“But you didn’t go to the police station,” I said. “You followed him to the Hibiscus.”
“Not on purpose. I went to the station later that day. I was headed to the Hisbiscus for lunch when he hit me. Apparently so was he.”
“So was probably half of Parkwood, to be fair,” Daisy said.
“That lunch gave me indigestion,” Wickham said. He grimaced and placed his hand on his stomach with remembered pain. “I think it was those giblets Esther’s been ruining her gravy with.”
“So you didn’t…you didn’t…”
“Run over Coach Farley? I should say not.” He pointed to the hood of his car. “He messed up my car enough as it is. Don’t want to give him a chance to do more damage. The police can test it for DNA if they want. And If you’re done wasting my time, I’d like to leave now.”
Daisy and I shuffled over and Wickham got into his car and drove away.
“If you ask me, it wasn’t Wickham,” Daisy said.
“No, it wasn’t. I agree.”
“That leaves the assistant coach. Who, by the way, is not here. Is that suspicious at all?”
I frowned. “Maybe.”
“But probably not as suspicious as that, huh?” she asked, nodding toward the driveway exit.
I turned just in time to see a Jeep pulling out of the driveway and screeching away.
Almost as if it had no business being there in the first place.
Chapter 11
“Mary Mean isn’t here,” one of the middle schoolers said as soon as I walked in early the next morning. “She’s got throat cancer or something.”
I gasped.
Joyce removed an earbud. “Tonsillitis and sinusitis, not throat cancer. Do they still have biology classes in school?”
“Either way, she’s not here.” The middle schooler grabbed a bag of rolled newspapers and ambled out for his paper route.
Actually, this was a good thing for me. With no Mary Jean came no new assignments. I could pound out this hot dog roller piece, put it in her inbox, and be out there pounding my beat by lunch.
And by pounding my beat, I meant getting a quick story out of Vacuumulate, then following Paulie Henderson. I needed to get some answers from him. Starting with the newest one—was that him at Coach Farley’s funeral? And, if so, why was he in such a hurry to leave it?
I rushed toward my desk.
“Don’t worry, she left you an assignment. For after you’re done with the housewares store story, of course,” Joyce said from behind, startling me. I turned to find her standing at my desk, holding a sticky note, both earbuds dangling over her shoulders.
“Of course.”
She held up the sticky note on her index finger. “Parkwood Community Funds.”
“The bank?” I asked, taking the sticky note from her.
“Mary Jean wants you to cover the new branch going up on Highway 2. Haven’t you seen it?”
“That’s what they’ve been building there?” I had been hoping it was something exciting, like a Starbucks.
“Would you have ever imagined?” Joyce said. “Parkwood, Missouri, a two-branch town. My grandmother would be pitching a fit, God rest her soul.”
I thought about how inconceivable a two-branch town would have been to someone back home as well, for the opposite reason. There’s nothing in that town, Hollis. I could still hear Trace’s words on the day of our breakup. I can’t live in a place that small. I like having choices.
Well, we’ve got two branches now, Trace. I thought. Look who has choices now! Draw that in your little notebook and make one of your sardonic jokes! I sighed. He probably would. And it would be funny and win him another award.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized Trace’s attitude toward Parkwood was kind of snotty. Had I been a snot, too, when I lived in Chicago? Ugh. Probably. When I first moved to Parkwood, every other sentence that came out of my mouth was, That’s not how it goes in Chicago. Kind of a snobby thing to say, even if I hadn’t meant for it to be.
And the worst part? I still missed Chicago.
Although I was finding myself missing it less and less every day.
I pushed Trace out of my mind and read the name on the sticky note. “Francine Oglethorpe. She’s the bank manager?”
“And she’s expecting you.”
Guess my meeting with Paulie Henderson would have to wait once again.
Francine Oglethorpe was a short, middle-aged platinum blonde, with severely-drawn, bright red lipstick, and stick-straight posture. She hurried out of her office to greet me, hand outstretched for a shake, her pantyhose swishing vigorously in the quiet lobby.
“You must be Holly,” she said.
“It’s Hollis, actually. Common mistake.”
She gave me a curious look. “Do you ever go by Holly?”
“I’m afraid never,” I said. “My grandmother called me Holly sometimes, but that’s about it.”
Her lips turned down from severe, red welcome to severe, red disapproval. “You should go by Holly. Hollis is a last name. It’s confusing. People with two last names are confusing.”
I’d never gotten critiqued on my name before, but okay. “Thanks for the advice,” I said sweetly. “I’ll give it some thought. I just have a few questions for you about the new branch.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, clasping her hands at her bosom. “But first, have a seat, and I’ll tell you the history of Parkwood Community Funds.”
“Oh, I read all of that on your website. Really fascinating stuff.” It wasn’t. “I’m all ready to start writing about the new branch.” I grabbed my notebook and pencil.
“Well, the website missed some of the more amusing intricacies of the founding of our great institution. I’m certain your readers will be enthralled.”
Maybe when they’d calmed down from the excitement of the hot dog roller story. Didn’t want to overwhelm them with too much enthralling news all at once. “I’m sure you’re right,” I said.
I followed Francine into her office and took notes on the Bell family tree, dating all the way back to the founding of Parkwood by
