A Deadly Inside Scoop Page 5

  I sat down on the box, the bowl and scooper in my lap, and gave myself a push.

  I smiled all the way down. It was just as much fun as when I was ten.

  Hopping up once I hit the bottom, or close enough to it to make my way down to the water’s edge, I took off toward the start of the falls. It hadn’t been cold long enough for the water to freeze, but I knew it would be better the closer I got to the origin.

  I finally found the right spot, and as I bent over to shovel up my first scoopful, I heard a rustling to the side of me. It started off with a thud and lasted a couple seconds longer than I thought it should.

  “Who’s there?” I called out. Not that I was afraid or anything. Nothing happened in Chagrin Falls. Statistically, I’d read, our little village was safer than 82 percent of all other cities in the U.S. But it would be nice to know who I was sharing the hillside with.

  “Hellooo,” I called out again.

  Nothing.

  I looked down at the scoop in one hand, the bowl in the other and then at the snow. Even in the dim lighting cast from the street above, the snow glistened. Fresh. Soft. Inviting. More than the depth required by the recipe. It was a perfect spot to do what I’d come down to do.

  But for some reason I decided to see who it was who wouldn’t answer me instead.

  I walked down the path that followed the river. It was difficult going. Hard to see for want of light and tough to walk because the snow was deep and the path irregular. A couple minutes in, I was starting to get out of breath and was ready to give up, when I heard the noise again.

  It was higher up the hill than where I stood, so I followed the sound of the footsteps. The person had to hear mine, too.

  “Hey!” I said. “What are you doing down here?”

  I’m sure they were wondering the same thing about me.

  Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw something. A multicolored scarf. Long. Loud. A distinct contrast against the dark silhouette trying to make its way up the hill back to the street. Close enough to the light to let me know the intruder had been a child.

  “What were you doing down here?” I muttered as I stood and stared as the figure made its way back to the sidewalk and darted out of view.

  This wasn’t the smartest place to be. Especially alone.

  Ah . . . Had the kid been alone? Us kids used to hang out around the falls in groups.

  I looked around and listened. But there was nothing other than the sound of the water running over the falls. I shook my head. Here I was worrying about it being unsafe for someone to be down here and I was out here as well.

  But I had a good reason.

  I chuckled. One I was going to get back to right now.

  I veered off to the right, stepping carefully down the small incline I had taken chasing the noise I’d heard.

  But before I could get back to the path, my foot bumped into something hard and solid. Something that wouldn’t budge, and I took a tumble. I nearly did a head flip, and must have rolled a couple of times before I came to rest facedown in the snow.

  “Owww!” I said as I rolled over and sat up. “What the heck!” I rubbed my head and shook it to make sure I was okay. Nothing appeared loose. Finding that I was still in one piece, I stood up. Brushing the snow off me, I walked back up the few feet I’d tumbled to see what had made me fall.

  “Oh my God!” I said, trying hard to stifle a scream.

  It was a body lying in the snow.

  chapter

  SEVEN

  Flashing red and blue lights lit up the dark, dreary corner where North Main and Bell streets met. Yellow crime-scene tape draped around trees cordoned off the perimeter of the wooden overlook. Floodlights invaded the stillness that surrounded the falls, and voices bombarded my eardrums. I was numb, but not from the cold.

  I had panicked once I realized I’d tripped over a body. Not a panic born from fear, but from the fact that I didn’t know how I could help. What to do. Blowing out a breath, I’d had to calm myself so I could figure it out.

  It was dark and I hadn’t been able to see clearly enough to make a decision. Had the person still been alive? Should I try to start some life-saving measures?

  Not that I knew any . . .

  Should I go get help?

  The body hadn’t moved, even after my falling over it.

  Not a grunt. Not a moan. Not a whimper.

  Feeling with my hands in the dark, I found a face. I leaned in, my face close, to see if I could feel a breath.

  Nothing.

  I laid my head on its chest to listen for a heartbeat.

  Still nothing.

  I should call for help.

  Crap. I’d left my cell phone in my knapsack, sitting on the prep table in the ice cream shop. All I had was my aluminum bowl and scoop, so I started banging them together.

  “Help!” I yelled out, and hit the scoop on the side of the bowl. “Hey! I need help! Anybody! Somebody help me!”

  But all my noisemaking hadn’t gotten one response. I looked down at the silhouette of Dead Guy and back up to the street. No lights from passing cars. No footsteps crunching in the snow.

  I needed to get up the hill to get help.

  But the snow was thick and cumbersome. I trudged up at a slow crawl, my feet sinking into the snow with each step forward, my gloves wet and covered with the powder. It seemed to be deeper and heavier the harder I tried to get up to the sidewalk. Bent over, hands clawing in the snow up the incline, I was out of breath with heavy legs by the time I made it to the top. Once my feet were planted on the sidewalk, I had to place my hands on my knees to catch my breath and slow my heart before I could go any farther.

  Knowing what lay at the bottom of the falls made the night more ominous. The streets more deserted. The lights more dim.

  I looked one way down Bell Street, then the other, not quite sure where I should go to get help. I just knew that I wanted to tell what I knew. Get someone else there with me. Then my eye caught sight of the woven scarf I’d seen on the kid who’d been down the hill with me. With Dead Guy.

  I started to grab the scarf but thought better of it. People always come back to where they’ve lost their things to find them. The little boy might return. Maybe I’d report the lost item to the police.

  The police . . .

  I had to call the police. Or an ambulance.

  I scurried around the block, past the front of the ice cream shop to the side door, and unlocked it. I hastily dumped the contents of my knapsack and had to catch Grandma Kay’s tin recipe box as it tumbled out before it dropped onto the floor. Hands slightly shaky, still breathing hard, I found my phone and pushed in the three numbers.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  * * *

  - - - - -

  After I ended the call, I had to make a restroom pit stop to try to collect myself. I wondered if I had done all I could to help. I shook my head. There hadn’t been anything I could have done. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t made a sound. He wasn’t breathing and I didn’t know how long it would be before someone came along to help.

  I ran warm water over my hands at the sink, dried them off and started to head back into the kitchen to get my knapsack, and ran right into Felice.

  “Hello there, muffintop,” I said, and stooped down, running my fingers through her white coat. “How did you get down here?” She looked up at me, fluffed out the end of her tail, then, eyes half-closed, blinked slowly. I picked her up. “You want some kisses, sweetie?” I said, knowing it was me who needed comforting. She rubbed her cheek up against mine. “Thank you.”

  Holding her, I walked around to the back area where the stairs led to Rivkah’s apartment and called up. No answer. “She must still be at the restaurant.” I looked at Felice. “Did you just come down for me? To make me feel better?”

  “Mrra
o,” she said.

  I met her forehead with mine, but only for a moment. She didn’t have time to be gracious. She jumped out of my arms and ran up the steps. I watched as she strutted up the stairs. I didn’t know how she’d gotten out. Rivkah never left the door unlocked.

  Tonight I was glad she had.

  I went over to the prep table and stuffed everything back into my bag, grabbed the bowl and scooper and headed back outside. By the time I got out there, a police cruiser was pulling up in front of the store. The officer got out of the car and walked over to me.

  “Are you the person who called 911?” he asked.

  “I am,” I said.

  “What’s going on?”

  I pointed toward the falls. “There’s a guy down there. I think he’s dead.”

  “You wanna show me?” he said.

  We walked around the corner, past the overlook to where I’d climbed back up.

  “How did you get down there?” He looked at me. His face was red from the cold, vapors shooting out as he spoke.

  “I made a sled out of a cardboard box.” I pointed. I was sure it was still down at the bottom where I’d left it.

  “That’s pretty dangerous to do.”

  I nodded, not mentioning I’d done it hundreds of times before.

  “Stay here,” he instructed, and went down the steps at the boardwalk. The easy way down. He was gone for about five minutes. When he came back up, he clicked the radio perched on his shoulder and spoke into it. “I need backup and an ambulance at the overlook.

  “C’mon,” the police officer said. He took my arm, gently guiding me back around the corner. He pointed to Grandma Kay’s bench and I sat down.

  The police officer took out a small notepad and, for what seemed like an eternity, asked me the same round of questions, rehashing what I told him over and over again. It was exhausting, and I was tired and still freaked out about the dead man and upset that we hadn’t had any customers in the store that day. I wanted to go home and regroup.

  But even after telling him everything I knew, repeatedly, he said I needed to wait for the detective to come so I could speak to him.

  I guessed I’d be telling my story again.

  My mind was swirling around in a whirlwind. I couldn’t even feel the bite of the cold any longer. Still, out of habit, I tugged at the zipper on my jacket, zipping it up to my neck, and pulled my hood over my head. I clapped most of the snow off my damp, glove-clad hands and stuffed them inside my pockets.

  Backup arrived. That first officer who arrived on the scene seemed to get assigned to me. He got a bright orange blanket out of the back of the EMS truck, wrapped it around my shoulders and stood, it seemed, guard over me so I wouldn’t bolt. But that wasn’t my plan, not even when I saw the metal-framed gurney emerge from the side of the hill on the pulley system they’d set up with that black body bag bouncing on top. It made my stomach lurch into my chest, but didn’t make me want to bolt and run. I still stood waiting for that detective.

  Soon people began crawling out of their homes, the movie theater and stopped cars—everyone, I think, within earshot of the sirens. The throng of onlookers snaked around the parked emergency vehicles pointed, stared and muttered among themselves. I was doubtful if any of us villagers had ever seen anything like it. I knew I hadn’t.

  The next call I made, after giving all the pertinent information to the police dispatcher, was to my parents. I had to let them know what was going on. My mother answered, and in her frantic my-child-is-in-trouble voice, told me to hold on, she was on her way.

  “Bring Daddy, too,” I said. But I think she’d hung up by then. I could just picture her scrambling to get her clothes on, coming down the steps one at a time, my father holding his arm out to brace her.

  “Here. I thought you might need this.” I turned to see Ms. Devereaux, owner of a clothing boutique across the street catty-corner from our shop, pushing a cup toward me. She was dressed in a full-length furry coat, her hands covered in knitted gloves. The steam rose from the mug into the cold night air. As I wrapped my hands around the sides of it, I could feel the heat through my gloves, and took a sip.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You told them what you knew?” she asked, her high voice strained.

  I nodded, swallowing the warm, aromatic flavor of the lavender tea she’d filled my cup with.

  “Surely he got what he deserved,” she said, then took a sip out of her own cup.

  I looked at her, not sure what to make of her statement.

  “Who?” I asked.

  She peered at me over the rim of her cup. Taking her lips away, she said, “Drink up. It’ll do you good.” Then she turned and walked away, heading back to her store, Exquisite Designs, not bothering to clarify what her words meant.

  It wasn’t like her. Deborah “Debbie” Devereaux was an undercover purveyor. It never seemed she sought out information—I’d never heard her going around asking questions—she just always knew what was happening around town.

  Nearly seventy, she was slim, shapely and savvy. Well-dressed, she was always sparkling—dangling rhinestone earrings, bedazzled baseball caps, crystal stones on the sides of her overly large Wayfarer-rimmed glasses, twinkling brown eyes—although she claimed there was nothing fake about her or anything she wore. I found it hard to believe that all her “dazzlingness” was real. Not everything she owned could truly be diamond-encrusted.

  I also didn’t believe her real last name was Devereaux.

  She and her sister, who ran the village’s sole B and B, were the only other blacks in our community. Debbie lived over her store. And tonight, despite the bad weather, she appeared to still be hanging out and had more information about who I’d found at the bottom of the hill than I did.

  Before I could call out to stop her so she could tell me what she meant, I got a tap on the shoulder. I spun around and came face-to-face with a man. Black leather jacket. Houndstooth apple cap. Black slacks. Rubber-soled shoes. Lines etching out the corners of his eyes. Brown facial hair. Musk cologne. He was so close that everything about him was amplified. I had to take a step back to keep our noses from touching and bring him into focus.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Detective Liam Beverly.”

  “Oh,” I said, a smile tugging at the side of my lip. I was happy he’d finally arrived. “I think I’m waiting for you.”

  chapter

  EIGHT

  His eyes were the color of pistachio ice cream, even down to the flecks of gold. Not as cold, but they seemed all about business. They bore into mine and held my gaze. Long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. My smile faded and I opened my mouth to speak, but he didn’t give me time. Without missing a beat, he started ticking off questions.

  “You found the body?”

  “I did.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked. He took no notes. I guessed he had a better memory than the police officer.

  “Win,” I said, then thought this conversation probably wasn’t going to be informal, and I shouldn’t be either. “Bronwyn. Bronwyn Crewse.”

  He pointed up to the awning over the store. “As in . . .”

  “Yep.” I nodded my head. “Yes,” I corrected, remembering this was official.

  “And what were you doing down at the falls?” He cocked his head, his jaw tight, face expressionless. “It’s pretty bad out tonight.”

  “I wanted to get snow,” I said. I held up my bowl and scoop, realizing how silly it was for me to be clinging on to them.

  “Snow?” he asked, and tilted his head to the other side.

  “To make ice cream.”

  “Lots of snow up here.” He stomped his feet one at a time. “You couldn’t use any of it?”

  “Wasn’t the right kind,” I said. “Plus”—I pointed to his feet—“it’s been walked on.”

&nb
sp; He pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly as if he was processing what I’d said. Fortunately for me—I was cold and tired of answering the same questions—he hadn’t come up with a response or another question before one of the police officers walked up beside us and got his attention. The detective, turning to speak with the officer, brushed his shoulder against mine and left it there. I sidestepped the other way.

  “EMS is ready to go,” the officer said.

  “Has the body been identified?” Detective Beverly asked, looking past the officer, over at the ambulance, and giving a head nod.

  “Nope.” The police officer dug his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “We didn’t find any ID on him.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “Me?” I raised my eyebrows and turned my gaze from the police officer back to the detective. He was back to questioning me.

  “Yes. You,” he said, a small grin curling up his lip.

  “Oh, no. I don’t think so.” I shook my head. “I didn’t see—couldn’t see—his face down by the falls. It was too dark.”

  “Win, are you okay?” It was my mother. Finally. I was happy to see her. I turned from the tête-a-tête with the detective.

  “Mom,” I said, grabbing on to her. I was taller than she was, and pulled her head close into my chest for a hug. She smelled like flowers and sandalwood. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “What happened?” she said.

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked.

  “Uhm.” She pulled away from me and looked around like she’d find him close by. “He’s coming. I tried to wait for him, but I wanted to get to you. He’ll be here soon.”

  “He was at work?” I asked. He didn’t usually get home so late.

  “It’s okay,” my mother said, not answering my question. “I’m here. Now tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know, Mom. I went down by the falls to get some snow, and I tripped over this guy.”