The only sign that he heard was a flick in his left ear.
I handed Grandma a piece of taffy. Her eyes lit up. That should keep her quiet.
“Let’s hear what you have to report,” Dickey said to me. “I spoke with Kitty this morning. She said to come see you.”
I poured coffee refills for everyone and launched into my story about the Orange Gang and about running into Angie Gates at the Gladstone Beach.
“I’m a witness to that,” Grandma said, stiffly around the taffy. “Don’t forget.”
“My mother-in-law saw Angie run away from me,” I agreed. “That’s when the orange sneaker washed up on shore.”
“Are you alleging that the bank teller was involved in the robbery and homicides?” Dickey said.
Why was I bothering with Dickey Snell? He had plenty of book learning, but zero street-smarts. The proof is in the pudding, as Grandma says. Our acting detective was on the premises with his flock of turkey-brained assistants when the robber was killed. Murdered right in front of him and about twenty other locals. What does that tell you about Stonely’s law enforcement officer’s ability to protect its residents?
“Pretty obvious that she’s part of it, don’t you think?” I commented. “I should have had Fred along on the beach. He would have brought her back instead of letting her disappear.”
Dickey’s ears perked up along with Fred’s. “What makes you think she’s disappeared?”
“No reason.” The last thing I wanted Dickey to know was that we had been inside Angie’s house. “Just pondering out loud.”
“Gertie and those two no-good friends of hers broke into a house last night,” Grandma said, after spitting the ball of chewed-up taffy into the palm of her hand. “I heard them plotting on the telephone. Look at what I have to put up with! Living with criminals. And that dog!” She sucked the taffy back into her mouth.
“Why don’t I help you to your room?” George said to her. “I can see you need a little rest.”
I held my breath, hoping Dickey wouldn’t pursue her accusation. A quick glance his way told me he wasn’t paying attention. Grandma’s crabbing can close off anybody’s ears.
She grunted, but got up on her spindly legs and let George take her arm. “At least we have one kind heart around here,” she said as they walked slowly down the hall. “Watch that animal when you come back down the hallway by yourself, George. He’s vicious. Deputy Snell should take him away before he maims some little kid.”
She stopped abruptly. I could see George trying to get her started again, but she shook him off and turned around. “I forgot something important.”
“What’s that?” I made the mistake of saying.
“I’m not talking to you. Sheriff Snell, listen up. I’m speaking to you, son.”
Dickey blinked to attention.
Grandma shot a look my way. “You’ll find something interesting,” she said, “buried in fancy pants Kitty’s compost heap. I’m pretty sure it’s your murder weapon.”
We stared at her.
“I’m not kidding,” she said. “I heard them plotting away right here in my kitchen.”
That was the last straw.
When I had more time, I planned to dig a hole in the backyard just the right size and plant a crab tree over the shriveled remains of one old nasty biddy.
Chapter 15
DICKEY SCRUNCHED HIS NOSE AND pulled away the worn piece of carpet that Kitty had placed over the compost heap to help retain heat and speed up the compost process. No-Neck Sheedlo, his partner, planted his wrestler-sized bulk right behind me and crossed his arms. When I looked back at him, he gave me a warning stare.
Go figure. Like they thought I was dangerous! The air was nippy, with the smell of possible rain or sleet, depending on which way the temperature headed. I zipped my old hunting jacket and pulled up the collar.
Grandma’s pointed accusation of buried murder weapons had drawn out a curious group-the two local law enforcers, George, my traitorous mother-in-law, Kitty, me, and Fred, who ran back and forth behind No-Neck, aware that something was up and not liking it one bit.
“We need a pitchfork,” Dickey said to Kitty.
“Don’t have one,” she lied as smooth as hot oil in a frying pan, which was pretty much where we were at the moment. In the frying pan. “You’ll have to use your hands.”
“You do it,” Dickey said to No-Neck, who shook his head violently.
“I’m pulling rank,” Dickey insisted while rank, rotten egg odor assaulted our sensory glands.
“No dice,” No-Neck said. “You can pull anything you want. I’m not doing it. Might be creatures living down there for all we know.”
Dickey scanned our group.
“Don’t look at me,” George said. “You’re the one who wants to wallow in muck.”
“I told you,” I said to Kitty after analyzing the murky mess. “You need something to sop up the water. It’s out of balance.”
Dickey threw the chunk of carpet down on the ground and rolled up his sleeves.
“Remember those compost worms you gave me for my birthday,” Kitty said to me. “Wait till you see how big they got. Like snakes.”
I stifled a chuckle at that. Worms turn food waste into rich soil. But you need a special kind. Night crawlers won’t do it. They have to be red wiggler worms. None of them grow as big as a reptile.
But Dickey didn’t know that. He hesitated.
“With a compost heap like this,” Grandma said to Kitty, “you should be ashamed to call yourself a Yooper.”
From the look on my friend’s face, I knew she’d pitch right in and help me bury Grandma when I shared my idea with her. Kitty, though, might want to throw her in the hole alive.
Dickey dug in, making a face when his hand sunk into the mire. His arm went down and down until even his rolled-up sleeve sunk out of sight. Kitty had really buried the thing deep. When he hit pay dirt I could tell by the gloating expression on his face.
The rest of us looked on with disgust written all over us.
He pulled up a dripping, muddy bundle, managing to dip his knee in compost before he stood up.
I’d remained calm until now. The hunted look in my eyes must have warned George that I was about to attempt an escape through the backwoods, because he wrapped a comforting hand around mine and squeezed in reassurance.
In spite of all our denials of wrongdoing, Kitty and I ended up on the wrong side of the jailhouse bars, arguing about whose fault it was. We arrived at the obvious conclusion-it was the killer’s fault and if we could weasel out of here, we’d hunt him down like the rabid skunk he was and haul him in, dead or alive.
George had gone off with Fred to figure out how to get us released, but his chances of success on a Sunday were slim to none. He also had the dubious pleasure of driving Grandma to her final destination.
“Don’t take her back to my house,” I’d raged right in front of her. “Give the battle axe to Mary and Blaze. She’ll never step foot in my home again. Let her destroy their lives for awhile.”
Grandma boo-hooed into her embroidered hanky, but I didn’t let her get to me. I had handcuffs on at the time and wasn’t feeling overly generous.
“Obstructing justice at the very least,” Dickey said, shaking his know-it-all weasel head from the other side of the jail bars. “Murder one at the most.”
“You have no right to hold me,” I said for the umpteenth time. “I had nothing to do with this.”
“Me either,” Kitty chimed in.
Dickey turned to No-Neck. “Let’s bring in Blaze and hear what he has to say. That was his firearm they buried.”
While Dickey and No-Neck were gone, Kitty and I tried to escape through the ceiling tiles like we’d seen on
