by Emily James
I’d follow suit with the banter.
“You might not look forward to the calls if I keep making requests on your time.”
He chuckled. “What can I help you with?”
“I need to hire someone to poke around in a person of interest’s personal life and financials”—probably best not to tell him I planned to investigate my own client—“so I was hoping you could recommend someone.”
“That’s an easy one. I’ll text you the contact info for the guy I use. He’s not cheap, but he’s thorough. If your guy or girl is hiding anything, he’ll find it. Tell him I referred you. He can be picky about the new clients he takes on, and mentioning my name will ensure you a spot.”
Since I could only be in so many places at once, I might also have him check into a few of Dean’s other girlfriends as well. “Much obliged.”
I was about to say goodbye, but he didn’t give me a chance.
“You really are flying solo, then?” he asked.
I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d told him the first time we’d spoken, but I’d likely been vague. “Entirely solo. I have a job at my parents’ firm waiting for me in DC if I want it, but I’m also considering…other options.”
That was the best I could do to keep from lying without also going into my whole complicated situation. Not only did I not want to share that with someone I’d never met, but it would have required divulging my weaknesses to a colleague. Not happening.
“I bet you’re thinking of starting your own firm, aren’t you?” Anderson said. “Expanding into new territory.”
Starting my own law firm would mean I’d be able to take on only the clients that I believed were innocent. Since those would be less frequent, I’d also be able to continue working at Sugarwood, as long as Stacey agreed to become assistant manager and shoulder the administrative work. When Mark and I had our own children, it’d allow me more time to spend with them. I didn’t want my kids spending more time at Grant and Megan’s house or at Elise’s house than they did at their own the way I’d spent more time in my Uncle Stan’s office growing up than I did with my parents.
Running my own firm didn’t give me a solution for my trouble speaking in the courtroom, though. I didn’t agree with my mom that I’d grow out of it in time. It wouldn’t be fair to clients to take them on and build a strong case, only to be unable to stick the landing in court.
A squeak sounded like Anderson was swiveling around in his chair. “Why don’t we grab a coffee someday next week? I could tell you about my experience, maybe answer some questions you might have. I imagine you weren’t alive when your parents were building their firm.”
Be careful, a voice whispered in the back of my head.
I promptly told it that was silly, and then wanted to smack myself for talking to and answering myself. There was nothing wrong with meeting another lawyer to talk shop, and maybe I should consider launching my own firm. It wasn’t any more outlandish than going back to work for my parents, and I was considering that.
Besides, I’d tell Mark about it so that everything was legitimate.
“That’d be a big help. Thanks. Where would you like to meet?”
***
I woke up on my couch the next morning to Velma eating maple syrup popcorn out of my hair. The case files were scattered on the floor beside me, many of the pages under her paws. I must have dropped them when I’d drifted off last night, and I’d been so tired that I hadn’t woken up enough to go to bed. Or to put the dogs in their crates, apparently.
I batted Velma away. The bowl I’d filled with the latest test batch of the maple syrup popcorn for Stacey’s baby shower lay empty on the cushion beside me. Velma must have started there, because the inside was still a bit moist.
I couldn’t blame her. This batch finally met my expectations. I’d take a sample that hadn’t been snuffled by a dog over to Stacey for her approval, but I finally had hope that the last detail for her shower might be ready.
I picked a piece of popcorn that Velma had overlooked off my phone and flipped it over. Five missed texts.
Yikes. It’d been a long time since I’d slept soundly enough to not even hear my text notifications. Mark said the fact that I’d been sleeping better the last few weeks was a good sign that I was starting to cope better with my PTSD. He might not think so if all the missed texts were from him.
The first was from Elise, asking if I thought she should tell Erik everything. She’d been feeling guilty. That one was an easy yes. If they were going to have a future together, she needed to trust him with everything, even the yucky parts of life.
Text two was from Anderson, letting me know his availability for our coffee business meeting next week. With the way this week was headed, it looked like I wasn’t going to be able to find a spot in my schedule until a week from Saturday.
One was a photo from Ahanti from her belated honeymoon, and another was from Mark telling me he might be hard to reach today—he had an autopsy to do and then he had to head to the next county. The medical examiner there wanted him to consult on some strange results. And could we postpone our lunch date since he needed to be out of town? The text ended with an apology since he knew I’d wanted help with this case.
The final text was from Russ. Stacey said no. Can u talk to her and try to change her mind?
I groaned and tossed the phone aside. Life would have been so much simpler if Stacey had just said yes. I wouldn’t try to change her mind if this wasn’t what she wanted, but I would go talk to her. Since she’d moved onto Sugarwood’s grounds, she’d become a bit like the little sister I’d never had. Setting aside the needs of Sugarwood and my own selfish interest in her learning the role of manager, I wanted to be sure she was making the choice that would be best for her long-term. Whatever that choice might be.
But I couldn’t go now. Stacey had this morning off for a doctor’s appointment, and I had my Skype interview with the prosecutor’s office this afternoon.
Since Mark wouldn’t be able to meet for lunch and cover the medical examiner’s report with me the way we’d planned, I might as well press ahead on Dean’s case.
Last night, I called the investigation company Anderson recommended, and one of their investigators was digging into Sandra and Dean’s finances. I couldn’t sit around and wait for him to call. In the meantime, my next logical step seemed to be to continue retracing the police’s steps by talking to Sandra’s sister since she was the one to discover Sandra’s body.
According to the case files, she worked at a garden center outside of the town where Dean lived.
The drive there gave me a lot of time to think and pray about whether Mark and I should stay in Fair Haven or move to DC, but I didn’t feel any closer to an answer when I arrived than when I’d set out.
I shoved the decision to the back of my mind as I got out of my car.
The image I’d conjured in my mind when I read garden center online didn’t match the reality at all. I’d thought it would be like the fenced-in room of plants that some of the major chain stores put in their parking lots in the summer in DC.
The parking lot was gravel and butted up to a building that looked a lot like a barn crossed with a warehouse. The large doors on the front were thrown open, and a teenage girl stood behind the counter. A line of six people stretched out in front of her. Behind her, inside the warehouse, packages of berries sat on wooden pallets like they were waiting to be transported to the grocery store.
I might have cut the line in DC to ask where I could find Nadine, Sandra’s sister. I knew better than to do it here.
I tucked in at the back, and when my turn came, the girl directed me to follow the gravel path until I reached the first greenhouse.
The greenhouse was half empty, showing the effects of the planting frenzy for pots and hanging baskets that must have happened in spring. Not many people would want to plant flowers in August, so the garden center wouldn’t have had any reason to replace their product. Most of
the plants I walked by had a yellow sticker on them, declaring them to be fifty percent off.
The place seemed empty except for a woman partway down, re-potting a plant with red flowers that I didn’t know the name of. As I walked up, she tucked a smaller pot inside a plastic bag and tied it loosely at the top. I couldn’t be sure of the purpose for it, but it looked like she was creating a mini-greenhouse around each cutting, probably to make it sprout better.
“Excuse me. Are you Nadine?”
She turned around with a surface-deep smile on her face. “What can I do to help you?”
I might not have seen how shallow her smile was if I wasn’t trained to notice small details. It was the smile of someone who was out of the initial shock of grief and who was now learning how to live again with a hole where someone important used to be. I knew from personal experience what a hard journey that was. At the start, smiling could feel awkward and disloyal.
And I was about to make it worse by asking her about Sandra. Assuming, of course, that she’d even talk to me once she found out who I was.
My dad would say I shouldn’t tell her, but the way she looked—like she just wanted to get through the day—made lying to her feel slimy. I was going to go with honesty. It wasn’t always the best policy, but it did make it easier to sleep at night.
Besides, she hadn’t killed Sandra. She was one town over, picking her daughter up from a party she wasn’t supposed to be at, during the time of death window. Her daughter confirmed it when the police checked with her. Nadine also had a gas station receipt still in her purse, and the waitress at the all-night coffee shop where she’d taken her daughter for a serious mother–daughter talk after picking her up vouched for her. They’d been there for hours.
“I’ll let you decide if you even want to help me once you know who I am,” I said. “I’m defense council for Dean Scott.”
Angry disbelief flashed across her face, like she thought I was playing a cruel trick on her. Straight anger quickly replaced it. “I have no reason to help someone who’s defending Dean. I gave my statement to the police, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have to talk to you.”
Based on her reaction, I’d have to ask that she be treated as a hostile witness in court. “You’ll have to answer my questions at trial, but you don’t right now. I’m still hoping you will. Dean says he didn’t kill Sandra.”
Nadine snorted. “Of course he does.” She turned around and shoved a plant into the new pot so hard I thought it might snap.
Definitely a hostile witness.
Now’s when you lie to her, the voice inside my head that sounded suspiciously like my dad said.
I blew a mental raspberry at it. There had to be a way to win her over without lying to her.
I moved to the end of the table. I wasn’t directly in front of her, making myself seem confrontational. I wasn’t behind her, either. She could look at me if she wanted, but she didn’t have to. It should allow her to feel safe and in control.
“You don’t know me, so I understand why you wouldn’t want to answer any of my questions. To you, I’m someone who’s trying to strip away the one thing your sister has left—justice for what happened to her. But I’m picky in my clients. I only work with people who are innocent. If you can convince me that Dean killed your sister, he’ll have to find himself a different lawyer.”
Her hands stilled, her fingers partly buried in the dirt. “All I have to do is convince you?”
“That’s it.”
She turned from the pot, dragged a stool over, and sat. “I still feel like this might be a trick to get me to answer your questions.”
I’d have wondered about her if she didn’t. If she’d been ready to convince me without any skepticism, I probably wouldn’t have believed anything she told me. It could have all been lies made up to get me to drop Dean as a client.
Her continued reluctance meant she wanted to share the truth, but was worried it wouldn’t be enough. She wasn’t sure she wanted to risk helping Dean.
“It’s not a trick,” I said. “You can stop at any time or refuse to answer any questions I have. Is there somewhere else you’d rather talk, or do you need to ask your boss for a short break?”
Her mouth moved at the corners like a real smile wanted to break through. “I own this place. My husband and I do, I mean. So I don’t think my boss will mind.”
It seemed strange that Sandra would be working at a gas station when her sister and brother-in-law owned a garden center. Dean had said she volunteered here, but they clearly had employees. Why wouldn’t they have simply hired her? If she had a tendency to steal from her employers, that could have gotten her killed. It was a long shot, but Dean wasn’t the easiest client to defend. I had to take every shot I could get.
“How about we start with something easy, then? I’m trying to get a better idea of Sandra’s life. Would you mind telling me why she didn’t work for you?”
“She did.” Nadine pulled the pot toward her and pressed the dirt down tighter, as if the feel of it comforted her. “For years. She was the last full-time employee we let go. We’ve been struggling to bounce back from a few challenges, and Sandra needed a full-time job. It broke both our hearts.” She shrugged. “Life does that sometimes.”
It sounded like Sandra did like plants. Dean had said she didn’t. I suspected he didn’t know his wife as well as he thought.
I brushed my fingers along the leaves of the newly potted plant. “Did Sandra have your green thumb?”
Nadine touched the leaf I’d brushed moments before. “Not really. She didn’t spend any time here in the greenhouses. She worked with the pick-your-own fruits. I think she liked talking to the people who’d come to pick.” She wiped at her face, leaving a streak of dirt behind. “I don’t see what that has to do with the case, though.”
I’d forgotten about the case. “It doesn’t directly. But I like to remember that cases aren’t just cases. They’re about people.”
She nodded. Her shoulders hunched forward slightly, and she’d swiveled to face me. She crushed in her fist the bag she’d been about to slide the plant into. “I guess you probably want to know about how I found her.”
My knees locked. I’d planned to come around to that at the end, but if Nadine wanted it out of the way now, we’d talk about it now. It seemed like she felt more comfortable being in charge, anyway, rather than letting me lead the conversation.
I might have been, too, if I were in her place. I wouldn’t have wanted to risk the conversation going in directions I didn’t want it to. Not that I couldn’t be sure those were her motives.
“It would help me to understand, yes.”
She wrapped her hands around the pot and drew it close. “I’d been calling Sandra for a few hours. She’d volunteered to come early in the morning and help pick blueberries.” She pointed back over her shoulder. “You probably noticed we sell pre-picked baskets out front for people who don’t want to do it themselves and for a deal we have with other fruit stands in the county.”
She stopped abruptly. I moved another stool over. This story would be hard for her. I didn’t want her to feel rushed because I was standing, hovering. If I sat, it should help her feel like she could take whatever time she needed.
“I don’t remember how many times I tried to call her, but it was a lot. Sandra always answers my calls. I got worried.”
The statement she’d given the police said she’d walked past Dean sleeping on the couch, so he hadn’t let her in when she arrived. At least if the door hadn’t been locked, I could argue the murderer sneaked in quietly enough not to wake him. “Was the door unlocked when you got there?”
She shook her head. “I have a spare key.”
Crap. Now I had to explain how a random intruder or serial killer had not only murdered Sandra while her husband slept downstairs, but also how he broke into a locked door without leaving any marks or making any noise or getting spotted by the neighbors.
“Dean was on the co
uch, snoring and smelling like a still.” Nadine’s upper lip twitched as if she could smell him again. “I thought maybe Sandra was sick and he was too wasted to take care of her.”
She shook her head in that really slow way people have when their minds still don’t want to accept the truth.
“When you entered the room, did it look like there’d been a struggle?” I asked gently.
She shook her head. “Sandra was on the bed…I knew…”
She pressed a hand over her mouth.
A rock settled in at the bottom of my throat. It felt cruel to push her for details I could see in the pictures about what Sandra looked like.
I’d come at it a different way. “Did you notice anything strange? Anything that stood out to you?”
I immediately wanted to grab my words back. The strangest thing in the room would have been her dead sister.
Her eyes glassed over. “I don’t remember. Sandra was there. I knew it was her even though I couldn’t see her face. She was so still.” She jumped from the stool and backed a step away. “I can’t. Maybe some other time, but I can’t right now. I have to work.”
I slid from the stool. I’d found bodies before, and it’d been hard enough even when they weren’t family. “It’s okay. I’ll come back another time.”
She dipped her head. “Call first. I’ll answer more questions, but now isn’t a good time, so call first.”
Hopefully that wasn’t her way of saying don’t call us, we’ll call you.
10
The next morning, I packaged up the maple syrup popcorn and headed for Stacey’s house. Since hiring on, she’d taken over the two-bedroom house that used to belong to Noah. Sugarwood’s grounds had three houses on it—mine, Russ’, and Stacey’s. Part of her salary was that she didn’t pay rent, only her utilities.
I knocked on her door, and my phone rang in my purse. I pulled it out. The name on the screen belonged to the investigative company I’d hired on Anderson’s recommendation.
Worst possible timing.
