Murder Under the Covered Bridge (3 page)

“What's that you've got, Jonathan?” Francine shouted down at him.

“I'll tell you later. When do you think the ambulance will get here?”

Francine turned to Marcy. “What did they say? Ten minutes?”

Marcy's hands were dug deep into her plaid wool coat and her shoulders were hunched against the cold. She might have been nodding her head yes, but Francine couldn't tell. “About ten. The same for the sheriff's department, but I don't know how long ago that was. Maybe another five minutes?”

Before Francine could tell Jonathan anything, he called back up. “I'm only asking because Joy needs to take down the lights and pack everything away before the ambulance gets here. It won't be able to get through to this side. See if someone from the restaurant can hook up the horse and move the carriage out of the bridge. There's a spot just off the road on this end where it can be parked.”

Francine realized how much there was to do. “Oh my gosh! He's right! We've got to get packed up.”

“I grew up with horses,” Joy yelled to Jonathan. “I'll take care of that.” Joy turned off the camera and handed it to Marcy. “Marcy, you're in charge. Francine and Charlotte, do exactly what she says. You helped unpack; you know how to pack it up. We'll be out of here in no time.”

No time
was exactly what Francine was worried about. How long would it really be before the ambulance got here? And how much time had passed since the shots were fired? Was someone in the cornfield still watching them? The shooting had stopped and they didn't seem to be in danger. But Marcy had reported seeing the cornstalks rustled by William's pursuer. Was their presence preventing the shooter from finishing off William, or was he waiting for them to bring the body up top so he could shoot him again? If so, would that make the rest of them dispensable? If he was waiting, she thought, he'd be disappointed, because they weren't doing anything until after the emergency medical technicians got there and the sheriff's department arrived.

Marcy took the camera and rushed into the bridge. Francine and Charlotte did their best to keep up with her.

But Francine couldn't help glancing back at the cornfield. There was no wind to speak of this morning, and the rows of withered cornstalks stood upright and stationary. The trees and undergrowth lining the creek wound to the north as far as she could see, about a quarter of a mile away. She saw no one in that direction. The dampness of the still morning air hung on and Francine shivered. She needed her jacket. She needed to change clothes.

Francine glanced Charlotte's way. Her expression was somewhere between delight and excitement.
Either she's energized by the attempt on William's life or she's up to something.
Or maybe it's just that she's always fascinated by mysteries.

Francine linked arms with Charlotte to help her go faster. They had a lot to do to make things look as normal as possible before the ambulance arrived.

three

Joy untied the horse
from the tree, brought it inside, and hooked it up to the carriage while Marcy instructed Francine and Charlotte in packing up the equipment.

“What are we going to do about this light that got trashed by the rifle shot?” Charlotte asked. “I can get it back in the case, but it's in pieces.”

Joy mounted the coach driver's seat. “The station's not going to be happy about that light stand.”

“I guess that's the price of getting this story,” Charlotte said.

“Not much of a story if I don't record it. Remember to keep out the video camera for me.” She coaxed the horse and pulled the carriage out of the bridge.

The women finished dragging the equipment to one side of the bridge just before the fire truck arrived from Rockville. They'd hoped to give the vehicle room to edge past them, but the truck was either too heavy or too big to use the narrow bridge. The driver parked it on CR 350W, which would have blocked traffic had there had been any that time of the day.

A nimble fireman ran across the bridge with a radio. The women pointed out William and Jonathan. He radioed back once he assessed the situation, and soon two men from the fire truck joined him. They carried rope bags and wore life jackets with a metal loop on the back. Francine watched as they threaded a rope through the loop and tethered themselves to a sturdy sycamore on top of the bank. They made their way down carrying a backboard.

A brown sheriff's car came screaming up from the south. He dodged the fire truck and pulled in front of the bridge, blocking access to it. He got out of the car and rushed across. Once the
fresh-faced
deputy saw the firemen rescuing the victim, he turned to the women, who were with Joy and the horse near the creek bank. He looked at Francine. She was now back in her raincoat covering the costume. “What's with the horse and carriage?”

“I'll give you the shortened version,” she said. “It's a photo shoot.” She hoped it was the only time she'd have to give an account for this, but she wasn't optimistic.

He seemed satisfied with her explanation. He pointed to Charlotte, who was waving her hand like she knew the answer to the difficult problem in a classroom. “You. Let's step away from the others and you can tell me what happened.”

Despite his instructions, they all began to talk at once again. He held up a hand. “Only her,” and he motioned Charlotte to come to him.

Together they stepped several yards away from the group. The deputy nodded. “Go ahead.”

Francine could hear Charlotte anyway. “We heard shots and we—that is, Marcy—saw the unconscious man down there run from the cornfield. He was in a rush from being shot at and he must have fallen or slid down the embankment and hit his head. Jonathan—that's Francine's husband, he's the other man down there—went to keep him from slipping any farther into the water and drowning.”

“Who's Francine?”

“That's me,” she said, waving a couple of fingers at him. She realized she shouldn't have let him know she could hear, but he seemed to forget because he directed his next question at her.

“Your husband ran out while the shots were being fired?”

“No, he waited until the gunmen had gone.”

“Okay,” he said. “Step over here.” He waited until Francine had joined them. “There was more than one gunman?”

Charlotte interrupted. “They were shooting rifles, and the shots came on top of one another, so there had to have been more than one.”

“Did you see any of them?”

Francine shook her head. “No. They must have stayed hidden in the cornfield or left once William fell down the creek bank.”

“You know the victim?”

“It's weird, but I do. He's my cousin. I have no idea why he was here or why he was being shot at.”

The deputy took notes. “Did you know the gunmen were gone, or did you just assume it?”

Charlotte answered, “We didn't know for sure, but they stopped shooting. And they didn't fire at us when we left the bridge.”

Everyone turned their attention to the scene below as the fireman helped Jonathan back up to the top of the bank. A second fireman checked him over. Jonathan handed over the wallet and the vial he'd retrieved. Francine didn't see the book but presumed he had turned it over as well.

Meanwhile, the firemen below hoisted William up on the backboard. Another two steadied them with the tethered rope.

The ambulance arrived. It couldn't get across the bridge because the sheriff's car blocked the entrance. The deputy ran back across the bridge to move his car out of the way.

In spite of the circumstances, Francine had to chuckle over the Barney Fife moment.

The ambulance made it across the bridge and backed into the turnaround space while Marcy steadied the horse and Joy continued filming the rescue. The paramedics loaded William into the ambulance and the firemen prepared to leave, but not before the deputy obtained the vial and the wallet. Then the ambulance sped out onto CR 350W, sirens wailing.

More deputies arrived. Once the group assessed the situation, they moved into the cornfield, cautiously spreading themselves out.

“They're going to establish a perimeter,” Charlotte said, “and search for evidence.”

Another sheriff's car arrived. The man who got out had a long, leathery face accentuated by thinning white hair parted to one side and a full, bristly white mustache. He carried a white Stetson, which he put on when he got out of the car. He reminded Francine of an Old West character who stayed on the job because he needed to keep busy. After he'd been briefed by the first deputy on the scene, he crossed the bridge to where the women and Jonathan had been placed for safety's sake.

“I'm Detective Stockton,” he said. He glanced at Jonathan, now wrapped in the wool blanket that had been in the carriage. “Since it's cold, let's go up to the Rock Run. I'm confident the owner will let us in, and we'll talk further up there. In the meantime, please don't talk among yourselves about what happened.”

Francine carried Jonathan's change of clothes as well as her own as they made their way to the restaurant. The detective allowed them to use the men's and women's restrooms to change, but made everyone else sit at separate tables far apart from each other. Once Francine and Jonathan were out, he slid “Volunteer Witness Statement” forms in front of each of them.

“I need you to fill these out,” he said, “without talking to each other.”

“How long is this going to take?” Joy asked. “Our friend Mary Ruth Burrows is running a food stand back in Rockville. You might have heard of her? She was on
Chopped
. You know, on Food Network? Anyway, we have jobs helping her out. We need to get back.”

“It should take as long as it needs. Give me as much detail as you can remember. Now is the best time for you to do that, while it's still fresh in your memory.”

“I may need extra paper,” Charlotte said, checking over the
single-page
form. “I have excellent powers of observation.”

“If you need more,” he said dryly, “let me know. I have plenty.”

Francine didn't like being separated at a time like this, especially from Jonathan. But she understood the need for an unbiased assessment from each of them. The story would only get muddled if they had a chance to talk to each other. And they'd already talked a lot. She hurried through the document while giving as much detail as she could remember.

Joy finished first and brought the form to Stockton. He asked her a couple of questions and then the two of them signed the form. Marcy was next. Francine began to feel pressure to finish up, like she was back in school taking a test and everyone but her was having an easy time of it.

Charlotte, indeed, asked for extra paper, making Joy grumble. “I wish we had more than one car so we could leave.”

Marcy plopped down at a table. Joy sat next to her. “I'm hungry.”

Marcy grabbed a menu. “Me too. We should make the best of this.”

A man with
salt-and
-pepper eyebrows and a receding hairline approached them. He was carrying a pot of coffee and two cups. He introduced himself as the manager. “We're not open for business yet, but the sheriff asked me if I could get something to warm your group up. Can I pour you some coffee? I've got cinnamon rolls heating in the oven. They'll be ready in a minute.”

“That's kind of you,” Joy said. Then she took notice of what he'd said. “Sheriff ? He said he was a detective.”

He put the cups in front of them. “Detective now, but he was the sheriff until he hit his term limit. He's a good guy to have on the force still, so the new sheriff let him stay on in a special capacity. Some folks even still call him sheriff.”

“That would never have happened in Hendricks County where we're from.”

“Helps that his son is the new sheriff.”

Marcy laughed. “It's like a
mini-Indianapolis
. Or Chicago.”

He poured them both coffee. “I'll be back in a minute with those cinnamon rolls. On the house.”

Joy whipped out her cell phone. “We need to let Mary Ruth know what's going on.” She punched a few buttons on the phone before Marcy reminded her, “There's no cell service in the area.”

“We have a phone in the back you can use,” the owner said as he was leaving. “Follow me.”

Francine finished up her form and handed it to Detective Stockton. Jonathan was right behind her. Charlotte was still writing. Francine and Jonathan pulled chairs up to the table and Marcy told them where Joy was. Even though she knew the restaurant wasn't open for business, Francine still looked through the menu. She was stressed, and stress made her hungry.

Joy returned. “She didn't answer her phone, so I left a message. Since she can't reach me here, I told her to send me an email. The sign says they have WiFi in here. I let her know we would be there just as soon as the detective lets us leave.”

The owner carried a plate of cinnamon rolls into the room. He slid it on the table and looked at Francine and Jonathan. “Can I get you coffee too?”

Jonathan nodded eagerly. “Strong and black, please.”

The man brought more cups and poured coffee in them. He saw Joy fiddling with her cell phone. “If you need the Internet password, it's on the menu.”

She thanked him and he left. She bit into a cinnamon roll. “These may be good,” she whispered, “but they are nowhere near as flaky and gooey as Mary Ruth's.”

Francine cut a piece for herself and handed the rest of it to Jonathan. “No matter how good they look, I can't afford too many of these calories, not with the temptation we'll face at the food booth. If we ever get there.”

Joy's phone made a dinging sound. She checked it. “It's an email from Mary Ruth.” Everyone quieted down and watched her read the message. “Oh my gosh! She says there's a huge line already and she keeps delaying opening. She wants to know when we're going to get there.” Joy put the phone down. “She sounds frantic.”

“But she's got Alice and Toby helping her,” Marcy said. Alice had become an investor in Mary Ruth's catering business and was learning the trade. Toby was Mary Ruth's grandson who lived in her basement while he tried to figure out what to do with his life. “It must be desperate if the three of them can't handle it.”

Joy put the last bite of cinnamon roll in her mouth and wiped the icing off her lips. She handed the cell phone to Marcy. “Email her back and tell her to keep frying up as many of those corn fritter donuts as she can ahead of time. We may have to drag Charlotte out of here.” She went over and stood next to Detective Stockton. “We need to leave,” she said. “We've got to get to Rockville.”

He smiled but seemed not to be in a hurry. He picked up the Volunteer Witness Form she had turned in. “You're Joy McQueen, aren't you? The reporter on Channel Six?”

She gave him a high wattage smile. “Yes, that's me.”

He used a wave of his hand to indicate the rest of the group. “And you all are the
Skinny-Dipping
Grandmas, correct?”

Jonathan put his cup down. “Not me.”

“Sorry. I meant the ladies.”

The women all nodded. Francine didn't know where this was headed but she hoped it would get them out of the café and back to Rockville as quickly as possible.

Joy continued, “Our friend Mary Ruth is being featured at the festival. So you can understand how important it is that we get back to help her out.”

“Then why would you be out here in the Rosedale area in the early morning instead of back in Rockville helping your friend?”

Joy shifted her eyes toward the group. “I'm doing segments all week long about the Covered Bridge Festival. We were here filming one this morning.”

“With a horse and carriage?”

“Well, we …”

“It's my fault,” Francine spoke up. “My ancestors were from the area, and the Roseville Bridge played a part in a scandal from the early 1900s. I thought it would be fun to hire a horse and buggy and
re-create
a scene from the scandal, but we didn't want to do it when there were a lot of tourists around. Who would have thought something like this would happen?”

After she finished, she bit her lip.
Too much detail
, she thought.
It sounded rehearsed. I wonder if he thinks we're hiding something.

Stockton tilted back in the seat, balancing it on two legs. “Given your recent troubles, I would have thought you might anticipate it.” His crooked smile indicated was probably jesting, but Francine wasn't sure.

“So can we go?” she asked.

“What's your maiden name? I assume it's not McNamara.”

“Miles.”

He nodded knowingly. “Your family didn't live too far away, between Rosedale and Bridgeton, didn't they?”