Travellin' Shoes by V.M. Burns

Author:V.M. Burns [Burns, V.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction / African American / Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9781603816908
Publisher: camelpress
Published: 2018-07-01T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

The flight back from Cleveland was short—too short. I needed time to process everything, from the funeral, to the meeting with Mrs. Hartford-Graham, to the bizarre events afterwards with Detective Hastings. It just wasn’t fitting in neat little buckets, and I had the feeling I was missing something—something other than the identity of our killer. One elusive puzzle piece was hanging just out of reach, so I sat back and let the pieces weave in and out of my mind in hopes that I’d find the missing one.

I barely had time to sift through the information Detective Hastings had told us before it was time to deplane. The photo was of a page containing a combination of numbers—a code of some kind. According to Hastings’ notes, they had been trying to crack that code for months. Eventually, the lawyers demanded that everything be returned, including copies. He had risked a lot keeping this. As a cop, he would have been forced to turn it in. As a private citizen, he might be protected under whistleblower laws. I had no idea. But I intended to turn it in. I had a murderer to find, and after three days in Cleveland, we weren’t much closer to naming the killer of Thomas Warrendale than we had been back in St. Joe. We had a lot of information, but none of it really fit.

After leaving the airport, I drove straight to Mama B’s. She was in her chair watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.

“Welcome back.”

I gave her a kiss and sat down on the sofa. “Thanks. Where’s Paris?”

“She’s upstairs. I hollered up to her when I saw you pull up, so I’m sure she’ll be down in a minute.”

“Why do you watch this stuff? You have to have seen this a thousand times.”

“I have, and it’s funny every time. There’s so much trash on television these days, I can’t hardly watch it anymore. I mostly watch the news, old reruns of television shows from the fifties and sixties, and my stories.”

“Your stories probably have more sex and violence than any other shows on television.” This was an old argument between me and Mama B. She loved watching those old soap operas.

“Maybe, but a woman has got to have some excitement in her life.”

We both laughed at that one. Mama B’s housedress had definitely seen better days; a knot she had tied at the middle of her leg was the only thing holding up her stockings. Slippers on her feet and a scarf tied around her head completed the ensemble. Mama B was at home and comfortable. She rarely got dressed up unless she was going to church, but once her hair was wrapped up, she was in for the night.

I heard Paris coming down the stairs and had to check myself to make sure I wasn’t grinning. She was wearing a dark skirt, white blouse, and boots, and I felt compelled to stand. Of course, standing there, I felt rather stupid and

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