Twenty-Nine and a Half Reasons
Page 38
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To the best of my knowledge, Bruce Wayne Decker didn’t have his own visions to save him. The truth was, I probably was Bruce Decker’s only hope. To my shame and dismay, I’d let my temper get the best of me and ruined any chance of getting Mr. Deveraux to believe me. He was the one person who could drop the charges and I’d blown it. But crappy doodles, that man was exasperating.
I needed another tactic, a backup plan to get myself out of the ditch I’d dug. I didn’t have anything concrete to exonerate Bruce, but if I could get more information, then Mason Deveraux would be forced to listen. The problem was getting more information.
One of my customers gave me an idea when she plopped her paperwork on the counter to renew her plates.
“The address on that paperwork is wrong. Can you put my new one in the system?”
With a friendly smile, I told her I’d be happy to, but the gears in my head had already spun into motion. There was a good chance that Frank Mitchell’s address was still in the system. He’d died a year ago and it usually took longer than that to purge names. All I had to do was look up the address and just drive by poor Mr. Mitchell’s house. I was bound to spot a clue—or, at least, it was worth a try.
How innocent was that? You couldn’t get arrested for driving down the street, could you? But I could get in trouble for looking up his records. I’d just have to be careful.
A coworker locked the front doors of the DMV at five and I bolted for the rear exit, ignoring Suzanne’s shrieks that I better show up in the morning or not come back.
Once I climbed into my car, shifting my legs on the sticky, hot vinyl, I pulled Mr. Mitchell’s address out of my pocket. While the steaming air that blasted from the vents slowly cooled down, I stared at the yellow sticky note, the words scribbled in my haste. If Suzanne had caught me… But she hadn’t, and there I sat with the address of a murder victim in my hand. Well, his last known address. Who knew where he resided now. God rest his soul.
I briefly considered going home. Muffy had been locked up all day and needed out. Not to mention I had a half-painted bedroom waiting for my attention, but I convinced myself this was going to be a quick drive-by. Curiosity had gotten the best of me. I’d just check out his place, then head straight home. I also considered getting Muffy and bringing her along. But if what I was doing was wrong, it seemed irresponsible to make Muffy an accessory to a crime. Again. Sometimes I was sure she still resented being forced to help me steal Miss Mildred’s car when we went to save Joe from Daniel Crocker.
I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and clenched my teeth. That settled it. A quick run past his house and then home.
Frank Mitchell’s residence was in an older, rundown section of Henryetta. All the streets in his part of town had tree names: Maple. Oak. Elm. The homes in Forest Ridge were built in the 1930s and most had been neglected, Mr. Mitchell’s included.
I slowed the Nova as I approached his house, gawking through the passenger window. The front porch sagged a good couple of feet on one side. One of the shutters was lopsided, looking like it would fall off if someone blew on it. A good portion of the paint had chipped away. The yard was in desperate need of cutting and the bushes in front were so overgrown that they covered half the windows. By the time I’d passed the house, I hadn’t learned anything other than the house was falling apart. I needed another look.
After circling the block, I slowed down several houses before reaching Mr. Mitchell’s again. The dwelling looked abandoned. Surely, it would be safe to look around.
I parked the car at the curb, one house away. As I got out, my hands shook, making the keys rattle. What in the world was I doing? What did I hope to find? I had no idea, but the urge to walk up to his house was not only undeniable but impossible to ignore.
Trying not to look suspicious, I plastered a big smile on my face and strolled down the cracked and crumbling sidewalk, taking care to keep from tripping. How would I explain breaking my leg here of all places? I should have brought Muffy after all. I could have said I was walking my dog, but it was too late now. I was already in the middle of doing this crazy thing.
When I reached his house, I stopped on the sidewalk. Boards with rusty nails stuck up from the porch and I wondered how anyone went in through the front door. I moved to the driveway and started around the back of the house when I heard a voice behind me.
“What do ya think yer doin’?”
With a shriek, I turned to face the voice, stumbling backward. I really needed to stop doing that. Twice in one day was two times too many.
Staring into the face of an old man who was obviously missing most of his teeth left me almost speechless. “Huh?”
He hunched forward, his right hand cupping the top of his thick cane. The man waited for my response and he looked like a man who wasn’t fond of waiting.
“I was just lookin’ around…”
“It’s been sold,” he grunted, trying to straighten his back and, without success, to look taller.
“What?”
“I said it’s been sold. Sold! What are you, deaf?”
“No…err…” I mentally shook myself. I needed to get it together. Obviously, I wasn’t very good at this investigating stuff. “How long had it been for sale?”
“Which time?”
“How many times has this house been for sale?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Twice. First time right after Frank died and the second just this past month. It’s a cotton-pickin’ shame. Frank spent the last month of his life fightin’ off some guy who was using every trick in the book to get him to sell, but it was all for nothing. The damn house sold anyway.” He turned around and headed back to the sidewalk, muttering under his breath.
I needed another tactic, a backup plan to get myself out of the ditch I’d dug. I didn’t have anything concrete to exonerate Bruce, but if I could get more information, then Mason Deveraux would be forced to listen. The problem was getting more information.
One of my customers gave me an idea when she plopped her paperwork on the counter to renew her plates.
“The address on that paperwork is wrong. Can you put my new one in the system?”
With a friendly smile, I told her I’d be happy to, but the gears in my head had already spun into motion. There was a good chance that Frank Mitchell’s address was still in the system. He’d died a year ago and it usually took longer than that to purge names. All I had to do was look up the address and just drive by poor Mr. Mitchell’s house. I was bound to spot a clue—or, at least, it was worth a try.
How innocent was that? You couldn’t get arrested for driving down the street, could you? But I could get in trouble for looking up his records. I’d just have to be careful.
A coworker locked the front doors of the DMV at five and I bolted for the rear exit, ignoring Suzanne’s shrieks that I better show up in the morning or not come back.
Once I climbed into my car, shifting my legs on the sticky, hot vinyl, I pulled Mr. Mitchell’s address out of my pocket. While the steaming air that blasted from the vents slowly cooled down, I stared at the yellow sticky note, the words scribbled in my haste. If Suzanne had caught me… But she hadn’t, and there I sat with the address of a murder victim in my hand. Well, his last known address. Who knew where he resided now. God rest his soul.
I briefly considered going home. Muffy had been locked up all day and needed out. Not to mention I had a half-painted bedroom waiting for my attention, but I convinced myself this was going to be a quick drive-by. Curiosity had gotten the best of me. I’d just check out his place, then head straight home. I also considered getting Muffy and bringing her along. But if what I was doing was wrong, it seemed irresponsible to make Muffy an accessory to a crime. Again. Sometimes I was sure she still resented being forced to help me steal Miss Mildred’s car when we went to save Joe from Daniel Crocker.
I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and clenched my teeth. That settled it. A quick run past his house and then home.
Frank Mitchell’s residence was in an older, rundown section of Henryetta. All the streets in his part of town had tree names: Maple. Oak. Elm. The homes in Forest Ridge were built in the 1930s and most had been neglected, Mr. Mitchell’s included.
I slowed the Nova as I approached his house, gawking through the passenger window. The front porch sagged a good couple of feet on one side. One of the shutters was lopsided, looking like it would fall off if someone blew on it. A good portion of the paint had chipped away. The yard was in desperate need of cutting and the bushes in front were so overgrown that they covered half the windows. By the time I’d passed the house, I hadn’t learned anything other than the house was falling apart. I needed another look.
After circling the block, I slowed down several houses before reaching Mr. Mitchell’s again. The dwelling looked abandoned. Surely, it would be safe to look around.
I parked the car at the curb, one house away. As I got out, my hands shook, making the keys rattle. What in the world was I doing? What did I hope to find? I had no idea, but the urge to walk up to his house was not only undeniable but impossible to ignore.
Trying not to look suspicious, I plastered a big smile on my face and strolled down the cracked and crumbling sidewalk, taking care to keep from tripping. How would I explain breaking my leg here of all places? I should have brought Muffy after all. I could have said I was walking my dog, but it was too late now. I was already in the middle of doing this crazy thing.
When I reached his house, I stopped on the sidewalk. Boards with rusty nails stuck up from the porch and I wondered how anyone went in through the front door. I moved to the driveway and started around the back of the house when I heard a voice behind me.
“What do ya think yer doin’?”
With a shriek, I turned to face the voice, stumbling backward. I really needed to stop doing that. Twice in one day was two times too many.
Staring into the face of an old man who was obviously missing most of his teeth left me almost speechless. “Huh?”
He hunched forward, his right hand cupping the top of his thick cane. The man waited for my response and he looked like a man who wasn’t fond of waiting.
“I was just lookin’ around…”
“It’s been sold,” he grunted, trying to straighten his back and, without success, to look taller.
“What?”
“I said it’s been sold. Sold! What are you, deaf?”
“No…err…” I mentally shook myself. I needed to get it together. Obviously, I wasn’t very good at this investigating stuff. “How long had it been for sale?”
“Which time?”
“How many times has this house been for sale?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Twice. First time right after Frank died and the second just this past month. It’s a cotton-pickin’ shame. Frank spent the last month of his life fightin’ off some guy who was using every trick in the book to get him to sell, but it was all for nothing. The damn house sold anyway.” He turned around and headed back to the sidewalk, muttering under his breath.
