I had no plan B.
Anyway, the next morning it was cold and raining, so I made Nana Cole oatmeal. It seemed like a good idea and it was simple, you just follow the directions on the package. I added butter,milk and some raisins I’d found in the pantry. I should have known, though. When I set it in front of her, she looked at it as though I’d done it all wrong. Honestly, it didn’t lookthatbad.
“Is there any coffee cake left over from yesterday?”
“Oatmeal is good for you.”
She made a face.
“Why do you have it in the cupboard if you don’t like it?”
“I like oatmeal cookies.”
“Well, this is basically the same thing. Almost.” I was guessing. I had no idea what was in an oatmeal cookie. Other than, you know, oatmeal.
I tried staring her down but gave up quickly—she was so much better at it—and got the remaining piece of coffee cake, which I’d hidden in the breadbox planning to eat it myself. As I set it down in front of her, she said, “Bev is coming by soon if you want to go out and do something.”
“Like?”
“You could try to find out more about Reverend Hessel.” Left unsaid was the phrase, “…and then I’ll pay you.”
“You were supposed to pay me after I talked to the sheriff,” I pointed out.
“You didn’t talk to the sheriff, though. You talked to the detective.”
“What is it you expect me to find out?” She had seemed happy with the idea the murderer was a desperate meth-addict. Very happy, in fact. Why couldn’t we leave it at that?
“Well, you need to find out who did it. No one’s really safe until we do.”
“We could just lock the doors.”
“Will you stop. I shouldn’t have to lock my doors. It’s my God-given right to leave them open.”
It took a great deal of effort, but I left that alone. An hour and a half later I was in Bellflower walking into a coffee shop called Drip.
For Northern Lower Michigan it was a very trendy place and would have been considered perfect in Los Angeles about five years ago. It had corrugated metal halfway up the walls and a sort of bamboo wallpaper above that. I could almost hear the architect’s pitch about the excitement of clashing materials.
I bought a latte with regular milk, a gooey chocolate brownie, and then sat in the corner in the back. It crossed my mind that my back was to the wall since I was “investigating” a murder—again—and might already be in danger. The thought made me break out laughing all alone at my table.
Well, it was funny, wasn’t it?
I’d worked my way down to a hearty chuckle when Opal walked in. I’d met Opal a few months before when she and two friends of hers offered the reward for information about Sammy Hart’s killing.
She was a thick-hipped, bisexual, geeky girl with heaps of attitude. Even though she was exactly the kind of girl I avoided in Los Angeles, she’d been useful for information and rides—she had a Volkswagen beetle done up like a ladybug with spots and eyelashes on the headlights. My plan was to see if she had any information on Reverend Hessel.
Her hair, which had been orange and then purple, was now approximately an eighth of an inch long and green with yellow and orange dots here and there. She looked like a leopard. If leopards came in fluorescent colors.
Wearing a dingy raincoat—even though it wasn’t raining—a black leotard, black tights and pink ballet slippers, she plunked down in front of me.
“You’re going to buy me coffee, aren’t you?”
I hadn’t planned on buying her anything.
“Sure,” I said, hoping there was enough room on my Visa for a second coffee drink.
“I want a soy latte and a lemon poppy seed muffin.”
I guessed I also had to wait on her. I went back up to the counter, told the barista what she wanted, gave him a name, paid, and tipped generously. Thankfully, the charge went through.
