When The Rooster Kills (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 2) Page 10

  “You haven’t spoken to him?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No. I didn’t want him to know I was here.” She looked a little sheepish. “Not until I had some proof of whether or not something was going on. And since I saw you and was able to pretty quickly rule that out…”

  I was beginning to wonder how old I really looked. I mean, I knew I was no spring chicken, but this girl was talking like I had one foot in the grave. I was in shape, I had nice hair, and the wrinkles hadn’t completely taken over my face. I thought I still had a few good years left in the looks department, but maybe I was kidding myself.

  “So what are you going to do when you find him?” I asked.

  “I don’t plan on finding him until I know something’s going on,” she said. “I’m still trying to find that out.” She hesitated. “He…he didn’t say anything to you, did he?”

  Shawn had said plenty to me. He’d told me that he and Leslie were still together, that they were very much in love, and that he planned to marry her. At no point had he mentioned the girl I was sitting with.

  “No, he didn’t,” I said.

  “Why was he at your house?”

  I scrambled to think of something to tell her. “He said he was looking for someone.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “I didn’t push or ask questions. I guess I should have.” I offered her a small smile. “Tell you what. If I see him again, or talk to him, do you want me to call you?”

  Her expression changed and the angry mime turned into a hopeful one. “You would do that?”

  I shrugged. “Sure. I’ve had my fair share of problems with men. You know, since I’m so old. Been around the block quite a few times.”

  She nodded understandingly.

  “So if some guy is cheating on you or leading you on or whatever the case may be, I’d like to help. We women have to stick together.”

  She smiled then, and it transformed her face. Without the white face make-up and heavy eyeliner, she was probably beautiful.

  She was still holding my phone and she tapped it, opening up my contact page. She typed in her information, her black nails clicking against the glass screen.

  She handed it back to me. “My name and number are in there.” She thought for a second. “And tell me who you are?”

  “Rainy,” I told her. “Rainy Day.”

  TWENTY TWO

  I needed a drink.

  But since it was just shy of noon, I didn’t think heading home and cracking open a bottle of wine was the best response to the morning I’d just had. Yeah, it was probably five o’clock somewhere, but that somewhere wasn’t Latney.

  I decided to stop in at the Wicked Wich instead. Mikey had told me about a new hamburger he’d have on the menu, something with cream cheese, if I remembered right.

  I blinked when I stepped through the door, trying to adjust to the darkness. It wasn’t as though Dawn didn’t have any lighting—she did—but the sun had been so brilliant, my eyes were having a hard time acclimating.

  Eventually, though, they did, and I made my way to my usual spot at the bar. Besides the one time I’d sat down with the Konrath men, I’d never parked at a table or a booth.

  I hopped up on an empty barstool and Dawn glanced my direction. We hadn’t spoken much since our confrontation in the road a couple of months back, when she’d accused me of having the hots for her husband, Martin. I’d quickly dressed her down, and we’d sort of made a tentative peace. I had no doubt it had been easy to keep because our paths didn’t cross very often. Sure, I stopped in to the restaurant once every week or so, but it was easy to avoid conversation when she was busy waiting on customers. And she made sure she was, every time I walked in.

  She nodded at me. “Drink?”

  “Diet whatever,” I said.

  She grabbed a clean glass and dunked it into a container of ice, then filled it from the soda spigot. She plunked it down in front of me, along with a wrapped straw. “You eating?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to try Mikey’s new burger. Something with cream cheese? I think he said it was stuffed with it.”

  She made a face. “I can’t make that. Looking at straight burgers and fries right now. Can maybe add some bacon, if you want.”

  “You’re cooking?”

  She nodded again.

  “Why?”

  She rested one hand on the bar, the other on her hip, and glowered at me. “What, you think I can’t cook? I was the only cook in here before I hired Mikey. Ran the whole place myself.”

  “I’m sure you’re a great cook,” I said, trying to placate her. “I was just wondering why you were doing the cooking, since that’s always been Mikey’s job.”

  I didn’t think it was possible, but her expression darkened even more. “Yeah, well, he’s not here.”

  I unwrapped the straw and dropped it in my soda. “Oh? Is he sick or something?”

  “Or something,” she muttered.

  She wasn’t volunteering information and my curiosity was piqued. I’d never been to the Wicked Wich and not seen Mikey there. He was as much a fixture of the place as Dawn herself.

  “I saw him the other day,” I said. I didn’t add that it had actually been more than two days, that the last time I’d seen him was the same day I’d last been in the restaurant—albeit I saw him later at Vivian’s. Dawn didn’t need to know that. “He didn’t look sick at all.”

  She picked up the napkin dispenser near me and started stuffing it with more napkins. “He isn’t sick.”

  “No? Well, good. I was worried.” I took a sip of my soda, trying to provide an appropriate pause before asking another question. “So, if he isn’t sick…”

  She slammed the dispenser shut and slid it back into place. “He got in a fight with a customer.”

  “A what?”

  “You know, a fight?” She rolled her eyes. “Can’t have him harassing customers so I sent him home. It was either that or make a call to Sheriff Lewis.”

  I shuddered. That should never be anyone’s Plan B.

  “Who was he fighting with?” I asked. “Did someone not like their food or something?”

  Her eyes raked over me. “Mikey’s a darn good cook.”

  “I know he is,” I said quickly. “That’s why I asked. I can’t believe someone wouldn’t like—”

  She cut me off. “It wasn’t about the food.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t volunteer any more, and I didn’t know how to fish for additional information. “So…?”

  Dawn blew out a breath. “You’re just as bad as Sophia, aren’t you?”

  I felt my cheeks flush. Was I really being that nosy? I guess I was, but my intentions were far different than Sophia Rey’s. Where she wanted to gossip with anyone who would listen, I just wanted the details for myself.

  “Fine,” Dawn barked. “You wanna know?”

  I gulped and gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “He was fighting with some guy,” she told me.

  I waited. And then, when it was clear she wasn’t going to add anything else without my prompting, I said, “Do you know what it was about?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” she declared. “All I know is he was screaming at some guy when he should have been cooking. The last thing I needed was him driving customers away, so I sent him home.”

  “Did you fire him?”

  “I told him to come back when he’d cooled off.” She leaned down and pulled out a mammoth bottle of ketchup. She reached for the smaller bottle close to me and unscrewed the cap. “I guess we’ll see how long that takes.”

  “Do you know who he was fighting with?”

  She squeezed the ketchup into the small bottle. “Some guy I didn’t know. Blond hair, kinda skinny. He wasn’t from around here.”

  I almost choked on my soda.

  She glanced at me. “You alright?”

  I coughed and swallowed. “Yeah,” I managed. “I’m fine.”

  “You got any more questi
ons or you wanna order?”

  I had a lot more questions, but not for Dawn Putnam.

  They were all for Mikey.

  TWENTY THREE

  I didn’t have Mikey’s address, but I knew the general idea of where he lived. And even though I wasn’t a detective, I was pretty sure I could figure it out. Because I was bound and determined to figure out his connection to Shawn and Leslie.

  I finished my soda and dropped a couple of bills on the bar. I’d said no to Dawn’s offer to cook me a burger, which had been met with a fierce scowl. I was left wondering if this was new ammunition for Dawn to hate me; did she think I’d refused because I thought she couldn’t cook? I wouldn’t put it past her. She was sort of the queen of illogical thinking, even more so than my daughter, Laura.

  I stepped back out into the sunshine and instead of heading down the main road, I hooked a right, directly behind the restaurant. There were a few houses tucked back on the side street, a narrow road that dead-ended in a cul-de-sac. The houses here were older, single-story homes with large oaks and weeping willows in their front yards. One had been modified so that the short front stoop now had a wheelchair ramp covering it, and I wondered if the original owner still lived in the house, and had made the adjustment so they could stay during their golden years. Right on cue, an elderly man opened the front door, using his walker to push open the screen door. He shuffled out on to the ramp and checked his mailbox, pulling a small stack of envelopes and flyers out with a shaky hand.

  I was pretty sure Mikey did not live there.

  The next house had a yard filled with toys—a still-wet slip-n-slide, a small plastic wagon, and a wading pool filled with an armada of rubber ducks. I could see a woman in the backyard, pushing a swing that hung from a tree, a squealing toddler strapped in, her brown curls flying as she soared through the air.

  Probably not Mikey’s house, either.

  The last house was well kept but nondescript. There were no outside indicators that hinted at who might live there. The yard was neatly trimmed, and a window box filled with purple petunias was mounted underneath what looked to be the kitchen window. The garage door was closed, and an older black ten-speed was propped against the side. The living room curtains were drawn, and the front door was closed. I could see through the kitchen window that the light wasn’t on. It definitely looked like no one was home.

  I thought for a minute. I could walk up and knock. What harm could possibly come if someone other than Mikey answered the door? I could pretend to be selling something, or I could just say I had the wrong address. No harm done.

  I took a deep breath and marched up to the front door. I knocked. Once, then twice.

  No answer.

  I stood on my tiptoes and tried to peek into the kitchen. But the sky had clouded over and this, coupled with no lights from inside the house, made it a futile attempt.

  I sighed, then knocked again.

  And again, there was only silence. No footsteps, no voices, no murmur of a television.

  I felt a little defeated. I’d wanted to find out what had gone on between Mikey and Shawn, because I had a feeling that if I got those pieces of the story, other parts might start coming together.

  But it was looking like the street wasn’t the only dead-end I was going to encounter that afternoon.

  Because Mikey was nowhere to be found.

  I turned away from the door and jogged down the three steps that led from the front porch to the sidewalk. I scanned the road, looking for signs of life. The old man had disappeared back into his house, presumably with his mail, and the woman was still standing in her backyard, pushing the swing, the little girl still shrieking with delight.

  But someone else was in the yard with them.

  Someone with short, buzzed hair.

  Someone who looked an awful lot like Mikey.

  I hurried down the sidewalk, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. The house was on an oddly shaped lot and the backyard sat at an angle to the street. If either one of them turned just to the right, they would see me. But their attention was focused on the little girl clutching the ropes, her legs sticking straight out.

  It was definitely Mikey. He was still wearing his standard work uniform, a Wicked Wich shirt and a pair of cargo pants. The woman he was standing with was slightly taller than him, and a little stockier, too. She had brown hair like the little girl’s, and brown hair like I imagined Mikey’s would be if he ever grew it out.

  I made it to the edge of their yard and stood on the sidewalk, watching for a minute.

  They weren’t talking. They weren’t really even standing together. Mikey was holding something in his hand, a can of something. I couldn’t tell if it was soda or something stronger.

  I cleared my throat and they both turned in unison to look at me. Mikey’s eyes widened a bit. The woman looked surprised, but friendly.

  “Hey,” I said, smiling.

  He nodded. “Hey yourself.”

  I took their reaction as permission to move from the sidewalk to the yard. They both watched me approach and neither of them tackled me, so I assumed they were okay with me coming over.

  “What’s up?” Mikey asked. He was holding a can of Mountain Dew.

  “Well, I stopped in at the Wicked Wich and noticed you weren’t there.”

  He glanced down at the grass. “Yeah, I took the afternoon off.”

  I watched the woman. She didn’t look taken off guard or confused by his statement.

  But it was an interesting choice of words. The way he said it made it sound like he’d made the decision to leave early, not that Dawn had forced him to go.

  “Really?” I squinted. “Because I talked to Dawn and she said—”

  He crunched the can in his hand, and the aluminum crumpled between his fingers. It was a clear sign that he didn’t want to talk about it; at least not in front of whomever this woman was.

  I wondered if she was his wife. But then, considering I hadn’t thought he was older than sixteen when I first met him, I wasn’t convinced he was old enough to be married, let alone have a kid. I stole a glance at the little girl. It had been a while since I’d had toddlers in my house, but I pegged her as right around two.

  “I gotta head back home,” Mikey said, addressing the woman whose yard we were standing in.

  I guess she wasn’t his wife after all.

  To me, he said, “You sticking around or coming with me?”

  I went with him.

  As soon as he’d said his goodbyes and we were on the sidewalk, I started in with the questions.

  “What happened at the restaurant?”

  He frowned. “Sounds like you already know what happened.”

  “I know that you and Shawn got in a fight. But I want to know why.” I glanced back at the woman in the backyard. She was pulling the little girl from the swing. “And I want to know why you told that woman something different.”

  “That woman is my sister,” Mikey said, his face darkening, “and she doesn’t need to know every single detail of my life.”

  Sister. That explained the resemblance.

  He kept walking, and I was surprised at how much ground he was able to cover. For a guy who wasn’t very tall, he sure moved fast. I picked up my pace.

  “So tell me what happened with you and Shawn.”

  He was headed toward the end of the cul-de-sac. “Why? You said yourself that you aren’t a private investigator.”

  “I’m not,” I admitted. “But I feel like I’m pretty involved with this particular case.”

  “What case is that?”

  It was my turn to frown. “Don’t play dumb with me. You know what I’m talking about. Leslie.”

  His eyes clouded and he looked away.

  “Do you…do you know her?” I asked. It was a sneaking suspicion I’d had, and one that suddenly was front and center, like a spotlight had suddenly illuminated that possibility.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Mikey, please,” I s
aid. I knew I sounded desperate, but I was hoping I could appeal to his concern for Leslie—if he had any—and his desire to help out a friend: me.

  He stopped walking and only then did I realize we were back in front of the closed-up house, the one with the purple petunias and the drawn curtains and the ten-speed parked alongside the garage.

  “I know Leslie,” he finally said.

  I nodded, grateful for the confirmation. “So why didn’t you tell me that before? When you were hanging around by her car the night she went missing?”

  He was still holding the crushed soda can and he clenched it between his fingers. “Look, it’s a long story,” he began.

  I made an effort to glance at the watch strapped to my wrist. “I’ve got time.”

  He ran his free hand over the top of his head. “I…you wanna come inside? It looks like it’s gonna rain.”

  I looked skyward. The clouds had moved in earlier, a white blanket that had closed out the sun. Out toward the west, they had morphed into an angry, dark gray line that was now marching across the sky like ants at a picnic.

  He was on the sidewalk now, the same sidewalk I’d walked up earlier when I’d gone to knock on the door of the house with the purple petunias.

  “You live here?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I wasn’t crazy about going into his house. Not because I didn’t trust him, but because no one had any idea where I was. I hadn’t told a soul what I was doing. What would happen if I disappeared? No one would have the foggiest idea of where to look for me.

  Which I guess meant I didn’t trust him.

  He must have sensed my hesitation.

  “My grandma is inside,” he said quickly.

  “Your grandma?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I live with her. She needs some help sometimes, so I sort of take care of her.”

  I suddenly felt horrible for doubting him. How could a kid who took care of his grandmother, who reported for work daily at the local restaurant, and who stood up to a guy who had been threatening a woman I now knew he was acquainted with, possibly be a threat to me?