Here is an excerpt from Abby Collete's brand new mystery, A Deadly Inside Scoop! Available today!
"“Was there anyone else out tonight?” he asked. “Anyone that may have seen you or the gentleman you found?”
My mind and my eyes wandered back to Ms. Devereaux and her store. He got what he deserved . . . She had to know who he was, otherwise how would she know that he’d merited his fate?
The store was set directly in front of Bell Street.
Maybe she had seen something. But when I brought my eyes back to meet with the detective’s, I saw that scarf.
The multi-colored one.
It was wrapped around the neck of a young boy. Probably the young boy I’d spotted under the streetlight as he’d scrambled back up the hill coming up from the falls. A woman stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders.
“He may know something,” I said, and led him in the direction of the boy with my eyes.
Detective Beverly looked over his shoulder, following my gaze, then turned back to me. “Who?” he asked.
“That little boy,” I said. “I saw him down by the falls.”
“You saw him?”
“I think I did,” I said, and focused my gaze on him. “I saw his scarf.”
“Hold on.” He turned to the officer and asked him to go and get the boy.
I heard the detective say something to me, but my attention was on the boy and the woman. Through the sea of faces and movement, it seemed that briefly her eyes had locked with mine. It was as if she knew, somehow, that I had spoken about her—or the child—and she started to edge away.
The officer must have radioed his intent because before he got to her, another officer came up behind her. He leaned in and spoke to her. I saw her acknowledge the officer as he headed over.
“Bronwyn.” Snap! Snap! Fingers were in front of my face making the noise. “Bronwyn!”
“Yes,” I said, diverting my thoughts and refocusing my eyes on the detective.
“You got lost there for a minute,” he said. “You alright?”
“Yeah. I am,” I said. “Just cold and tired.”
“Do you need another blanket?” He tugged on the one I still had wrapped around me.
“Mm-mm.” I shook my head. “This one is fine.”
“Detective Beverly.” It was the officer speaking. He had escorted the woman and boy over. She didn’t seem too happy about it. “Here’s the woman you wanted to speak with.”
Her red lipstick was faded and dull. The mascara laid thick on her eyelashes had begun to run due to the dampness in the air. The curls in her blond hair—dyed, as evidenced by her dark brown roots—had flopped. She held her head up, her grip on the boy tight.
“What do you want?” she said. Her voice was gravelly, like she’d been smoking ten packs of cigarettes a day for the past forty years. She didn’t look that old, though. “I have to get my son home. Out of the cold.”
“Ms. Crewse here,"the detective pointed to me, "said she saw you down by the falls.”
“Not her,” I corrected. “Her son.” I flapped an arm in his direction.
“He wasn’t there,” she said, not even taking the time to consider my claim.
The detective looked at me.
“I saw that scarf around someone’s neck. A child’s neck,” I said. “That’s how I found the body. Chasing after it. Him. Then I saw the scarf again lying on the ground when I came back up to get help.”
“She must’ve seen another scarf,” the woman said dryly.
“Exactly like that one?” I asked, sarcasm threaded through my words.
She shrugged. “It wasn’t my son’s. He wasn’t anywhere near the falls tonight. Or anytime today.”
“Then why are you over here?” I asked, and before she gave an answer, I suggested one for her. “You come looking for that scarf?”
She blew out a snort. “No. I came to see what was going on, just like everyone else.” She looked at the detective.
“Where were you coming from?” I asked. “Did you go to the movies tonight?” I remembered the voices I’d heard earlier. I had heard a woman calling out something . . .
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Is she working for you?” She directed her question to the detective.
“No.” He chortled at the woman’s words, his green eyes lighting up. “But do you have any more questions, Bronwyn?”
I wasn’t amused. “It was his scarf,” I said. “And it was him.”
“Is this why you asked me to come over here?” she said, slowly taking her eyes from mine and looking at the detective. “So she could accuse me—or my son—of something? I don’t know what this is about, but I can’t help you. And neither can he.”
“What’s your name?” the detective asked the boy, but the woman spoke up.
“Why?” she asked indignantly.
“Because I’m an officer of the law and you have to tell me if I ask,” Detective Beverly said, his voice calm but steady.
“I don’t think that’s true,” she said.
“We can take you in. Talk about whether it’s true or not down at the station,” he said. “That way your boy can stay warm.”
She didn’t like that remark. “His name is—”
“Jasper,” I said, suddenly remembering the earlier incident while sitting sulking on the bench. I remembered how she had called out the name as he ran from her.
“Jasper,” she said at the same time I did.
“Do you know him?” Detective Beverly asked me.
“No,” I said. “I don’t know him. I heard her call him that.”
“When?” the detective asked.
“Not long before I found the body.
“And, Mom, what’s your name?”
“Glynis Vale,” she said. “And my son, Jasper. Vale. Who is only ten years old.” She put her hand on top of his head. “He wouldn’t be out wandering off by himself.”
“He was tonight,” I said.
“He didn’t see anything,” she countered, seemingly daring me to contradict her again.
“Is that true?” the detective asked the boy. “You didn’t see anything?”
Jasper strained his neck to look up at his mother standing over him.
“Of course it’s true,” Glynis said.
“I’m asking him,” the detective said.
Glynis Vale smacked her lips. “Answer him,” she told the boy.
“I didn’t see anybody.”
“Any body?” the detective asked, separating the word. “You didn’t see anyone or you didn’t see a body?”
Jasper looked up at his mother again. She nodded. “Both,” he said. “I didn’t see no one, and I didn’t see no body.”
“See,” she said, looking at me as she spoke. “There wouldn’t be anything to talk about if you took me in.”
“How about this?” the detective said. “You give your information to this officer. Address. Phone number. How to contact you—if we need to—and you can be on your way.”
“Can my daughter be on her way, too?” my mother asked.
Detective Beverly looked at her and then at me. “You have anything else to tell me?”
“Nope,” I said. “Not here. Not even at your station.”
I saw a grin curl up one side of his lips. “Okay. Then, yes. You can be on your way, too.” He pointed to our store. “I can find you there?”
“Every day. Eleven to eleven.”
Abby L. Vandiver
also writing as Abby Collette
USA Today & Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author
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