Coop Knows the Scoop: Chapters 21–28

He slid the dishwasher door open and a thunderhead of steam billowed toward us.

Mr. Gordon, being taller and heavier than Angus, wasn’t someone to be trifled with, but Angus had just enough liquor in him to be dangerous.

Angus’s legs wobbled as he teetered toward the counter. How he was able to make it through the maze of chairs and side tables without falling over anything else—or himself—was astonishing.

Gramps blew into his mouth again. Angus’s chest rose and fell with each of Gramps’s breaths.
Gramps interlocked his fingers a third time and pressed down, counting quietly.
Tick thumbed toward his car. “Do you need a defibrillator?”

A moan escaped from his lips and his eyes fluttered open. “Beau,” he rasped.

“Staying in town would be ideal, but I have to follow protocol...”

Beau, my enemy, my nemesis whose happiness depended on my misery, could become a houseguest?

Twilight hid its tail between its legs and skedaddled as dark clouds bullied their way across the sky.

Despair can lead us to do some desperate things.

“Whoa, cool.” Justice stood riveted.

“She was a southpaw,” said Liberty.
“A what?” I asked.
“She was left-handed.”

Liberty tilted her head to the side, like she was weighing the validity of my theory. She shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“It’s the weakest, but we can still check if he had an alibi.”

How many times have we overheard her at the bookstore telling Miss Ruth to put on a sweater, or take her vitamins, or not to eat a donut, or don’t use artificial sweetener, or something else neurotic?

“Something must’ve happened for Meriwether to get a hankering for revenge if that’s the case.”

From the lilt of her tone, she was asking a question, and even though I couldn’t make out her words, I recognized the low grumbling voice that answered her.

“I’m not going to preach at you, but I hope you understand Beau didn’t somehow orchestrate all this just so he could make your life miserable. He isn’t happy, either.”

Mustard was cheaper than traveling on a teacher’s pension, so whenever she got a hankering to travel, she’d order spicy mustard from a faraway place instead. And if she wasn’t buying them, she was making them. Over the years she and I had both tortured and treated our mouths to some pretty potent flavors.

For someone who couldn’t even manage to get along with regular kids his own age, having a snack with eccentric Miss Ruth was probably a nightmare.

A tinge of pink crept up his neck but morphed to fire-engine red above his eyebrows.

Miss Ruth, oblivious to our near combustion, continued.

And that begrudging weight you’ve been carrying won’t help you grow any taller, either, dear.

It was cumbersome climbing around with one hand grasping my phone, but I wanted to be ready to take a photo for the case closet if I came across a typewriter.

“For school. I got to write an essay on changes in technology.” I said it real official like so she wouldn’t be skeptical.

Nothing instilled fear faster than being on the crabby end of Miss Meriwether.

“Oh, Meriwether,” Miss Ruth chided. “Be nice to the boys. They were helping me find Cordelia’s old school map,” she said dismissively.

Miss Ruth’s revelation in the attic about Tabby’s inheritance was a bombshell that left my brain churning with questions, and even the challenge of steering Ol’ Feisty around the flower beds didn’t distract me.

And that whole ‘we were best friends and I forgave your grandfather’ speech? Totally bogus.

I was hot and grimy from cutting the grass, and the fifty pounds of books in my school bag was making my shirt stick to my body.

“Found in a pawnshop in Sangerville,” continued Gomez. “Some guy named Lear Stowinn—two n’s—hocked it there a couple days ago...pretty suspicious timing if you ask me.”

“I was here all afternoon and evening.”
“And I’ll vouch for him,” said Mama, shooting poison darts at Gomez with her eyes.

“But surely the shopkeeper can describe him. Or security cameras? It could help Harley if someone’s on camera selling the necklace of his murdered wife.” She looked to Gramps. “Sorry if that sounds crass, Harley.”

“I guess ol’ Sticky Fingers Earl didn’t take it, after all.” She made a face and leaned on the counter. “Bet he still filched Chester’s dog tag, though. And the police have no idea who this Lear Stowinn guy is?”

I fixated on the floor, like the answer was there.

Gramps muttered something unintelligible and turned his focus back to his newspaper.

“Are those urns?” Liberty elbowed me and shined her light on a shelf behind me holding several vases with lids.

We maneuvered our way through the maze of coffins.

Disheveled papers escaping from folders were stashed in old shoeboxes already filled with books, knickknacks, and really ugly garage-sale bargains.

Disheveled papers escaping from folders were stashed in old shoeboxes already filled with books, knickknacks, and really ugly garage-sale bargains.

All the sneaking and searching and we had zilch to show for it.