There weren’t enough doughnuts in the world to make swallowing all of that any easier.
By “soft opening,” they must have meant “whenever the owner decides to show up,” because there was nobody to be found when I arrived at Vacuumulate, even though the rest of the stores in the strip mall it was anchoring had been open for at least an hour. I jotted down the name of the store with about a hundred question marks. I didn’t get it. Was the name to suggest people want to collect vacuum cleaners? Or that their vacuum cleaners were the collectors, specifically of the dust and dirt in their homes? I suspected it was just the only cute way they could make vacuum cleaners not sound like…well, like vacuum cleaners, and housewares not sound like housewares. And I supposed if their goal was to get people thinking while waiting for them to open, it was effective.
The weather was nice, with a mild breeze knocking the last leaves off their branches, so I decided to wait outside the store. I found a bench and sat, waiting, people watching, trying to scribble out enough hot dog story to warrant my not having to go back to the stadium.
Suit up, Parkwood football fans, there’s a new player on the roster. His name is Frank and he is delicious.
His name is Frank and he is the current MVP. Most Valuable Protein, that is.
A new player has rolled into town, and frankly, we couldn’t be happier.
I wasn’t having much success.
A shadow fell over me, darkening my pad, and I began to gather my belongings. Finally, I could get some housewares action and get on with my day. If I managed my time wisely, I could maybe even get out to River Fork and do some light investigating and just work on the obits in the evening.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I said, stuffing my pad into my bag and tucking my pencil behind my ear. “I’m from the Parkwood Chronicle Weekly and I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes about—”
I stood up to find myself face to face with Officer Hopkins.
“You’re not the owner of Vacuumulate,” I said, with a little hope that maybe he was, as a side job, since he wasn’t in his uniform. He was casual, in a pair of jeans and flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show muscular forearms.
“Nope,” Officer Hopkins said. “I just happen to be…” He trailed off, his eyes darting around the strip mall, as he seemed to be at a loss for exactly what he happened to be.
“Shopping?” I supplied.
He looked sheepish. “Guilty.”
“Unsuccessfully, huh?”
“Huh?”
I pointed at his empty hands. “You’re not carrying any bags, so I’m guessing your shopping hasn’t been successful.”
“Oh,” he said, staring at his hands as if he hadn’t ever seen them before. “Right. No, I haven’t been—I need a toaster.” He gestured toward Vacuumulate, and then tucked his thumbs into his pockets, a little too nonchalantly to actually be nonchalant.
I raised my eyebrows. Was he blushing? About a toaster? Was he embarrassed for me to know he liked toast? “Well, I would say you came to the right place, but…” We both looked at the CLOSED sign on the Vacuumulate door. I plopped back down on the bench.
“I guess I could just sit with you while we wait,” he said, then proceeded to perch as far away from me as he could, barely touching the bench with his backside. I stifled a giggle. Perhaps he felt that weird electricity bouncing around between us, just like I had.
“You need a toaster, too?” he asked, grinning. “Or are you more in the market for a spaghetti strainer?”
I held up my hands like I was posting a headline. “Breaking news story. New housewares store in Parkwood.”
“Ah. I see.”
“But now that you mention it, I could use a spaghetti strainer.”
“Do you make a lot of spaghetti?”
“Not unless you count the kind that comes in a can.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to strain that.”
“So that’s what I’ve been doing wrong.” I smacked my forehead lightly.
We chuckled, then sat awkwardly for a few minutes in silence, during which I caught myself assessing the ringless nature of his left hand. Was he new to Parkwood and single, just like me?
The question that followed that thought popped out without consulting my brain at all, and in the dorkiest way possible. “So do you do all the toasting at your house or is your girlfriend into crispy bread, too?” Seriously, Hollis? Crispy bread? I wanted Vacuumulate to open its doors and swallow me whole.
His brow furrowed while he put together the puzzle of my ridiculous question. “Toast for one, I’m afraid,” he said, and my mortification was temporarily assuaged by relief that there was no toast-eating girlfriend in the picture, even though I wasn’t sure why exactly I was so happy about that. “What about you?”
“Oh,” I said. “Single toaster at my house, too. But I like that I get to use both slots.”
I dug out my notebook and pencil. “So, since we have some time, I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
He looked wary. “About what?”
“I’m told Coach Farley had a natural death.”
“Ah. About that.” He nodded. “Chief Henderson did say there was no evidence of foul play.”
“And the witness—”
“Unreliable, trust me,” he said.
“So she was just making up the thing about the car with the round headlights and the thump-thump and the pancake?”
“Agnes? Most definitely.”
“But why would she do that? What does she have to gain? It doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does if you know Agnes Tellerman. She’s had us out to her house four times this month for suspicious noises or shadows or some such. She’s a crier. My neighbor went to school with her older brother, Tommy, and says he’s a crier, too. Well, I mean, maybe not anymore. He’s some big deal up on Wall Street now.
