by Rachel Woods
The car engine roared to life. Tires squealed, churning up a spray of dust and hot exhaust. Pelted with gravel, Noelle coughed and scrambled to her knees. Sobbing, Noelle watched the glowing taillights blur as the car sped through the back alley. The Honda fishtailed as the carjacker turned the corner on two wheels, and disappeared down the side street.
Shaking, Noelle sat in the dirt, trying to breathe, unsure of what to do. She tried to scream for help, but her voice was a plaintive, hoarse whisper. She looked around. The alley was empty. There was no one to help her. No one who had witnessed the attack. She took another deep breath. Beanie. She needed Beanie. He would know what to do. Pushing a hand down into her purse, Noelle pulled out her phone.
For a few moments, she stared at the phone, trying to remember Beanie’s phone number. Close to hysteria, she searched the contacts, found her husband’s number and dialed it. As the phone rang, she whispered prayers, thanking God that she hadn’t been shot and left to bleed to death in the street.
Beanie answered the phone. “Hey, babe, where are—”
“Oh, thank God, Beanie …” Noelle burst into tears. “Beanie, please come! Somebody robbed me! They stole my car! Please come now!”
Chapter Seventeen
Lounging in her favorite pajamas, Noelle sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, as she perused the Palmchat Gazette.
Beanie had a story on the front page, and she was immensely proud. Beanie said it would have been a bigger deal if the article had been “above the fold,” but Noelle reminded him there was no “fold” on the Internet, which was where a growing majority of St. Killian residents read the paper.
Noelle skimmed a few more stories and then contemplated whether or not she wanted a third cup of coffee.
Usually, the opportunity to finish half a cup was a luxury, considering how busy she was at the pharmacy but she wasn’t going to work today. She hadn’t gone yesterday, or the day before that, either. Today would be her third day off since she’d been attacked in the alley behind the pharmacy and had her car stolen.
She shuddered, remembering the horror of that day. She still had nightmares about the gun and the hockey mask the thief had worn. She still wondered if the carjacking had been random or if Grady Palmer had ordered the attack to force her hand.
Three days should have been enough time to get herself together and get back to doing what she did best, but Noelle was still shaken up, nervous and jumpy. Truthfully, she wasn’t eager to go back to the pharmacy just yet. She couldn’t walk into the store without thinking about all of the horrible experiences she‘d had there recently.
The visit from Grady Palmer had left her shattered and terrified. The confrontation with Eamon, when she’d been so unprofessional and vulgar, made her feel guilty and ashamed. Benz’s visit had given her much to ponder and worry about. Was her career over? Would she be sued? Or fired? She hadn’t heard from Benz or the HR director about the situation with Eamon so as far as she knew, the internal investigation was still ongoing.
The carjacking had nearly been her undoing, and if not for Beanie she wouldn’t have survived these past days.
Since her attack, Beanie had been working from home and had scarcely left her side. As soon as she’d seen him running down the alley toward her, Noelle had known she could survive anything—a threat from her past, a false accusation, a gun in her face—as long as Beanie was by her side.Sunlight streaming into the kitchen promised another gorgeous morning in St. Killian. Noelle thought it might be a good day to finish planting her roses. A week or so ago, she’d been in the middle of the pet project when she realized she had to pick up the boys from her mother’s house.
She’d planned to continue with the rose bush planting that weekend, but Saturday morning, she’d discovered someone had broken into the shed and stolen several garden tools—including her discounted shovel with the bent blade.
Noelle stood and walked to the coffee maker. Beanie was in the home office researching another story, and the boys were having a mid-morning nap. Maybe in an hour or so, the four of them could head down to the local hardware store and buy replacements for the tools that had been stolen.
Probably would be good to get out, Noelle reasoned as she crossed to the refrigerator to get the liquid creamer. Not only had she not been to work in three days, but she hadn’t left the house during that time, so maybe—
The doorbell rang.
Noelle froze, her hand locked around the handle on the refrigerator door. Who could that be? What did they want? Her mind jumped to the worse conclusions. Was it Grady Palmer? Or some delivery guy with a legal summons telling her that she was being sued for sexual harassment? Or someone from the pharmacy with her termination papers? Or—
The doorbell rang a second time, and then a third. Panicked, Noelle removed her hand from the door handle. Maybe it was someone trying to sell something, or maybe—
“Babe, I’ll get it!” She heard Beanie call out.
Noelle walked to the sink and stared out into the backyard. The roses she’d planted had started to bloom. As the red petals fluttered in the breeze, Noelle struggled to fight the foreboding feelings. She couldn’t help thinking that the person at the door was there to ruin her life. As soon as Beanie opened the door, the fury of hell would come rushing in and—
“Babe, that was Officer Fields,” Beanie said as he rushed into the kitchen, an air of tense excitement swirling around him as he walked toward her.
Noelle was confused. “Officer Fields?”
“The first responder who showed up after you were carjacked,” Beanie reminded her, gently pulling her into his arms, staring at her. “The police think they found your car. They need us to come down to the station to identify it.”
Chapter Eighteen
Roland Bean squeezed Noelle’s hand as they sat on the loveseat in the conference room where a desk sergeant had instructed them to wait for Philippi Janvier, the detective assigned to Noelle’s case.
The room was nice enough, Beanie supposed, with a picture window facing the Caribbean, casual, comfortable seating, and calming pale blue walls. A room designed to distract and deceive, Beanie figured, as it was probably where family members were given bad news about loved ones who were victims of horrific crimes.
As though a pretty room would lessen the trauma of finding out that someone you cared about had been brutally murdered, Beanie scoffed to himself. His thoughts pivoted, thinking about the purpose of the room, and he wondered if he and Noelle were about to be deceived, or—
“Mrs. Bean, how have you been since we last saw each other?” Detective Philippi Janvier said as he entered the small conference room. “Doing as well as can be expected, I assume, considering what happened to you, no?”
Beanie glanced at the detective, who was above-average height with a lean build, like a swimmer or a marathoner. Dressed in a wrinkled linen suit and clutching a blue file folder, Janvier exuded lack of confidence and ineptitude, but Beanie’s colleague Caleb Olivier claimed the strange, salty Frenchman was a competent detective with a sharp, deductive mind.
Noelle nodded and started to speak, but Beanie cut her off, staring at Janvier as he said, “Doctor.”
Sitting in the chair adjacent to the loveseat, Janvier looked confused. “I’m sorry?”
“She’s Dr. Bean,” said Beanie, though he was sure the detective knew that. The disrespect bothered Beanie as he suspected the detective had done it on purpose. Stripping Noelle of her accomplishments took away her authority. It was a control issue, Beanie knew, often used by law enforcement but it still pissed him off.
He wished Noelle’s case had been assigned to Detective Baxter François, whom Beanie was familiar and friendly with, but they had to deal with this Janvier guy. Beanie didn’t know much about him, but he didn’t like the guy. Janvier was overly suspicious, for some reason. One of those cops who doubted the victim.
Three days ago, when he’d taken Noelle’s statement after the carjacking Beanie hadn
’t liked his tone, which was distrustful, or his probing questions, which suggested a slight skepticism of Noelle’s claims. Reflecting on the incident later, Beanie thought maybe he had taken offense when there had been none, allowing fear and frustration to distort his judgment.
As a journalist, he understood the need for doubt. There was always more to every story. Nevertheless, he didn’t appreciate the suspicion Janvier had directed toward his wife, the victim, who deserved compassion and understanding.
“Officer Fields said you found Noelle’s car,” said Beanie, anxious to identify the vehicle so they could start the process to get the car returned.
“Yes, we are quite certain that we have found Dr. Bean’s car,” said Janvier, consulting the blue file which he held open so only he could see the contents. “A red 2011 Honda Civic. We have checked the plates, and VINs and the car we found is registered to Noelle Chartres Bean.”
“What do I need to do to get my car back?” Noelle asked.
“What kind of condition is it in?” Beanie asked. “Did they strip it?”
“Actually, the car is in good working condition,” said Janvier, still perusing his file. “We do not believe it was stolen so that parts could be removed from it and sold.”
“Why do you think it was stolen?” Noelle asked.
“Was it used to commit a crime?” Beanie asked, his curiosity about Janvier’s file growing into a mild apprehension. What the hell was the man looking at? Beanie had a feeling Janvier’s interest in the file was an act. The detective appeared engrossed, but Beanie suspected Janvier was hesitating.
It reminded him of a reporter’s trick, where you feigned distraction to give yourself time to think of your next question. Was that Janvier’s game? Was there some question the detective wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure how because … because of what? Beanie didn’t know. He felt a fluttering of panic and kept his eyes on the detective, even though he could tell Noelle was glancing at him.
Interrogation, the business of questions and how to answer them, was Beanie’s bread and butter. He wasn’t a cop, but he was aware of certain examination techniques. He should have been able to determine what Janvier was trying to pull, but he was at a loss, and it worried him.
“Dr. Bean,” started Janvier as he laid the blue file on the small end table between the loveseat and the chair. “May I ask, do you know a man named Eamon Taylor?”
“Eamon Taylor?” Noelle echoed, her voice hollow.
Beanie glanced at her, picking up on the surprise in her tone. There was a note of another emotion, as well, something he couldn’t identify, something that increased his apprehension.
“Yes, Eamon Taylor,” repeated Janvier. “Do you know him?”
Beanie looked at Noelle, and his heart jerked. Her wide-eyed expression, a mix of fear and dread, turned his slight apprehension into full-blown panic. What the hell was going on with Noelle? Why did she look so afraid? Why wasn’t she saying anything?
Clearing his throat, desperate to cover for his wife, Beanie said, “Eamon Taylor is the intern who got the pharmacist assistant job, right?”
“Do you mind if Dr. Bean answers the question?” asked Janvier, his smile placating, full of pretense. He was playing the good cop, but Beanie wasn’t fooled. He had a feeling Janvier was about to pull the rug from beneath them, but why?
“What does Eamon Taylor have to do with my car being stolen?” Noelle asked.
“Did Taylor steal Noelle’s car?” Beanie demanded, leaning forward, staring at Janvier. “Did that bastard attack my wife?”
“Dr. Bean, I’d like to speak to you alone, if you don’t mind?” Janvier posed the question directly to Noelle, ignoring Beanie.
“I do mind,” Beanie said. “You’re not talking to my wife without me being there.”
“Mr. Bean—”
“It’s okay, Beanie,” said Noelle, squeezing his hand, a solemn resignation in her gaze as she tried to smile at him. “I’ll be fine. Why don’t you call my mom and see how the boys are doing?”
Beanie staged a valiant protest, but in the end, Noelle was adamant that she would be okay talking to the detective alone. Before she left, Beanie cautioned her not to answer any questions that made her uncomfortable or seemed inappropriate.
After a quick hug and kiss, Noelle left with Detective Janvier, giving Beanie a brave smile.
Twenty minutes later, Beanie was pacing the room, nervous and scared. What the hell was going on? Why did Janvier want to talk to Noelle alone? What the hell did Eamon Taylor have to do with the carjacking? Had he stolen Noelle’s car? If so, why? Beanie had met the kid and Taylor seemed smart and enterprising. He’d grown up in Handweg Gardens, as Noelle had, and just like Noelle, he had escaped those tough streets. Maybe the guy was a Handweg Hood, after all. Maybe Eamon Taylor had everyone fooled.
An hour later, when Noelle hadn’t returned, Beanie berated himself for allowing Janvier to question Noelle alone. He imagined his wife in some cold, sterile interrogation room, flinching and terrified as Janvier barked questions at her. Beanie couldn’t understand what was happening. Officer Fields had told them to come to the station to identify Noelle’s car. Fields hadn’t mentioned anything about Eamon Taylor. What the hell was going on?
Beanie took a deep breath. Why the hell was he just standing there allowing questions to haunt him? He needed answers, and somebody was going to give them to him or—
The door opened, and Officer Fields rushed in. “Beanie—”
“Where’s my wife?” Beanie demanded, his heart thundering. “What the hell—”
“Beanie, calm down,” said Fields, concern in his gaze. “Listen to me, okay? I got bad news, man.”
“Bad news?” Beanie felt his legs turn to mush. “What are you talking about? Where is Noelle?”
Fields exhaled. “She’s been … arrested.”
“Arrested?” Beanie was confused. “I don’t understand. Arrested for what? Having her car stolen?”
As though the words pained him, Fields said, “Noelle has been charged with first-degree murder in the death of Eamon Taylor.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Beanie, oh my God, are you okay?” Sophie Carter, a junior reporter at the Palmchat Gazette, rushed toward Beanie as he walked into the newsroom for the first time in what felt like forever even though it had only been two days.
Two days of pure hell.
The two worst days of his life.
Following Sophie were Stevie Bishop and Caleb Olivier, friends and colleagues he respected. Woeful expressions betrayed their concern and worry.
“How’s Noelle?” Stevie asked.
Beanie sighed, staring at his trio of co-workers, a strange emotion washing over him as he went to his desk. He didn’t know how to answer the question. How was Noelle? Beanie wasn’t sure even though he’d visited her thirty minutes ago at the St. Killian police department where she remained behind bars, accused of murdering her co-worker, Eamon Taylor.
Separated from his wife by a thick partition of bullet-proof Plexiglas, Beanie had struggled to contain his frustration and anger. The idea of his wife in jail for a crime he knew she could never commit sent his blood pressure soaring. Beanie feared he might have a stroke if he didn’t calm down.
Noelle’s voice through the telephone had been weary, but resilient. His wife was tenacious and strong, but he feared the confidence she’d projected was for his benefit. She didn’t want him to worry or be afraid, but how could he not. Noelle hadn’t looked completely broken, but Beanie could tell she was still just as shell-shocked and confused by her arrest as he was.
“I guess you guys heard what happened,” Beanie said, sinking into his chair, resisting the urge to drop his head on the desk and pound his fists against the scarred wood.
“Burt Bronson told us,” said Sophie taking the seat in front of his desk.
When the shock and horror of Noelle’s arrest had subsided to the point where Beanie felt he was able to function, if not nor
mally, then good enough to make phone calls, one of the people he’d contacted was the Palmchat Gazette’s publisher. Despite his normally gruff demeanor, Burt had been compassionate and understanding, offering his assistance and encouraging Beanie to take the time he needed to support his wife and family.
Beanie had been grateful for the paid leave, especially when he’d been informed that Noelle’s bail hearing wouldn’t take place for another three days. He hated the thought of Noelle having to sit in jail while waiting to get out of jail. Fearful of Noelle being abused or mistreated while incarcerated made sleep impossible.
“Noelle is … hanging in there as much as possible,” said Beanie, staring at the photo prominently displayed in a fancy, brushed silver frame—he and Noelle on their wedding day, a glorious and beautiful occasion. Beanie still couldn’t believe he’d been lucky enough to marry the girl of his dreams.
Before meeting Noelle, he’d never given much thought to happily ever after and didn’t consider himself a very romantic guy. However, the day he’d met her, he’d known she was the kind of woman to fall in love with, a woman he could give his heart to, a true soul mate in every sense of the word. A lover and best friend worthy of his devotion, protection, and affection.
Leaving Noelle behind at the St. Killian police department had nearly killed Beanie, but he refused to fall apart.
More than ever before, the love of his life needed him. Beanie planned to move heaven and earth, if need be, to make sure his wife beat the bogus charges against her.
“How are the boys?” Caleb asked.
“They’re fine. Noelle's mom is keeping them,” said Beanie. “They love their grandma. I told Ethan that mommy had to take a trip, but she’ll be back soon. I’m just thankful the boys are not old enough to understand the truth because I don’t think I could tell them …”
