thing to say."

I like the fact that he's not sappy. I'm not either, so it seems to work. "You're a little late, Jawarski. I knew it was horrid the minute it came out of your mouth."

"Well, then, next time how about filling me in?"

"You got it." I waited for a second and tried to look annoyed. "That's it? You're not even going to apologize?"

He pretended to think about that for a few seconds, then shook his head. "Nope. I think that's it."

I reached across the table and punched his arm with more affection than irritation, and we spent the next few minutes poring over our menus and discussing the pros and cons of several choices. After we'd ordered, Jawarski rested both arms on the table and smiled slowly. "Thought you might be interested to know that we got a lead on Hobbs today."

Jawarski offering me information about a case was so unexpected, I choked on my tea. He came halfway out of his chair to pat me on the back-which did nothing except knock my breath away each time I almost caught it. When I could breathe again, I waved him back into his chair and picked up as if I hadn't spent the past five minutes coughing and sputtering. "What did you find out?"

"He was renting a room from a woman named Corelle Davies. She runs a Laundromat over on the north side."

"Have you talked to her?"

He nodded. "We have. She didn't have a lot to add, except that Hobbs had been living there for about two months."

That fit with what I'd already learned. "If he was here that long, why didn't anybody notice him around town?"

"I'm sure some people did," Jawarski said, leaning back to avoid hitting our server as he slid a plate of egg rolls in front of us. "It was just never an issue until he turned up dead."

I opened a package of disposable chopsticks and spent a few seconds thinking about that while I rubbed the sticks together to get rid of loose splinters. "Did his landlady say whether he had friends?"

"We asked. She didn't notice anyone hanging around."

"So Hobbs just rented a room from her and then lived there in seclusion until the night he fell onto the highway in front of my car?"

Jawarski picked up a piece of egg roll and dipped it in the fish sauce. "That seems to be the story so far."

"Yeah, well, I don't believe it. In fact, I think Hobbs was a very busy boy from the time he came to Paradise until the night he died." I leaned in close to make sure I wasn't overheard. "I talked to a couple of kids who work at Walgreens. One of them saw Hobbs talking to Quentin Ingersol just a few minutes before he turned up dead."

Jawarski's brows knit. "My men interviewed those employees-"

"Yeah, I know, but the checkout girl wasn't allowed to talk to the police. Her manager did all the talking." I gave him Britnee's name and added Chase's for good measure. "I don't know how much they'll be willing to tell you. They're both under the impression that they can be fired for talking to you, so you might want to find them when they're not working."

Jawarski nodded and nudged the last piece of egg roll toward me. "Did she happen to hear what Hobbs and Ingersol were talking about?"

I polished off the egg roll and drained my tea. "Britnee said that Quentin told Hobbs to back off. What do you suppose that meant?"

"I have no idea, but I plan to find out."

"I also overheard Quentin having an argument with someone tonight at the recreation center. I couldn't hear everything, but they were talking about a woman who supposedly has proof of something."

"Oh?" Jawarski looked up, obviously interested. "How did you manage to overhear them?"

"I was in the ladies' room. They were right outside."

"You were eavesdropping."

"Not intentionally. Not at first, anyway. But when I realized they were having an argument, I wasn't going to walk out into the middle of it."

He grinned and picked up a piece of pickled carrot with his chopsticks. "Good plan. Any idea who Ingersol was arguing with?"

"None. Sorry."

We ate in silence for a few seconds, but something was still bothering me, and I had to ask, "Why are you discussing the case with me?"

"You object?"

"No, but it's definitely a change of pace. Usually, you do that whole cop thing. You know, the 'stay out of the investigation' bit?"

Jawarski chuckled. "And you always do exactly what I say."

"Well, of course I don't. Don't be ridiculous."

"Look," Jawarski said, his smile fading slightly, "it's not that big a deal. It just occurred to me that the more information I withhold from you, the more eager you seem to investigate on your own. I thought it couldn't hurt to see what you'd do if I gave a bit more."

"Ah, I see. It's just a ploy."

"I wouldn't call it that," Jawarski protested mildly. "I'd say it's more of a strategy."

I made a face. "Same thing. And what if I don't change my evil ways?"

He shrugged and took my hand again. "I guess we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it, won't we?"

Chapter 30.

Jawarski and I stayed late, eating, talking, laughing- both of us apparently reluctant to end the evening, neither of us willing to take that next step and suggest we go home together. I'm just old-fashioned enough to believe that once you take that step, there's no turning back. You're in it all the way, whether you want to be or not.

When the restaurant closed, we walked through the parking lot together, arms linked around each other's waists. Again, the longing to have someone permanent in my life rose up strong and hot. I'd missed this-dinners together, long walks in the moonlight, intimate conversations about absolutely nothing-but I needed a bit longer before I could let myself trust it.

After a long time, Jawarski settled me in the Jetta and walked to his truck on the other side of the parking lot. I could have watched him walk forever, but I knew he wouldn't leave until he saw me drive off, so I started the car and pulled out onto the nearly deserted street, heading home. Jawarski pulled out behind me and turned in the opposite direction, and his taillights disappeared before I reached my first turn.

For the first time in days, I didn't think about the murder. It had been too wonderful an evening to spoil with thoughts of dead bodies and knife wounds. I wound along the curving two-lane road that separated the Lotus Blossom from the west end of town, slowing as I came around the curve near the recreation center.

I was surprised to see the beam from someone's headlights on the gra.s.sy slope between the center and the baseball /soccer fields. Wondering who was at the center this late, I slowed and glanced into the parking lot as I drove past. When I spotted Coach Hendrix's familiar Ford truck, I tapped the brakes to slow the car even more.

In the gleam of the headlights, I saw someone moving around. A few feet farther down the road, I realized there were two people there. One was Kerry Hendrix, the other the increasingly lumpy figure of Dwayne Escott.

So the two of them were still friends. Or at least on speaking terms. I pulled to the side of the road and turned out my headlights, hoping they wouldn't notice me there. They talked for a few minutes, their breath forming thick clouds in the cold November air. The conversation looked so normal at first, I wasn't sure whether I was disappointed or relieved.

After a while, Kerry turned toward the truck as if the conversation was over, but Dwayne had other ideas. In a move swifter than I would have imagined for such a large man, he grabbed Kerry's shoulder and jerked him back around so they were facing each other again. Dwayne leaned toward Kerry aggressively, his arms waving wildly in broad, agitated gestures.

Kerry jerked away from him, shoving Dwayne in the chest with both hands. The shove caught Dwayne off guard, and his arms windmilled wildly as he tried to regain his balance. Kerry took advantage of the moment and jumped into the cab of his truck and, with one last parting shout out his open window, drove off.

I stayed where I was until Dwayne calmed down and walked around to the front of the recreation center. When I was relatively certain that neither of them would see me, I pulled away from the curb and headed for home.

I called Jawarski the minute I found a signal again, but the call went straight to his voice mail. I left a message and drove home, where I poured a Pepsi over ice and turned on the TV for the background noise. Within minutes I was caught up in a list of questions that seemed to be growing by the day.

What had Kerry and Dwayne been arguing about? And who had been in the hall of the recreation center with Quentin? What did Lou Hobbs, Kerry Hendrix, Quentin Ingersol, and Dwayne Escott have in common? There must be something. What were Hobbs and Ingersol arguing about- excuse me, discussing-right before the murder? And what really happened the night I thought I'd seen Hobbs shot out at Hammond Junction?

I spent the next morning taking a quick inventory of supplies, but by noon I'd decided that I had a batch of laundry upstairs that desperately needed to be put through the washer and dryer-and there was only one place with the equipment to do the job right.

Old maps of Paradise divide the town into distinct sections, with Chinatown running along the creek bed and Swede Alley just above that. If you follow Swede Alley half a mile north, you'll find yourself surrounded by modest single-family houses and apartment buildings, schools, and the less glamorous businesses no town can survive without.

I pulled up in front of the Laundromat and climbed out into the brilliant autumn sunshine. Someone had propped open the Laundromat's door with a plastic carton, and the clean scents of laundry soap and fabric softener drifted out into the morning. I could see a couple of people milling around inside the building, one heavily pregnant woman sitting with her feet up and flipping idly through a magazine, and a couple of dark-haired, dark-eyed kids darting amid the carts and chairs as they played.

I rolled down the windows for Max, grabbed the laundry basket from my backseat, and carried the load into the building. It had been a while since I'd done my laundry in public, and all the reasons why I didn't came rushing back the moment I stepped through the door. Personally, I think there is a h.e.l.l-and it's a Laundromat.

I took a few seconds to get my bearings, then gritted my teeth and found an empty machine close to the "office"-a corner separated from the rest of the Laundromat by a long table-where a slight woman with white hair was folding towels. She wore a pair of knit blue pants and a turtleneck sweater with a snowflake design. Over it all, she wore a lime-green smock with huge pockets.

After stuffing my clothes into the washer, I sprinkled soap powder over the mound and fed a handful of quarters into the machine. When the washer started filling, I wandered over to the office.

The woman glanced up as I approached. Her small, wrinkled hands stilled in the act of smoothing the towel she'd just folded. "Yeah? Do you need something?" Her voice was a surprise. Rough-probably from years of smoking-and far deeper than I would've expected to hear coming out of a woman her size.

I jerked a thumb toward the metal box on the wall. "I didn't see any fabric softener. Do you have any I could buy?"

She nodded toward a wall that housed a bank of dryers and cut partway through the large room. "Fabric softener's in the vending machine on the other side of that wall."

"Oh. Thanks." I turned away, then glanced back. "Is your name Corelle Davies?"

She glanced up, her eyes narrowed with wariness. "Who wants to know?"

"My name is Abby Shaw. I own a business here in town-"

Corelle began shaking her head before I'd finished talking. "Whatever it is you're selling, we don't want any." She jerked her thumb toward a sign on the wall behind her. "No soliciting, or can't you read?"

"I'm not selling anything," I a.s.sured her quickly. "I'm just trying to find someone who knew an acquaintance of mine. His name was Hobbs, and I heard that he might have rented a room from you."

Corelle squinted up at me. "Where did you hear that?"

Jawarski might have been willing to talk about the case with me, but I didn't think he'd appreciate my dropping his name, so I evaded the question. "I don't know. Around. Would you mind if I ask you just a couple of questions? It won't take long."

"I already answered all the questions I'm gonna. You want to know what I said to the police, you can ask them."

"Thanks, I'll do that. Did you know Hobbs before you rented the room to him?"

Corelle grabbed another towel from the basket at her side. "Nope."

"So he just found you through a newspaper ad or something?"

"Or something. How should I know?"

"He didn't tell you?"

She snapped the towel in the air and folded it in half. "He didn't tell, I didn't ask. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm busy."

"Sure. Just one more thing before I go. Did he tell you anything about himself? Where he came from? What he was doing here in town? How long he planned to stay?"

Corelle finished folding the towel and put it on top of the stack. "We didn't talk much. He came and went. I rarely saw him." She eyeballed me for a minute and asked, "You with the police or something?"

"Not exactly. So Hobbs didn't tell you why he was here?" Corelle picked up the stack of towels and carried them to the other side of the office area. "You tell me why you're asking first."

"It's personal."

"Yeah? Well, so are my answers." She fished a pack of cigarettes from a pocket of her smock and turned toward the open door. I guess she thought the conversation was over.