by Emily James
Mark followed him to the other side of the room, next to the doors that I guessed led into the visitation rooms based on the pedestals next to each door for guest books.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Grant asked, his words almost a hiss.
“She raises enough good questions that I want some answers. It’s probably nothing, but Stan was too good a man for me not to at least follow up on this.”
It was strange watching twins arguing, like seeing a person fight with their reflection in a mirror.
Grant crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t need to be involved any more than you already are in another suicide.”
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the sound in here carried and it would look quite odd if I stuck my fingers into my ears. I turned my back to them to give the impression of privacy at least.
“I’m fine,” Mark said. “This isn’t the same.”
I stole a peek over my shoulder.
Mark walked a little ways away, dialing a number as he went. “Carl? It’s Mark. Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to bring Stan’s niece by…”
They might not have completely believed me yet, but I knew my Uncle Stan. This wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t suicide.
It was murder.
4
Mark returned to where I was waiting, his phone already back in his pocket. “I told him everything you said. He can’t get away tonight, and he asked that we don’t go poking around—”
I raised an eyebrow at him.
He held up his hands. “His words, not mine. That we don’t go poking around without him. If there is evidence of something, he wants to properly document it before we touch it. Since the scene’s already been released, nothing we find will be admissible, but they could still use it to point them in the right direction for investigating.”
Okay, that made sense. Evidence could easily be accidentally contaminated, lost, or muddled. “Fair enough.”
“You weren’t planning on staying there tonight, were you?”
In my dead uncle’s house? No thanks. “I booked a room at The Sunburnt Arms.”
The name had seemed strange to me when I reserved my room, but it was the only place open in the off-season. According to the lady I spoke with, the other bed and breakfasts wouldn’t open up again until after the first big snowfall or for the Christmas season, whichever came first. Now that I’d seen more of Fair Haven, The Sunburnt Arms seemed to be a perfect fit name-wise.
I shot my giant suitcase—I swear it’d gained another ten pounds of girth since I’d left it leaning against the wall—another quick glare. “Could you tell me how to get there from here? Preferably with landmarks rather than street names.”
Mark grabbed hold of my suitcase handle and pulled it toward the door as if it weighed no more than a pair of shoes. “It’s too far for you to walk. I’ll give you a lift.”
I followed him out to the same charcoal-gray pickup he’d been driving before. I had to do an awkward hop and slide to climb in. Clearly whoever designed trucks didn’t expect women in narrow skirts to be riding in them.
My cheeks burned and I peeked over to where Mark was. He either hadn’t noticed my graceless entry or he was too much of a gentleman to show it.
He tossed my suitcase into the truck bed and climbed in. “I’ll have to pick you up tomorrow morning as well. Sugarwood is on the opposite end of town from The Sunburnt Arms.” He flashed me that gorgeous dimple again. “Assuming you don’t mind me tagging along. If someone did harm your uncle, I’d like to know.”
If it wasn’t for the wedding ring, I would have almost thought he was flirting with me. And I was more grateful to him than I could say for giving me a moment of normal and a reason to smile.
The Sunburnt Arms turned out to be a “painted lady,” a large Victorian-style home decked out in different colors to set off the architecture. This one’s colors were more tastefully done than some of the ones I’d seen—a muted dusty rose offset with pale blue, white trim around the windows and partial wrap-around porch, and a slate-gray roof. I couldn’t see them from the road, but the website had mentioned gazebos out back and a dock down at the water with plenty of comfy chairs for lounging. It would have been a restful place to visit under different circumstances.
Mark brought my suitcase right up to the entrance door for me and tipped an imaginary hat. “I’ll be back at 8:15 tomorrow.”
I threw a goofy little curtsy in return, then mentally kicked myself all the way to the front desk. What would my mother say? Of course, she wasn’t here to see me, so maybe it served her right if I let my silly side out a bit. I’d have plenty of time to rein it back in once I returned to Virginia and my regular life.
Even though we arrived five minutes early, a police cruiser was already waiting for us in front of Uncle Stan’s house when we pulled up. A tall, lean man in uniform leaned against the hood. Despite what I considered to be the cold morning air, he wasn’t wearing a jacket. How anyone survived a winter here when fall already felt frigid was beyond me.
I hopped out of Mark’s truck with more ease than I’d climbed in the day before. I’d opted for a dark pair of jeans, a white blouse, and flats this morning.
The uniformed man pushed off his car and met us halfway to the house. He had a long stride and a way of swinging his arms when he moved that reminded me a bit of a gorilla.
“I’m Chief Carl Wilson. And you must be Ms. Fritzhenry-Dawes.”
He said my last name with that little curl to his lip that I’d noticed some people get in reaction to a hyphenated last name. Like they think it means I’m illegitimate or something. All it really meant was that my mother kept her last name for career reasons, and when I was born, my parents felt the only fair thing was to give me both last names. “I prefer Nicole.”
He shook my hand and then Mark’s, which made it clear to me that the two men had a strictly professional relationship rather than a personal one. They probably didn’t meet for beers after work. Still, from the fact that the chief was willing to even come out here this morning and humor me, I had to believe it was a professional relationship built on mutual respect.
Chief Wilson unlocked the front door to the house. Whatever type of home I’d pictured Uncle Stan living in over the years, this wasn’t it. The lower level was built out of dark gray stone, and the upper half, including the balcony overlooking the maple-filled bush behind, was rich red wood, like a luxury log cabin.
He stepped aside and held the door open. “I checked with Russ. He and I have the only keys that he knows of, and no one’s been inside since the ambulance took Stan’s body away.” He glanced at me and flinched slightly as if realizing belatedly I might not want to hear about my uncle’s body.
I pretended I hadn’t noticed and went inside. The house was decorated with the same plain, comfortable-looking furniture that Uncle Stan preferred even back in Virginia.
For some reason, I always expected a house where someone died to smell different. It didn’t. The house smelled like Uncle Stan, like coffee and peppermints.
My chest hollowed out. I didn’t want to be here. Not like this. I should have found the time to visit him when he was still alive and the courage to visit him no matter what my parents would think. It shouldn’t have taken him dying to get me up here.
A hand brushed my shoulder and I jumped.
“You okay?” Mark whispered.
I swallowed to moisten my suddenly dry throat and keep my voice from cracking and giving me away. “Of course. Why?”
“You had that same look on your face as you did yesterday, before…” He shifted his weight and patted his pocket. “I brought tissues this time in case you need them.”
Crap. I dropped my gaze, blinking rapidly. He was going to make me cry from his thoughtfulness if he wasn’t careful. “I’ll check the drawers in his bedside table. That’s where he used to keep his pill box.”
“Just don’t touch it if you do find it.” Chief Wilson held up
a camera. “Since you’re sure Stan couldn’t have possibly died the way we think he did, we’re going to document everything just in case it turns out you’re right.”
I found the stairs and headed up. The staircase and all the inside walls upstairs were made of the same rich red wood as outside. A log cabin seemed somehow fitting for a man who’d owned a sugar bush, and yet he’d still managed to find himself a home with a certain elegance.
I opened the few doors upstairs until I stumbled upon the master bedroom. The bed was made, and three books he’d never finish reading rested on the bedside table. I knew they had to be unfinished. A book stayed on the shelf until he was ready to read it and it went back on the shelf as soon as he finished. Everything had its place in his home. I couldn’t imagine living here had changed that.
Even though I was supposed to be looking for the pill box, I couldn’t keep away from the books. We’d often choose a novel to read “together.” Usually a mystery so we could see who would guess the murderer first.
I turned the books so I could read the spines. A leather-bound copy of the Bible with the gold lettering almost worn off. I set it aside. A medical thriller, based on the picture on the cover. He’d dog-eared a page a third of the way through. It joined the Bible on the bed.
The bottom book was wider and heavier than the first two. It looked like one of Uncle Stan’s old reference texts from back when he was still practicing medicine. Not exactly what I’d call light bedroom reading.
He’d folded down a page corner in this one as well, something I knew from my years hanging around his office that he didn’t normally do with his reference books. He’d once told me that if he marked those pages they’d all eventually be turned down and he’d never find anything. Maybe that didn’t matter anymore since he wasn’t actively using them. This book was probably well out of date.
I flipped the manual open to the page he’d marked. It was a section about caffeine’s negative interactions with the heart. Or at least that’s as much as I could understand of it. I only spoke one second language, and it was legalese, not medical jargon.
I opened the drawer. As I expected, Uncle Stan’s pill box lay inside. I took a pen from my purse and poked the pill box around enough so I could see what days were empty and what days were full. I counted back. He’d taken his regular dose the day he died. That lent a little credence to my theory at least. He wouldn’t have accidentally taken a dose even drunk because he had his pill box, and wouldn’t a man who was going to kill himself simply overdose from his prescription bottle rather than bothering to first take the dose he’d measured out for himself?
I left the drawer open but put the books back where I found them in case Chief Wilson would be angry I touched them even though they weren’t evidence of any kind.
I jogged back down the stairs. “I found his pill box and…”
Mark and Chief Wilson stood in front of the open refrigerator door, photographing something inside.
My stomach dipped and I crept toward them. A six-pack of beer bottles sat in Uncle Stan’s fridge. I didn’t recognize the brand. The case was green and brown, with the words Beaver Tail Brew emblazoned across the side.
Only two beers were missing.
My breath came out in a whoosh I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Two beers weren’t enough to make a man drunk. Two beers certainly weren’t enough to raise his blood alcohol levels to what Mark had told me they were on our ride to my B&B last night.
“I’ll take these in as evidence,” Chief Wilson said, “but it seems to confirm our original conclusions.”
“His pill box doesn’t,” I said. “I left the drawer open and the box inside.”
Mark gave a start and Chief Wilson pivoted around on his heel. I guess they hadn’t heard me come in.
“Besides,” I pointed to the six-pack, “that’s not enough alcohol to prove anything.”
Why did he have it in his house at all though? a little voice in the back of my mind whispered. If Uncle Stan never drank, the way I’d believed and insisted, his house should have been alcohol-free.
Chief Wilson snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “It’s not. That’s why we’re going to check his garbage can next for empties.”
We all trundled out the back to the black plastic trash can that stood nearly as tall as I did. Mark donned gloves as well and tipped the can while Chief Wilson poked around inside.
He pulled his arm back out, his hand clasped around the handle of another six-pack of empties.
No. I refused to accept it. It didn’t make sense with what I knew and with what the pill box suggested.
My brain immediately started to spin with possible explanations. As a defense attorney, it was part of my job to come up with alternate reasons for how seemingly damning evidence could have shown up where it had. It was one of the few parts of being a lawyer I was good at. That training and natural but/if ability wasn’t something I could have turned off, even if I wanted to. Right now, I definitely didn’t want to. “Whoever killed my uncle could have planted the beer and the empties.”
A scowl flickered across Chief Wilson’s face, then was gone. Even Mark’s expression was more skeptical than I was comfortable with.
I held up a hand. “Just listen for a minute.” The little gears in my brain were clicking things into place, but I needed a second to sort it all out. “Why are all the empty bottles still in the case in the trash can, but there weren’t empty bottles in the fifth and sixth spots in the fridge. Did you find them in the trash can inside?”
Chief Wilson set the six-pack aside and crossed his arms, but Mark shook his head.
“Then where did they go? And why put these back so meticulously, especially if he was drunk by the time he finished? Why put them out here at all if he planned to kill himself?”
“She makes some good points,” Mark said.
Chief Wilson sighed. “I said I’d take this all in and test it, but you know better than anyone how hard it is to accept that someone you loved killed themselves. That can cause you to see bad guys where there aren’t any.”
Mark’s face closed down, all expression gone. “Low blow, Carl.”
“I’m just saying, don’t get her hopes up.”
I hated feeling like I was missing something, but now wasn’t the time to ask either of them what Chief Wilson meant by that comment. I’d seen enough unwilling witnesses try to throw up smoke screens that I could recognize it when it happened. Chief Wilson didn’t want us calling into question the county’s determination about the cause of Uncle Stan’s death. But finding out the truth mattered to me more than sparing the ego of a small-town police chief.
“It might be that you’re correct,” Mark said before I could speak, “but there are enough questions here that it warrants further investigation.” His voice had a hard edge to it.
Chief Wilson dipped his head. “I’m not saying there aren’t. I’m gonna take this all in and have the techs go over it.” He met and held Mark’s gaze. “But I’m hoping you’re both wrong, because I’d much rather grieve for a good man who took his own life than have the town up in a panic over a murderer on the loose.”
5
Finishing arrangements at the funeral home had been easier than I expected. According to Grant, Uncle Stan had made most of the arrangements and paid in advance because of his heart condition. We scheduled a single viewing for the next day and the funeral for the day after.
Since the arrangements hadn’t taken as long as I expected, I stopped in at the newspaper office to place an announcement (I’d looked up the address the night before and drew myself a map) on my way to Uncle Stan’s lawyer.
My parents hadn’t exactly encouraged my trip up here, so I had no more time than any other employee on bereavement leave would before I needed to return to work. Today was Thursday, and I was expected back in the office by next Wednesday. That meant I needed to settle everything as quickly as possible.
Settling everything now included making
sure Chief Wilson would continue investigating Uncle Stan’s death after I was gone. Chief Wilson didn’t know it yet, but I’d be dropping by for a visit if I finished with the lawyer in time. I might not have inherited my parents’ natural confidence and poise, but I did inherit their tenacity—Uncle Stan always called it stubbornness.
The lawyer’s office was as tastefully and discreetly named as the funeral home. They’d stenciled MCCLANAHAN & ASSOCIATES on their front window in burgundy. Maybe the common denominator was the businesses that catered to the locals didn’t need to be flashy.
One of those cute little front door bells jingled as I entered.
The receptionist behind the desk had dyed blonde hair, blue eyes, and a long, hooked nose like the goblins in Harry Potter. It didn’t fit with the rest of her, which had clearly been tucked and Botoxed so that the doctor who delivered her wouldn’t recognize anything. I couldn’t imagine why she’d leave a nose like that unless she ran out of money. She’d be almost pretty without that nose…in a creation-of-Dr. Frankenstein kind of way.
A placard on the desk declared her Ashley Jenkins, Receptionist.
She looked down at me over the top of the square, black-rimmed, designer glasses perched on top of that nose. “May I help you?”
Her tone said what do you want? She would have lasted exactly one day in my parents’ office.
I gave her my name, and Tom McClanahan came out to greet me. He looked exactly like his picture on their website—neatly trimmed goatee, wire-rimmed glasses, and an angular face.
What I hadn’t been able to tell from the website photo was that he was almost my height. At only five foot five inches, I wasn’t accustomed to looking men straight in the face. It made me strangely uncomfortable.
He ushered me into the office and closed the door solidly behind us. “Please take a seat, Ms. Fitzhenry-Dawes.”
He didn’t sneer my hyphenated last name, so I had to give him points for that.
