Brayden shook him off.
“Don't say anything?” I rubbed my forehead. “I don't understand.”
“Did you accost Mr. Neumark in the alley outside last Saturday night?”
“No. He accosted me!”
Brayden started. “What? Why didn't you say anything?”
“Yes, Ms. Bonheim,” the sheriff purred. “Why didn't you say anything?”
“Because I didn't know who he was at the time,” I said, my words rushed, and I gripped the sink behind me. Its metal against my skin was cool and comforting. “He didn't attack me or anything. He was just… lurking outside, and he started saying all this stuff about Mathilda and me, and I told him to go away.”
“He says you threatened him with physical harm.”
“I didn't!” Had I? What exactly had I said to him? “He was waiting outside my apartment—”
“Outside your coffeeshop, a public place of business.”
“No, in the alley.” My hands fluttered toward the blue metal door. “People don't come into Ground via the alley entrance. It's closed to the public. Plus, it was night, on a weekend, when we were closed. And he was stalking Mathilda, wasn't he? You'd have a record of that.”
“Hold on,” Brayden said. “Jayce is being harassed by a murder suspect, and you're coming down on her?”
“Mr. Neumark has filed a formal complaint and is asking for a restraining order—”
“Restraining!” I couldn’t breathe. The kitchen was too crowded. The sheriff and Connor with their bulky jackets and guns. Brayden glowering…
“And you'll need to come to the station,” she finished.
“This is ridiculous,” I sputtered.
“This is harassment.” Brayden's fists clenched. “You're using this as an excuse to push Jayce for more information on Mathilda.”
“Yes,” she said blandly. “I am. And I'll be happy to arrest you too if you don't take a step back and calm down.”
“You can't—” he began.
I turned to Brayden and laid my hand on his broad chest. “It's okay,” I said quickly. “It's only more questions, and I've got nothing to hide. Darla can manage Ground. It's fine.”
“I'll call Nick Heathcoat,” he said, his eyebrows cutting downward.
“Thanks,” I stuttered. “I should have thought of that.” How far did my friends and family discount with the lawyer extend?
“My car's out back.” The sheriff opened the kitchen’s rear, metal door and ambled outside.
I stepped closer to Brayden and looked up. “This is business as usual with the sheriff. It's no big deal.”
“It is a big deal.” His voice was a growl. “This is my fault. If it hadn't been for what happened to my wife, you wouldn't be the target of every murder investigation in Doyle.”
“You know you weren't responsible for that,” I said quietly.
A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Jayce—”
“Sorry about this,” Connor muttered. “But we need to go. Now. Brayden, I'll take good care of her.”
Brayden glared at his friend. “You'd better.”
I grabbed my vest off a hook in the wall, and Connor followed me into the alley.
The sheriff stood beside the wooden stairs to my apartment. She adjusted her broad-brimmed hat. “Is this where it happened?”
“If you mean where I met Paul Neumark, yes. He was waiting in a car where your SUV is parked.” I slithered into the metallic vest and pointed toward the black and white.
“What were you doing out here?”
“I was coming home.”
“From where?”
“From my sister's bookstore.” And what did that have to do with anything?
She stared upward, at the door to my apartment. “I heard there was some trouble out by the old folks home on Saturday. Your brother-in-law’s car was vandalized.”
My shoulders curled inward, and I laced my arms over my stomach. How did she know about that? Nick wouldn't have filed a police report. Or maybe he had for the insurance? The car technically had been vandalized. Just not by human vandals.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asked.
“Nick would be a better person to ask about that,” I said, vague.
“I'm asking you.”
“I didn't see it happen.” It was the best lie I could think of, because it was sort of true. I’d seen the destruction afterward, but from my vantage inside the SUV, I hadn’t actually seen the virikas do it.
Did Sheriff McCourt somehow know I'd been there? Did she think the vandalism was connected to Mathilda's death? I went cold. Was it connected?
No. The virikas liked making a racket when someone was about to die. That was all. They weren’t killers.
I hoped.
CHAPTER NINE
“This is getting monotonous.” Nick grinned, emerging from the sheriff’s warren of offices.
I followed him into the high-ceilinged atrium. Watery sunlight streamed through the overhead windows. Clawing a hand through my hair, I looked past groupings of blue chairs and potted plants.
Brayden wasn't here.
I was half glad, because he had better things to do. But getting dragged into the police station sucked, and the moral support would have been nice. “Are you regretting marrying into this family yet?”
“Not for a second.” Nick shook his head. “And this wasn’t fair. Pulling you in again? The sheriff's getting desperate.”
“Which must mean she doesn't have any good suspects.”
My brother-in-law frowned. “Or she thinks you know more than you're saying.”
“We do know more than we're saying,” I whispered. And I was surprised Sheriff McCourt hadn't quizzed Nick on the damage to his SUV.
He strode through the automatic glass doors and into the late morning sun. I trotted beside him, taking two steps for every one of his.
My brother-in-law held the door for me as I stepped into a new-looking black, luxury SUV, then got inside.
“Where to?” He put the keys in the ignition.
“Ground. Is this a rental?” It had new-car smell, and I inhaled deeply.
“Nope. The old SUV was totaled. This is new.”
I winced. “Sorry.”
“I’m insured.” Nick started the car and pulled from the lot.
“Did Brayden call you?” I asked. “About me, I mean.”
“Yes.” He darted a look at me. “He said he was there when the sheriff brought you in.”
“How did he sound?”
He gave a short laugh. “Angry.”
I swallowed. Yeah, I'd gotten that vibe. But angry was better than… whatever we weren’t saying to each other, wasn't it?
Nick dropped me at Ground. Exhausted, I walked through the front door and paused beside the umbrella stand. It was nearly noon, and the coffeeshop was still crowded. The sheriff had done my reputation a small favor by taking me out the alley door this morning, instead of subjecting me to a walk of shame out the front door.
“How'd it go at the sheriff's Department?” Darla shouted from behind the counter.
I closed my eyes. Darla! Opening them, I smiled. “Fine!”
I'm pretty sure I was not imagining everyone staring as I walked into the kitchen.
I leaned against the metal sink and rubbed my hands over my face. Okay. This was okay. It's not like I cared about my reputation — only Ground's, because Ground was how I paid the rent. And Darla hadn't said anything about me getting arrested, because I hadn't been, thank you very much!
I tied on my apron and returned behind the counter.
Darla beamed at me. “I knew they wouldn’t keep you.”
“Let's keep the sheriff's thing on the down-low, okay?” I asked in a low voice.
Her broad face colored, her freckles darkening. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“It's fine,” I said. And when she didn't look convinced, I said, “Really. So, did anything h
appen while I was away?”
“Nope. We sold coffee. Someone spilled their cappuccino. The mug's a goner, but no one was hurt. What happened at the, um… Unless you don't want to talk about it?”
My stomach growled. I contemplated the pastries beneath the counter. They were delicious, but I'd wait for something more solid. “No, it's fine. The sheriff just had more questions about… you know.”
“Oh.” She bit her bottom lip and looked quickly toward the red-paned front windows.
“Were any of the other baristas close with Mathilda?” I asked.
“I think she and Diane went out sometimes.”
I smiled. Diane, who was making an espresso ten feet away. Convenient. My mouth flattened. No, not convenient when an employee gets killed. Not at all.
Hair prickled on the back of my neck, and I turned.
Mr. O'Hare and Mrs. Raven sat in the exact position I'd left them in this morning, their chairs facing the counter. Steam rose from their mugs, so they'd moved at least once for a refill. I turned quickly away, realizing I’d been staring.
We dealt with the lunch crowd under O'Hare and Ravens' watchful gaze. Finally, around two, the line of customers eased.
Diane, an elfin brunette with a wicked grin, untied her apron. She made a show of checking the clock above the counter. “Well, that's it for me then.” She glanced out the front window. “Think it's going to snow?”
Darla sighed. “I hope so. We sure need it.”
I followed Diane into the kitchen.
She sauntered into the walk-in closet and returned with her coat and purse. Her chocolatey eyes widened with consternation. “Jayce? It's okay if I leave now, isn't it?”
“Yes, of course. I just wanted to ask you about Mathilda.” Please know something useful.
Her expression turned wary. “Mathilda?”
“The two of you were friends, right?”
“We hung out sometimes.” She hesitated, clutching her coat to her chest. “The sheriff already talked to me about Mathilda. Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem.” I leaned against the metal sink. “Did you notice anything about Mathilda before she died? Was she acting strangely, or differently, or worried about anything or anyone?”
“No. Well, her stepmother was a total hag.”
“Was she?” I asked.
“You know, she controlled all the cash.”
“Really?” That was interesting.
A roar of laughter erupted from the café, and we glanced toward the blue and white curtains.
“Oh, yeah,” she said in a lower voice. “Mathilda came from money. But she couldn't touch a dime. Her wicked stepmother controlled everything. That's what she called her. The wicked stepmother. Like Cinderella.”
Now that Mathilda was dead, would Lydia Sinclair inherit the money? I frowned. Lydia had seemed genuinely upset by her stepdaughters death, but it could have been an act. “Did you know Mathilda’s roommate?”
She raised her chin. “Renee? Yeah. Why?”
Because I know I didn’t kill anyone. “What can you tell me about her?”
“Not much. We don't really hang out. Mathilda and she were close though. They were best friends when Mathilda first moved here.”
“Anything else?”
She scrunched her forehead, thinking. “Renee works at the Barn and Brew. Does that help?”
“What about Mathilda's ex?”
“Paul?” Diane rolled her eyes. “That guy was so far in the rear-view mirror, I don't think you can even call him an ex anymore.”
“Did he know that?”
She snorted. “No. Paul was always mooning around her, and she just laughed.” She tugged on her bottom lip. “There is one thing that was strange.”
I straightened off the sink. “What?”
“Mathilda came in to Ground the day she died, just before noon.”
My spine stiffened. Whoa. And I hadn’t seen her. I must have been busy with a customer. “For coffee?”
“No, she said she had to get something from her employee bin. So, she ran back to the kitchen. She was only there a minute, and then she left.”
I glanced at the closet. I’d already ransacked her employee bin. What had Mathilda taken from it?
Diane’s gaze drifted to the metal door, and I shook myself.
“Thanks, Diane. Have a good one.”
“See ya!” She raced out the alley door. It banged shut behind her, and I flinched.
Thinking hard, I returned to the counter.
Judge Longway, in a pinstriped suit, stepped up to Darla, standing behind the register.
And as much as I wanted to slink away from the judge who’d arraigned me, I forced myself to intercept him. “I'll take the register,” I said to Darla, and she shifted to the other end of the counter. “What can I get for you?” I asked.
He smoothed a hand over his graying hair. “A double espresso,” he boomed, “and one of those cheese Danishes.”
Craning my neck at him, I rang him up and made change. Was being tall an advantage as a judge when you did all your work sitting down? But even though his job was sedentary, he looked fit beneath his charcoal business suit. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat. I guessed he worked out. “Judge, can I ask you a legal question?”
“Only if we're speaking in generalities.”
“How much evidence is needed to bring a restraining order against someone?”
He hesitated and stared at his tanned hands. “It depends on the kind of evidence.” He gave me a hard look. “But generally speaking, it doesn't pay to threaten anyone.”
Tingling swept the back of my neck. Oh, God. Had Neumarck’s restraining order against me already landed on Longway’s desk? “If someone had a restraining order against them, for stalking, for example, and then they tried to get a restraining order against someone else, even though that someone else said that they were being stalked rather than the stalker…”
He bent his head, looking somberly down his roman nose. “I think you should stop talking now.”
My face warmed. “Right.”
“But I will say that in spite of what you may have heard last weekend, we do take restraining orders seriously. We all feel terrible about what happened to that young woman.”
“We?”
“The sheriff's department and myself.”
My gut knotted. “Then you believe her stalker killed her.” And now Paul Neumark had fixated on me. Fantastic.
He shook his head. “I didn't say that. My job as judge is to make sure there's a fair trial, not to decide who's guilty or innocent.”
“Sorry. It's only… Mathilda worked here. It's hard not to think about her murder. I wish there was something I could do to help.”
His expression softened. “I understand. We lost a young deputy in a car accident several years back. He often worked as security in the courthouse. The whole staff was affected, and so was the sheriff's department. I remember finding one of the other deputies cleaning out his desk and sobbing over a business card.”
“A business card?”
“For a jeweler. He'd been planning to buy his fiancée an engagement ring. He'd written some notation about the woman on the back.” His gaze grew vague. “I can't remember what it said, but I remember I wanted to cry too after I read it.”
Heaviness weighted my chest, and I sighed. “That reminds me— Mathilda’s stepmother is coming by tomorrow to get her things from the employee bin.” I nodded toward the curtains blocking the kitchen. I wasn't looking forward to the visit, but Lydia Sinclair was a suspect, and I owed it to Mathilda.
He shook his head. “There are always so many details to manage after someone passes. With a death as unexpected as this, I'm afraid managing those details is even harder.”
The espresso machine whirred.
“You knew her too, didn't you?” I asked, wanting to change the subject before I started crying.
<
br /> His brows drew downward. “Excuse me?”
“Mathilda was in your courtroom once, wasn't she? To get the restraining order?”
“Ah. Yes, I believe we did meet in my chambers at some point in the process. She was a lovely young woman. Her family must be devastated.”
“I suppose they are.” Did she have anyone in her life beside her stepmother? My insides twisted with regret. How could I have known so little about my employee?
Darla approached us and handed the judge his double espresso. “Here you go,” she said.
“Thank you.” He nodded and strode, straight-backed, from the coffeeshop.
Darla sighed. “I voted for him.”
“Huh?”
“For the judge,” she said. “My parents love him. He's so by-the-book. He doesn't care if you're rich or poor. For Judge Longway, it's all about what the law says. That's the way it should be.”
“And so rarely is,” I muttered.
“What?”
I smiled. “Sorry, my cynicism is showing.”
“You don't like him?”
“I don't know him.” I chuckled. “I don't know anything useful about the man, but I trust your parents' judgment.”
“Local politics is important,” she said, her brown eyes serious. “It affects us. You should pay attention.”
“You're right. I should know more of what’s going on locally.” I looked to Mr. O'Hare and Mrs. Raven.
They stared back, unblinking.
CHAPTER TEN
At three, I shrugged into my shimmery green down jacket and dashed out for a burger and some investigation. Traffic in Ground had slowed. It would stay that way until we closed this afternoon, but I still felt guilty leaving Darla alone.
I really needed to hire another barista. But it seemed wrong so soon after Mathilda's death. My face tightened. Mathilda's death was what was wrong. Who could have killed her? She’d been so young. And even though it was a cliché to think her whole life had been ahead of her, dammit, it was true.
People ambled along the raised sidewalks and looked hopefully at a ceiling of gray clouds. But it wouldn’t snow today. The weatherman had been predictably pessimistic on that score.
I tore my own gaze from the sky to the shop windows. Their holiday twinkle lights had been replaced with paper hearts. The pink and red decorations seemed an early jump on Valentine's Day, but maybe I should do something for the holiday? If I added cocoa powder to my coffee scrub, added some love magic… I smiled. Yeah, that might work. And I’d keep the magic in the coffeeshop and out of my apartment, where it wouldn’t touch Brayden.
Fey: A Doyle Witch Cozy Mystery (The Witches of Doyle Book 5) Page 7
