Murder at Mabel's Motel Page 2

  Stella was proud to be seen with him under any circumstances, let alone one that might, or might not, be considered semi-romantic.

  Like the children in her home, Stella wasn’t quite sure about the significance of this invitation. Often, he would ask her to accompany him while he was on duty and performing some task for McGillians. But when he had phoned the day before and invited her to have dinner with him, she’d heard a more serious tone in his voice. Maybe even a bit of nervousness, which was completely out of character for an otherwise self-confident man.

  Even more confusing was the fact that they had been served ten minutes before, and Manny hadn’t eaten more than a bite of his food yet.

  Stella was starting to think that, for a man with a ravenous appetite, this was a possible cause for alarm.

  As he stared down at his plate, she cleared her throat and said, “Manny, you feelin’ all right tonight? You seem like you might be a bit off your feed there.”

  He looked up at her, his pale gray eyes filled with a level of concern that upset her even further. “No, Stella,” he said. “Thank you for asking, but I’m not exactly all right.”

  Stella’s mind raced. So many possibilities occurred to her. With a sheriff, his problem could be almost anything. Heaven only knew what evil might be afoot in the town. Over the years, she’d learned that living in a small town didn’t guarantee that everyone inside its borders lived safe, peaceful lives.

  He could be troubled about anything from an unpatched pothole to skullduggery of a serious nature.

  Maybe somebody had said or done something disrespectful to him. Representing truth, justice, and the American way, as he did, he was often the target of mischief and sometimes genuinely foul play.

  Only one week ago, she’d seen him scrubbing the remains of some rotten eggs off the hood of his cruiser.

  Or maybe it was she who had done something to offend him. She certainly hoped not.

  Sheriff Manny Gilford and his wife, Lucy, had always been close friends of Stella’s and her late husband, Arthur. The four of them had made many lovely memories together, having attended high school together and later, as married couples, swimming, boating, and fishing at the Gilfords’ lakeside cottage in the summers.

  Come winter, they had enjoyed many gentle evenings, playing Monopoly or sitting on the couch, watching the fire blaze, their laps covered with cozy afghans Lucy had crocheted, and listening to oldies from the fifties and the newer hits from the Beatles, Elton John, and Creedence Clearwater Revival on Manny’s enormous stereo system.

  But all good things come to an end. Manny had lost his beloved Lucy. Then, six years ago, Art had been taken in an accident, working their small farm.

  Both widower and widow grieved their losses together, bonding even more closely as friends.

  But no more than friends.

  Stella knew that Manny wanted to make it more. He had always been so kind to her and hers. He had even been instrumental in helping her gain custody of her grandchildren, when her daughter-in-law had gone to jail on drunk driving and child endangerment charges.

  From that moment on, Stella’s life was no longer her own. Taking care of seven kids was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job with no weekends off or vacation time.

  Certainly, there was no time for something as distracting and time-consuming as a new man in her life.

  Manny understood.

  That’s why Stella was confused when he asked if he could take her out for dinner. But she had heard a note of urgency in his voice, and she couldn’t refuse. He’d sounded strange, like he had something important on his mind.

  “Can you share what it is that’s botherin’ you?” she asked. “If it ain’t a private matter of a confidential nature, of course.”

  He hesitated, and the silence was long and awkward. Finally, he said, still staring down at his plate, “I just can’t figure out exactly what this is.”

  Stella studied the pile of food for quite a while, then shrugged and said, “As I recall, you ordered the meat loaf special.” She glanced over at Jean Marie, the short-skirted, big-haired waitress, who was keeping a close and jealous eye on them.

  As were most of the ladies in the establishment at that moment.

  The townsfolk weren’t accustomed to seeing their sheriff engaging in what might be a genuine social interaction with an unattached female. Stella was sure everyone in McGill would be discussing this highly suspicious “tryst” over breakfast tomorrow and expounding an opinion on it.

  She returned her attention to Manny and his mystery plate. “I think you got the meat loaf you asked for,” she said, “though Jean Marie pert near drowned the poor thing in gravy. Probably meant to impress you. She’s carried a torch for you since she was eleven, you know.”

  Manny didn’t seem impressed to hear he was the object of Jean Marie’s or anyone else’s affections. He looked up at her, and she was concerned to see the worried expression on his face.

  “I wasn’t talking about the meat loaf, Stella May,” he said softly. “I’m talking about this. . . .”

  “This what?” She tried to understand but had no idea what he meant. “I’m sorry, Manny, but—”

  “This, Stella. This . . . us . . . going out to dinner together. Alone.”

  Stella swallowed, took a quick glance around the room at all the eavesdroppers, and whispered, “Alone, except for the quarter of the town’s population that’s eatin’ in here with us tonight?”

  He paused, perused the room, then shrugged. “I don’t give a hoot about them right now, and I don’t care what’s on my plate. I just wish I could figure out.... Is this a real ‘date’ we’re on now? Or is this just two old friends having a meal together?”

  She sat, flabbergasted and unable to formulate one solitary sentence in her head to answer him.

  Finally, she just started to giggle. Far too hard. Much too loudly.

  She was further mortified when she realized that she sounded like Marietta after a knuckleheaded boy in her class had asked if he could kiss her behind the bookshelves at recess.

  Manny wasn’t helping, sitting there, studying her with his gray, piercing policeman’s eyes. He missed nothing, and she was wondering what her ridiculous reaction was telling him.

  At last, she gained control of herself, other than the occasional, nervous hiccup. “I’m sorry, Manny,” she said. “I’m not laughing at you. Truly. It’s just that my grandkids were bickering about the same thing as I was going out the door today. Some said I was leaving to have a date with you and others said it wasn’t no big deal. Just a burger.”

  Again, his gaze never wavered as he said, “Well? What did you tell them?”

  “I don’t recall for sure, but I think I mentioned that Miss Marietta should mind her own business.”

  “That sounds like your Mari.”

  She laughed. He chuckled.

  Both sounded tense, and Stella didn’t like it that they were uneasy in each other’s presence. That was unusual for them and most unpleasant.

  She decided to be honest with him. Maybe even admit that, although the thought scared her, she had been hoping, deep inside, that it was more than just friends getting together for a burger.

  She took a deep breath, and in as soft a voice as she could manage, she said, “To be honest, Manny, I was sorta wonderin’ myself. I’m not sure, because I don’t know exactly what you had in mind when you asked me.”

  She watched him start to answer, swallow his words, and then try them once again.

  “Since you put it that way,” he began, “I’ll confess. I was thinking it was more of a date than just a burger between friends. But I wasn’t assuming anything. I would’ve been happy with either—as long as I was with you.”

  She gave him a shy smile and ducked her head. “I reckon I might as well admit it. I was hopin’ you’d say that.”

  “You were?”

  She nodded.

  He laughed, loudly enough for the deep sound of it to fill the roo
m and draw even more attention to their table.

  “Really?” He leaned closer to her.

  “Yes. I think the world of Elsie but . . .” She pointed to her mouth. “. . . I wouldn’t wear red lipstick just to eat a hamburger with her.”

  “I was thinking that!” he said. “When I picked you up, that was the first thing I noticed. I was hoping it was a sign.”

  She nudged him gently under the table with the pointed toe of her high heel. Actually, Flo’s high heels, as she didn’t personally own a pair of fancy shoes, high heeled or otherwise.

  She continued, “I sure as shootin’ wouldn’t’ve borrowed these dadgum shoes that pinch my toes and make my back ache somethin’ fierce, just to have breakfast pancakes with Flo.”

  “Oh, I noticed those, too. Believe me.”

  “And, hopefully, appreciated them, considering my sacrifice.”

  “I assure you, they and you are much appreciated.”

  She saw a glimmer in his eye that she had seen before, but not quite so pronounced. She glanced down at her burger to avoid the intensity of his gaze, as well as the way it made her feel.

  “Thank you, Manny,” she said softly. “I appreciate you, too.”

  To her surprise, he reached across the table and patted the back of her hand. Just lightly. Only for a second. But it was enough to cause her to draw a quick, sharp breath and feel her knees turn the consistency of a gelatin salad that had been left out on a picnic table, one hot, sunny Fourth of July.

  She snuck a quick glance around the restaurant and saw at least ten of her fellow dinners suddenly pretend to be fascinated by their dinners instead of their sheriff and whose hand he was patting.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Since I saw those fancy high heels tonight and how nice you look in them, I’ll just hold that memory in my mind, and you don’t need to wear them ever again. You don’t need to be in pain or even uncomfortable to impress me, Stella May.”

  “I appreciate that,” she said, slipping the heels off under the table. “You have no idea how much. They just ain’t me.”

  She looked up at him and saw he was staring at her lips.

  “Wearing lipstick isn’t uncomfortable though, is it?” he asked with a grin.

  “No. Not a bit.”

  “Then if you don’t mind, and it isn’t too much trouble, maybe you could keep wearing that. I must admit, I find it most . . . um . . . appealing.”

  Despite her best efforts not to, Stella couldn’t help recalling what Marietta had said about her getting that red lipstick all over the sheriff’s face, and she blushed. Hopefully, not as scarlet as Revlon’s shade of Fireball Red on her mouth.

  “It’s a new stick,” she said, when she’d somewhat recovered herself. “I’ll only wear it for you, and it’ll last forever.”

  “Maybe not forever,” he quickly added.

  “We’ll see.” She nodded toward his plate. “You better eat your supper ’fore it gets cold.”

  He laughed and picked up his fork, but no sooner had he and she dug into their meals than the bell on the front door rang and an elderly woman rushed in.

  “Oh, no,” Manny groaned when he saw her. “I already had one run-in with her this morning. I’d hoped I’d be off the hook for a day or two, at least.”

  As the woman entered the dining area, she looked around the room, her eyes wide with excitement that bordered on hysteria, until she saw Manny.

  “It appears Miss Dolly Browning’s got herself another emergency of some sort,” Stella said under her breath as the woman scurried over to them.

  “What else is new? One of those imaginary enemies of hers probably stole her car keys again or got into her refrigerator and drank the last of her milk or cracked one of her eggs.”

  Stella watched Dolly navigate a crooked path between the tables to get to them. Although Stella had heard she was in her late seventies, she couldn’t help thinking Miss Browning appeared older. There was just something about her that suggested she had a lot of mileage on her, more than her years warranted.

  Stella could tell that Manny was pretending to be totally focused on his dinner plate, but the newcomer wasn’t to be deterred by common courtesy. In her haste to reach him, Dolly lost her balance and stumbled.

  No doubt, she would have fallen to the floor if Manny hadn’t jumped out of his seat and grabbed her in mid-tumble.

  Stella rose, too, snatched an empty chair from a table nearby, and together, she and Manny eased the woman onto it.

  Dropping to one knee beside her, Manny put his hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “You gotta settle down there, Miss Dolly,” he said, patting her. “Whatever’s the matter this time, it’s not worth taking a bad fall.”

  “It’s bad, Sheriff,” she said, panting. “Very bad, and it took me a long time to find you. I went to your office first, but—”

  “That’s okay. You found me now,” he said. “Just take a deep breath and then you can tell me all about it.”

  As Dolly struggled to do as he’d suggested and collect herself, Stella looked her over and was surprised to see her so disheveled. Usually, in spite of her infirmities, Dolly Browning was impeccably groomed. But not at the moment. Stella couldn’t recall ever seeing her silver hair mussed, her fair complexion so ghastly pale, or her eyes so wild with fear.

  Yes, Dolly was prone to having paranoid fantasies, imagining all sorts of persecutions—usually of a minor sort—by unseen ruffians. These “enemies” of hers liked to torment her by moving items in her house around and leaving them in unexpected and inconvenient spots. Sometimes they caused her kitchen sink to leak and her toilet to run. On windy nights, they would bang tree limbs against her windows to frighten her. Worst of all, they frequently stole envelopes containing large sums of money out of her mailbox—cash sent to her from wealthy relatives living abroad.

  Or so Dolly believed.

  With all her heart.

  Every “crime” she promptly reported to the sheriff and heartily expressed her determination that he would find these heinous criminals, arrest them, bring them to justice, and administer a punishment commensurate with their misdeeds.

  They deserved capital punishment, she insisted, because who but the worst of the worst would do such things to a poor old woman living alone?

  “What’s the matter now, darlin’?” Manny asked. “Did they change the channels on your television again?”

  “No! No! No!” she shouted. Instantly, the conversation in the restaurant stopped. The room was silent, as everyone turned to stare at her.

  But she seemed unaware of them as she grabbed Manny’s sleeve and shook his arm. “You have to listen to me, Sheriff,” she said. “This is important. Something awful has happened. Not to me. To someone else!”

  Stella knew Dolly Browning and her usual rants. This wasn’t one of them. Kneeling beside Manny, Stella reached for Dolly’s hand and pressed it between her own. It was shaking. Badly. And terribly cold.

  “What is it, Dolly?” Manny asked. “Who’s in trouble?”

  “At the service station.”

  “Which one?” Stella asked, fearing it was the larger of the two in town, the one belonging to her neighbor. Florence wasn’t good at handling bad news.

  “The little station at the end of town,” Dolly said. “Something terrible happened there. An attack. On Ortez.”

  “Raul Ortez?” Manny looked surprised.

  So did Stella.

  Raul was one of the more popular, easygoing citizens of McGill. A gentle, hardworking farmer with a failing farm on the outskirts of town, who managed to keep his head high in spite of his bent back. She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to harm him.

  “Someone attacked Raul there at the service station?” Manny asked Dolly again, a bit louder and more insistent than before.

  “No!” Dolly said. “Not Raul. His daughter. I can’t remember her first name, but—”

  “Yolanda?” Stella said, her heart sinking.

  �
�Yes. That’s it. The friendly, pretty one with the long black hair.”

  As industrious as her father, Yolanda Ortez had managed the garage for its absentee owner for the past three years, since she had turned sixteen. She had done a good job of it, too, considering how little she’d had to work with.

  Manny looked at Stella, a sick expression on his face. “Long black hair. That’s Yolanda all right.” Turning back to Dolly, he said, “What’s happened to Yolanda?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But I stopped at the gas station to ask that nitwit who works there with that girl—can’t remember his name either, but I hate him—if he’d put some air in my tires for me. But I didn’t see him anywhere. So, I walked around to the back, where they work on cars, thinking they might be back there. . . .”

  “Yes,” Manny prompted her, “and what did you see?”

  Dolly shuddered and closed her eyes. “At first I heard them. Shouting. And then their footsteps when they were running away. Then I saw her, that sweet girl, lying on the ground back there, between one of those broken-down cars and a pile of tires. She’s hurt, Sheriff. Badly hurt. She isn’t dead. I know, because I checked. She has a pulse, and she’s breathing. But she has a bad head injury, and I think someone . . . hurt her . . . or tried to. You must go help her! Now!”

  But Manny needed no prompting. He had already grabbed Stella’s hand, and they were racing toward the door.

  Meat loaf specials and burgers deluxe, date or dinner with a friend . . . completely forgotten.

  Chapter 3

  Usually, it required less than a minute, maybe fifty-five seconds during “rush hour,” to get from one place to another in a town that was three blocks long and had only one traffic light, which simply blinked red for a four-way stop.

  But Sheriff Gilford took only fifteen seconds to drive his new 1986 patrol car—a Special Service Package Mustang—himself, and Stella to the opposite side of town and McGill’s “other” service station. On the way, he even managed to call the police station and request that an ambulance and the town doctor meet him at the scene.

  Upon arriving, he drove the cruiser around to the rear of the garage and came to a stop with his headlights illuminating an area that looked like a small junkyard.