Chapter 9. Killing Time
KILLING TIME
WHITNEY
I glanced over at the shopping center. The coffee shop would be a good place to hang out for a few hours.
Too bad I didn’t have access to the books I’d bought this morning.
I could have spent a few hours reading, take my mind off the horror that had happened here.
But the romance novel was still up in the hayloft and the rest of the books were in my SUV.
Even if I did have a book, I probably wouldn’t be able to pay any attention to the story.
I’d be too distracted by Yee’s death. I wanted to figure things out, determine who killed Tyler Yee and why.
There were leads I could research while I enjoyed a warm decaf latte—the subjects of Tyler’s investigations.
I turned to one of the crime scene techs. “Any chance I can bum a pair of shoe covers from you?”
“Sure.” She opened the tacklebox containing her tools, pulled out a set of waterproof plastic shoe covers, and handed them to me.
“Thanks.” I tucked them into my pocket.
As I headed down the road, the rain intensified, drumming against my umbrella and pelting my legs.
The wind gusts carried the rain sideways, and the umbrella provided only a modicum of protection.
The maverick cow with the pink collar grazed alone on the wet ryegrass in the pasture, the rest of the herd choosing to stay in their shed, out of the wind.
Ruby, too, was still nowhere to be seen.
I was nearly to the shopping center when another MTE truck drove by on the county road with another crew of line workers out to restore the electrical grid. The storm was surely keeping them busy.
When I reached the shopping center, I closed my umbrella and donned the plastic shoe covers so I wouldn’t sully the floors with my muddy boots. I ducked back into Stories others had reading-related quotes on them.
A bright purple hoodie read ALL I NEED IS MY CAT AND A GOOD BOOK. That pretty much sums it up.
The orange tabby on the front of the hoodie looked nothing like my adorable little Sawdust, or Copernicus or Galileo for that matter, but that was the least of my worries at the moment.
Catching pneumonia was a much higher concern.
I found a hoodie in my size and took it to the checkout counter, along with a journal and pen set so I could take notes while listening to Tyler’s podcasts.
I declined a bag, instead donning the hoodie right then and there, and tucking the journal into the kangaroo pocket on the front.
I rounded up my closed umbrella, exited the store, and walked down the covered walkway to the coffee shop.
As I opened the door, I smelled the heavenly scent of fresh-brewed coffee and heard the crackle and whirr of beans being ground.
A deep rumble of thunder sounded overhead, followed by a BOOM!
as lightning struck nearby, blinding me for an instant, shaking the ground, and reverberating against the building.
“Whoa!” cried a customer sitting at the table nearest the door. “That was close!”
The burly barista behind the counter finished a transaction and closed the cash drawer.
“With all these flashes going off, I feel like a supermodel at a photo shoot.” He curled the fingers of his right hand over his hipbone, sucked in his chubby cheeks, and raised his chin at a jaunty angle, as if posing for a couture magazine.
I stepped up to the counter. “Large decaf vanilla latte please.”
“Decaf?” He scoffed. “Sheesh. Live a little!”
“I’m watching my caffeine,” I explained, even though I knew he’d only been teasing. “I’m pregnant.”
“Preggers?” He issued a squeal and leaned to the side to get a better look at me from around the register. “You’re having a girl.”
“How can you tell?”
He pointed at my face. “That zit on your nose. Acne is a dead giveaway.”
So far, the score was one guess for a boy, two guesses for a girl.
Another flash lit up the parking lot, followed by another big boom. The lights in the shop flickered for an instant, then went out.
“Here we go again.” The barista rolled his eyes, then winced.
“It could be a while on that latte. The power was out for half an hour earlier.” He turned sideways and held out a hand to indicate two large urns on the back counter.
“In the meantime, I can offer you a cup of plain decaf coffee.” He tapped the top of an urn with an index finger.
“These bad boys keep the java hot as lava for days on end.”
“I’ll take it.”
“What kind of milk would you like? We’ve got cow, soy, almond, coconut, oat, and hippo.
I could mix a little of the almond and coconut milks, and add a dash of cocoa powder, make your coffee taste like an Almond Joy candy bar.
” He pointed to the name of the drink on the menu board.
“We call it the Cocoa-Nutty. What do you say?” He wagged his brows. “Are you feeling adventurous?”
I was feeling wretched, overwhelmed, and weary, but I couldn’t tell him that. He’d want to know why. Besides, even in my poor emotional state, the drink sounded delicious. Maybe Deborah was right about my sweet cravings. “I’ll try it.”
He pulled a large cup of coffee from the urn, added healthy dashes of the two milks and a spoonful of cocoa powder, and gave it a good stir. He placed the cup on the counter in front of me. “Ta-da!”
I pulled out a ten-dollar bill and held it out to him.
“Coffee’s on the house. Can’t ring you up without power.” When I tucked the bill into the glass tip jar, he pumped his arms in a raise-the-roof motion. “Big tip! Woot-woot!”
I thanked him, picked up the drink, and carried it to a table near the side window, facing the back of the shop. The barn was too far away for me to see any of the activity there clearly, but at least I could keep an eye on the long driveway.
Though I wasn’t going to ask Buck to drive out here to get me, I felt that he should know what was going on. I called his cell.
“What’s up, cuz?” The sounds of saws and hammering were audible in the background.
I kept my voice as low as possible. “Tyler Yee was killed at the barn.”
“What? I can’t hear you over the racket here. You’re gonna have to speak louder.”
I glanced around the coffee shop. Nobody seemed to be paying me any attention. I repeated myself at a slightly higher volume. Buck still couldn’t hear me. Ugh. I pulled the phone from my ear and sent him a quick text, foregoing grammar for efficiency: Tyler Yee dead at barn.
A moment later a reply arrived: How dead?
How does one respond to that question? Dead is dead. I wrote back: Extremely dead.
Through the earpiece, I heard Buck groan in frustration. “I meant ‘how did he die?’”
I texted him again: Murdered. Pitchfork thru back.
“Holy hell! Who did it?”
I figured it was okay if someone overheard me say, “I don’t know.”
Buck was silent a moment, then he spat a curse. “You okay?”
I wasn’t, not at all, but I wasn’t going to burden him. “I will be. I just thought you should know.”
“You want to back out of the barn project? I wouldn’t blame you if you do.”
“Absolutely not.” If anything, I was more motivated now to remodel the barn.
So much horror and violence had happened at the livery stable.
Wobbling Womble abusing his wife, children, and the people he enslaved.
Womble’s death by poisoning, which was understandable but nonetheless creepy.
Escaped people fleeing for freedom in terror they would be captured and punished.
Tyler Yee’s murder. The barn needed to be renewed, transformed, given a new identity.
“Your call,” Buck said, acquiescing. “Just let me know when you’re ready to start work and I’ll be there.”
“Will do.” I tapped the icon to end the call and settled back in my seat.
I sipped the warm coffee as I scrolled through Tyler’s podcasts on my phone.
Each was around half an hour long, give or take.
A few were celebrity interviews, country-western stars sharing about their lives in the spotlight and providing behind-the-scenes glimpses into the music industry.
Others were issue-based, such as one that addressed the gun crisis.
Several of the more personal episodes caught my eye, and I listened to each of those in turn, taking copious notes.