Unfortunately, I knew the news media a little more intimately than Ned Browning did. I guessed, and rightly so, that reporters would make arrangements to snag the students at home if they couldn't reach them at school. Had Ned and I discussed the matter, I could have told him so.
By the time the last of the students had left, Peters and I were wiped slick. As usual, we had worked straight through lunch and then some. Candace Wynn looked like she'd been pulled through a wringer, too. We invited her to join us for coffee at Denny's, a suggestion she accepted readily. It wasn't totally gentlemanly behavior on our part, though. We still hadn't interviewed her.
I waited politely until she had swallowed a sip or two of coffee before I tackled her. "Mrs. Wynn," I began.
"Call me Andi," she said. "I hate my name."
"Andi, then. Were you at the game?"
She nodded and smiled. "Where the cheerleaders go, there go I."
"Can you tell us anything about that night, anything odd or unusual that you might have noticed about Mr. Ridley."
Her eyes clouded. "You'll have to bear with me," she said. "We were good friends. It's hard to…"
"We understand that," Peters interjected. "Your point of view might be just that much different from the kids', though, you could give us some additional insight."
She sighed. "I knew him a long time. I never saw him as upset as he was that night."
"Any idea why?"
"No. I tried to talk to him about it during halftime, but he just cut me off."
"Are you the one who came to the dressing room door?"
Andi gave me an appraising look, as though surprised that I knew about that. She nodded. "He said he couldn't talk, that he was busy with the team. He shut me out completely."
"What about after the team left the dressing room? Did you see him talking with anyone in the hallway? Something or someone made him late for the second half."
"I knew he was late, but I didn't see anyone with him."
"Could he have been sick? Did he say anything to you?"
"No."
"Did you talk to him after the game at all?"
"I left during the third quarter. My mother's sick. I had to go see her. I was late getting back."
"So you never talked to him again, after those few words at the dressing room door."
"No." She choked on the word. "Something was wrong. He looked terrible. If only I…" She stopped.
"If only you what?"
"If only I could have helped him." She pushed her coffee cup away and got up quickly. "I'm going," she said. "Before I embarrass myself."
"We appreciate your help, Andi," Peters said.
"It's the least I can do."
We watched her drive out of the parking lot in a little red Chevy Luv with a bumper sticker that said she'd rather be sailing. As she pulled onto the access road, Peters said, apropos of nothing, "How many women do you know who drive pickups?"
I shrugged. "Not many, but it figures. She's a guidance counselor. My high school counselor at Ballard wore GI boots and drove a Sherman tank."
Peters laughed. "Come on now, Beau. Mrs. Wynn isn't that bad. I think she's cute. And she really seems to care about those kids."
On our way back to the Public Safety Building, Peters and I compared notes from our respective interviews. The cheerleading squad had been able to tell Peters very little that the team hadn't already told me, except they said Darwin Ridley had been five minutes late coming into the game after halftime.
The cheerleaders had taken a short break at the beginning of the third quarter, and they had followed Darwin Ridley onto the court. None of them were able to tell who or what had delayed him between the dressing room and the basketball court.
It wasn't much of a lead, but it was something. It gave us another little sliver of the picture. It didn't tell us what exactly had gone awry in Darwin Ridley's life that last day of his existence, but it was further testimony that something had been sadly amiss.
All we had to do was find out what it was. Piece of cake, right?
Sure. We do it all the time.
CHAPTER 9
I could probably get away with saying that I went to Bailey's after work that day because I'm a dedicated cop who doesn't leave a single stone unturned. I could claim that once I'm on a case, I work it one hundred percent of the time. I could say it, but it wouldn't be true.
The visit to the store was necessary because I was out of coffee. And MacNaughton's. And the state liquor store is right across the street from Bailey's parking lot.
So much for dedication.
To my credit, I did have my mind on the case. In fact, I was mentally going back over Bob Payson's interview, word for word, trying to see if there were any additional bits and pieces that could be pulled from what he had told me. I was so lost in thought, that I almost ran over the poor kid.
"Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?"
The girl standing in front of two cartons of cookies was around eleven or twelve years old. She had a mop of bright red curls that could have come straight from Little Orphan Annie. She also had an award-winning smile. I'm a sucker for a smile. I stopped and reached for my wallet.
"How much are they?"
"Two fifty a box."
"And what kinds do you have?"
She gave me the complete rundown. I took two boxes of Mints and handed her a twenty. She rummaged in a ragged manila envelope for change.
"Do you sell here often?" I asked.
"I'm here every day after school. My mom brings me over. I earn my way to camp by selling cookies."
I felt my heartbeat quicken. Adrenaline does that. It's got nothing to do with heart disease. "Were you here last week?"
Handing me my change, she nodded. "All last week and all this week. It's a good place."
"You're serious about this, aren't you?"
"I've signed up to sell one thousand boxes. That way my mom doesn't have to pay to send me to camp."
She finished speaking and turned away from me to ask someone else. I had already bought. She couldn't afford to waste time with me at the expense of other potential paying customers. She homed in on a little old lady coming out of the store, carrying a cloth shopping bag filled with groceries.
"Did you save me some?" the woman asked, handing over the correct change.
"Right here," the girl replied, picking up an orange box and tucking it inside the woman's shopping bag. With the transaction complete, she turned back to me.
I took a wild stab in the dark. "What's the most you've ever sold at one time?"
She never batted an eyelash. "Fifteen boxes."
My heart did another little flip. I don't believe in coincidences. It's an occupational hazard. "No kidding. When?"
"Last week. A man and a woman bought fifteen boxes. They wrote a check."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman emerge from a parked car and walk in our direction. Her total focus was on me, but she spoke to the girl. "Do you need anything, Jenny?" she asked.
"More Mints and some Carmel Delights," the girl answered. "And would you take this twenty?" Jenny handed over the twenty I had just given her and the woman returned to her car.
"Is that your mother?" I asked.
Jenny nodded. "She stays with me every day while I sell cookies."
The mother returned with four boxes of cookies cradled in her arms. She eyed me warily as she put them in the cartons at Jenny's feet.
"What are you, the hidden supply line?"
The woman gave me a half smile and nodded. "It works better if people don't realize we have a full carload of cookies right here. That way they think they're buying the last Mint."