The Perfect Coed (Oak Grove Mysteries Book 1) Page 6

  Jenny Hogan was Susan’s seventy-something-year-old aunt. Susan would have told anyone—including Aunt Jenny—that her aunt was the person she most loved in the world. Susan’s parents had divorced when she was three, and then her mother, frightened by the responsibility of a child and the prospect of being alone, took a successful dose of sleeping pills. Susan’s father, on hearing the news, had thrown Susan’s clothes in a suitcase, grabbed her and the suitcase, and taken the whole kit and caboodle to his sister Jenny, the maiden schoolteacher who lived in Wichita Falls. Thereafter, he appeared at Christmas with toy trains that bored Susan and on her birthday with gifts equally inappropriate. Ten years later, he died himself, worn out by drink and gambling and—Aunt Jenny never said the word, but Susan knew—womanizing.

  Aunt Jenny, fluttery, distracted, loving beyond measure, had been Susan’s world.

  “Aunt Jenny, I’d love to see you. But there’s a lot going on right now. Maybe Christmas?”

  “No, Susan, I read the newspaper, and I know you’re as good as accused of murder. I need to be there with you. And, besides, I haven’t met this man—what’s his name? Jake?”

  Susan was at a loss. “Uh, yeah, Jake. But Aunt Jenny I really can’t be a good hostess right now.”

  “Yes, yes, dear, I understand, and I won’t be any trouble. I’ll be there in time to cook Sunday supper for you.”

  “What time is your plane? Jake and I will come get you.”

  “Plane? Oh, no, I’ll drive. Far too much trouble to get to the airport, go through all that check-in security. I can be there faster if I drive. Yes, dear, I know how to find Oak Grove. Just go to Fort Worth and turn southwest—what’s the road again? I bet I can even find your house. Susan, stop worrying so much about things. That’s why I have to be there to help you.”

  “Aunt Jenny, I love you. But it worries me to have you drive all this way. I’ll be all right. Really. Jake will see to it.” Well, she hoped he would.

  “Yes, Susan dear, I love you too. I’ll see you Sunday. And I can’t wait to meet Jake. Buy the makings for chicken and dumplings.”

  Susan hung up the phone and held her head in her hands. She loved Aunt Jenny more than she could ever say, but she didn’t need her underfoot right now. And here it was Thursday already, and she’d have to have her house sparkling by Sunday. Wearily, she called Jake.

  “I need you,” she said without saying hello or asking where he was and why he hadn’t started cooking her dinner.

  He was still at the office. “Susan? Is this an invitation? I didn’t think we parted on the best of terms at the memorial service.” He was laughing at her.

  If only you knew, she thought. “Yeah,” she said, keeping her voice light, “it’s an invitation for Sunday night supper. My Aunt Jenny says she’ll be here in time to cook.”

  “Aunt Jenny! I’ve been wondering when I’d be invited to meet her.”

  “Jake, what am I going to do with a seventy-plus dither-head sharing my house with me?”

  “I guess,” he said, “you’re going to learn a lesson in patience. And the two of us are going to learn a lesson in stolen moments of passion—you won’t let me spend the night, will you?”

  “Aunt Jenny would be horrified.”

  He sighed. “I was afraid of that. How long’s she staying?”

  “She didn’t say. She knows all about Missy Jackson being found in my car, and she’s worried about me.” As she talked, Susan paced as far as the long phone cord would let her, traveling toward the kitchen bar and back again as many as ten times.

  “Well, let me go with you to meet her plane.”

  “She’s driving,” Susan said flatly.

  He was amazed and indignant. “From what you’ve told me, she’s too old to drive here from Wichita Falls. Susan, how could you let her do that?”

  “Wait till you meet Aunt Jenny, and then you’ll wonder how I could have stopped her.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll be glad to meet the person who can stymie you, Susan. Meantime, I do have a couple of things to report on the murder. Want to forgive and forget over dinner?”

  “Yes.” Her answer came so quickly that she heard Jake chuckle again, but she wanted him to come and comfort her and bury the poor kitten. “What time will you be here?”

  “Not your place but mine,” he said. “I’ve got beer and wine and hamburger meat, buns, tomatoes and onion, dill pickles—all the makings of your kind of meal.”

  Susan rarely went to Jake’s house, and it was a source of argument between them. “It’s not that I mind coming to your house,” he’d told her once, “but I think we ought to share.”

  “In Scott’s eyes, it’s bad enough you spend the night at my house, but if I were to spend the night there…” She had thrown her hands up in the air.

  “He probably wouldn’t even know,” Jake said, “as far away from campus as I am.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” she’d told him.

  Tonight, she was about to say, “Jake, I need you here,” when she realized that she wanted to be away from her own house for a while.

  “I’ll pick you up, so you don’t have to go home late on the moped.”

  She drew her own personal line in the sand. “I’ll ride the moped,” she said with determination. Maybe, she thought, the ride will get rid of whatever I’m feeling. What? Stress? Tension? Fear? That was it—good old-fashioned scared-to-death. “I’ll be there before dark, and I’ll spend the night,” she said.

  “I’ll be waiting with open arms.” When he hung up, Jake shook his head in exasperation. Sometimes Susan was so hard to help that it frustrated him and made him wonder about their relationship. Where he came from a man protected a woman, and yet Susan seemed to reject protection—even when she needed it most.

  * * *

  Jake lived in the country, beyond where Susan lived. Outside, his was the perfunctory ranch-style house with red brick, evenly spaced windows, ordinary landscaping—lots of nandinas—and not much to distinguish it from most suburban houses except that it sat on its own two acres of land. But inside it was totally, well, Jake. For several years, Jake had been gradually fixing it up, beginning with a complete redo of the kitchen. He’d installed a gas cook top, a Jenn-Air indoor grill, a convection oven, a dishwasher, and garbage compactor—Susan laughed at the latter as absolutely useless. He’d used gray tiles on the counters, backsplash, and floor to complement the white walls. The appliances had brushed steel finishes. The result was a clean, streamlined look that spoke of serious dedication to cooking.

  Following the standard plan for 1960s houses, his front door opened into a hall with a living room to the right and a dining room beyond that. Straight ahead lay the ubiquitous paneled family room, only Jake had painted the paneling a soft off-white that lightened the room. The bedroom wing was off the hall to the left, but to get to the kitchen you had to go through either the dining room or the family room. A bar-height counter connected family room and kitchen. The front bedroom served as a sort of television room, though Jake read more than he watched the tube, and the room’s walls were lined with bookcases. Several shelves held popular paperbacks, everything from John Grisham and John LeCarré to Louis L’Amour. The middle bedroom was a guest room—maybe Aunt Jenny should stay there, Susan thought—and the larger back bedroom was Jake’s, done in dark green with tan accents. Unlike the other bedrooms, it had its own master bath.

  Susan left her house a little after six, after going around locking all the windows and turning on all the lights. She locked the door behind her and even went back once to try it. I’m turning into a nervous Nellie, she thought unhappily. Once my house becomes a threat instead of a safe haven, I’ve had it. And then it occurred to her that was exactly what this crazy person was trying to accomplish—make her afraid in the places where she felt most safe. Defiantly she strode across her deck, keeping her eyes averted from that damn shoebox. Gunning the moped into action, she whirled past Mrs. Whitley’s house and saw that lady peeking out
through discreetly parted curtains.

  She headed south on Main, which soon turned into FM 1161, to where Jake lived. Always uneasy now, she looked in the rearview mirror and saw a small, dark car close on her tail. She sped up as much as she could, pushing the moped to forty, a speed that made her feel giddily dangerous. The dark car stayed close behind.

  I wish I were smarter about cars. I have no idea if that’s the car that tried to kill me before or not. They look the same, but… If the driver of that car wants to kill me, he’s got a perfect shot on this empty country road. Her heart was pounding, and she had a hard time concentrating on keeping the speeding moped on course. Suddenly, the car behind her veered to the left, gunned its motor, and passed, quickly leaving her behind.

  Damn my imagination, Susan said to herself. If I’d been thinking, I’d have known that even a sociopath wouldn’t go to all the elaborate trouble of leaving a dead kitten at my door only to kill me within the hour.

  Jake greeted her with open arms, as he’d promised. His words of welcome were less comforting. “You look like hell,” he said. “What happened?”

  She pulled herself from his arms, avoiding looking at him. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s just been a long day.”

  “The memorial service?” he asked.

  Well, it wasn’t a lie. It was just another instance where she wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Yeah,” she said. “That upset me.”

  His arms went around her again. “You meant well, Susan. I never doubted that. It’s just… well, you hadn’t met the parents, and I had. I should have warned you. Come on, I’ll get you a glass of wine.”

  She didn’t tell him she’d already had bourbon. That drink seemed long ago and far away, and he might have scolded her for riding the moped after she’d had a drink. By now, Susan had decided she wanted a comforting evening, not one spoiled by the news of the gift at her door.

  He poured her a glass of Chardonnay and opened a Shiner Bock for himself. Watching him prepare their dinner, Susan realized he was as efficient in his own kitchen as he was in hers, chopping lettuce for the sandwiches, slicing tomatoes and onions into the thinnest of pieces.

  Jake grilled on the Jenn-Air, preferring it, he said, to an outdoor grill. Susan sat at the kitchen table while he cooked the hamburgers, his medium well and hers rare.

  “What’s your news?” she asked.

  “I got reports from Jordan today about his interviews with Missy Jackson’s parents and with the boyfriend, Eric Lindler. Which do you want to hear first?”

  “The boyfriend,” Susan said unhesitatingly, her attention perking up quickly. Even if he doesn’t own a small, dark car, maybe something came out of that.

  “He’s Mister Squeaky-Clean, like I told you before. Was in the library studying the night of the murder…”

  “Who saw him?” Susan asked sharply.

  Jake laughed. “What’re you? The master detective? Jordan will check that out. But he says the boy is so obviously grieving and so obviously Mr. College America that he’s not a suspect. He had no reason to kill her.”

  Susan stood up impatiently. “Great! The person closest to her is not a suspect, and yet I am, just because her body was found in my car! And because I didn’t think she was perfect, like everyone else does!” She thought for a minute. “How do we know that she didn’t break off the relationship, or that she wasn’t two-timing him… or that something hadn’t happened between them?” As an afterthought, she added, “I assume she wasn’t pregnant.”

  Jake shook his head. “No, she wasn’t. First thing I asked too. And we don’t know for sure about what was between them, but we’ll keep digging. Lindler showed Jordan the engagement ring he had planned to give her at homecoming.”

  “How touching,” Susan said sarcastically. “It doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her.”

  He shrugged. “Makes it unlikely.”

  “Okay. What about the parents?” She was getting snappish, and she knew it. Maybe food would help. Meantime she poured another glass of wine for herself and saw Jake grin ever so slightly as he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

  “Nothing much,” he said, turning quickly back to the hamburgers. “She was a wonderful child, the daughter every parent should have, and so on, everything they said to me, except…”

  “Except what?” Susan interrupted impatiently.

  “They said she paid all her expenses—clothes, meals outside the dorm, that kind of stuff—from her work-study job.”

  “What kind of work-study job lets a kid earn that much?” Susan asked.

  “She didn’t have one,” Jake said. “I checked.”

  Susan didn’t say it aloud to Jake, who would have forbidden her, but she needed to talk to the Lindler boy.

  She couldn’t bring up the kitten now.

  The hamburgers were delicious and the wine plentiful enough that Susan fell asleep as soon as she hit the bed.

  “Great,” Jake muttered, “I’ve wanted you to stay over here for a long time, and look what you do when it finally happens. You fall asleep!”

  She woke around two, when the wine wore off, and reached for Jake, stroking his chest. He neither grumbled nor pushed her away, but he did ask, “Are you sure this isn’t just a ploy to talk about some aspect of the murder that just occurred to you?”

  “It might be,” she said. “I…” Suddenly she sat straight up. “When I got home today, someone had left a dead kitten in a shoebox at my door.”

  “What?” Jake had been nibbling her ear and now came close to biting it off in his surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me hours ago?”

  She shrugged. “At first I couldn’t wait to tell you, and then I just wanted to get away from it and forget it. But, Jake, I… I can’t go back there and dispose of it.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll do that, Susan. But why, who? I don’t understand it at all.”

  “There was a note—I wore rubber gloves when I looked at it and put it back in the box with the cat. It said pretty much what the other one did, only something about not ruining other lives.”

  He shook his head. “Rubber gloves just make it worse—you blur whatever prints are on there. They’re not the same as evidence gloves. But never mind. It makes no sense, no sense at all. Somebody out there is warped. So warped that I’m scared for you. It’s someone who wants you dead.”

  “Maybe,” she said, “they just want me scared to death. I locked the house before I left.” She was glad now she hadn’t told him about the small, dark car that scared her on her ride out to his house. She had to be able to separate real threats from imaginary ones.

  “Swell,” he said. “You’re not to be alone in that house again. I’m glad your aunt is coming.”

  “Some protection she’d be,” Susan said. “Wait till you meet her.”

  “At least you won’t be alone. And until then, I’m staying with you.”

  She shrugged, relieved but too proud to tell him. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him. He lay down, pulling her next to him. “Sleep now, Susan, you’re safe. I promise you that.”

  * * *

  In the morning, they had to get up early so Susan could ride the moped home and change clothes.

  “I’ll have to follow you in the truck,” Jake said. “You’re not going in that house alone.”

  Morning always made her feel brave. “Nothing will happen,” she said. “I’m going alone. You come along when you can and dispose of that box for me, okay?” It was what she had to do to keep from being a prisoner of fear.

  “I can’t dispose of it. I’ll take it to Jordan.”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “Swell, he’ll think I put it there myself.”

  “Susan, Susan, he’s a law enforcement officer. Surely he’ll see the pattern here, the danger.”

  “Don’t count on it,” she said bitterly.

  “Wait till I take a quick shower, and I’ll follow you home,” he said.

  Susan sneaked out while Ja
ke was in the shower. To her surprise, she enjoyed the ride home. There was little traffic, nothing to scare her, and the breeze blew through her hair and made her thankful for the sunglasses she wore even though the sun was barely up.

  At her house, nothing had changed. The box still sat pushed to one side, the door was still locked. Feeling almost normal, she took a shower, dressed, and roared off on the moped—a quiet roar.

  Chapter Five

  Friday morning, Susan dropped her books on her desk and headed not for the lounge but for the registrar’s office in the administration building.

  “Hi, Dr. Hogan!” The young black girl behind the counter greeted her enthusiastically, and Susan remembered that she’d been in her women’s lit class last year—the same class Missy Jackson had been in. Jamie had been interested in Toni Morrison’s work.

  “Tina, how are you?”

  “Doin’ just fine, thank you. I’ll graduate in June.”

  “June? A year ahead of time?” Susan was truly impressed, and Tina beamed with pride.

  “Yes, ma’am. I went to summer school two summers.”

  “You should be proud,” Susan said, reaching to touch the girl’s arm. “Most kids take five years to get out of school, and you’ll have done it in three.”

  “I am proud,” Tina said, “and so’s my family. What can I do for you this morning, Dr. Hogan?”

  Susan slid a piece of paper toward the girl with the name “Eric Lindler” written on it. “Can you give me his schedule?”

  Jamie lowered her eyes. “You know I can’t do that. It’s against the privacy laws. Dr. Hogan, I’d do anything I could for you, but I can’t risk my job.”

  “No, no, Jamie. I wouldn’t want you to do that. Sorry I asked.” Susan had known it was against the law but hoped she’d run into some student who didn’t know that. “I’ll find him some other way,” she said.

  “He’s Missy Jackson’s boyfriend,” Tina said. “You really think you should be talking to him?”