by Emily James
“Nope. Which is why I didn’t blurt it out the first day you started nosing around.”
A timer went off in the kitchen.
Russ got up. “Hang on a sec. That’ll be the pork roast.”
An image of Russ grabbing a carving knife and disposing of me as well flashed across my mind. I shook my head. Some parts of my personality at least made me well-suited to being a lawyer. I apparently did suspect everyone.
Russ returned with a massive serving platter filled with tender-looking pork, potatoes, and carrots. He laid it in the middle of the table.
I eyed him sideways. “You always cook a meal for eight, or were you expecting someone else tonight?”
He laughed. “I hate cooking, so I make enough for leftovers.”
His maple-glazed pork roast had the perfect amount of sweetness and zing. It didn’t overwhelm my taste buds with sugar. We spent the next few minutes filling our stomachs and talking about more pleasant things.
But I couldn’t let it go. “It’d help me a lot if you explained this a bit more.”
He eased his chair back from the table. “What good would it do me to kill Stan when we didn’t have the agreement signed yet?”
He didn’t sound angry at all, not like the first time. Maybe it was because I was only asking about him and not about other people.
“I certainly don’t benefit at all from his death now.” Russ stacked our bowls. “And you might as easily have come up here and fired me, bringing in your own people. Or sold the place and left me working for someone who’d mismanage it and run it into the ground. I’d be an idiot to kill Stan with no signatures on that paper.”
“Most people aren’t thinking clearly when they kill someone. You might have done it out of anger.”
He shook his head and shrugged. “Ask around town about me then. Anyone who knows me’ll tell you it’d take a whole lot more than that to make me kill anyone, let alone Stan. Dessert?”
I’d let the matter drop for now. I wasn’t any more convinced than when the conversation started that Russ killed Uncle Stan.
But tomorrow, when I picked up my car and swung by to get Fay for my tour, I’d see what she knew about what Russ and Uncle Stan could have disagreed about strongly enough that it would make best friends not speak to each other for weeks.
Chapter Eleven
When Tony at Quantum Mechanics handed me my car keys, I actually considered kissing the hood of my car. Or him. Or both.
Then I reminded myself that gossip travels faster than electricity in this town. I took the keys and drove toward Fay’s house.
My phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize. I put it through my car’s Bluetooth. “Nicole Fitzhenry-Dawes.”
“This is Chief Carl Wilson.”
My hands shook a little, and I tightened them around the wheel. Maybe I wouldn’t have to keep investigating. Maybe he’d solved the case. “Do you have news on my uncle’s murder?”
“What?” Confusion laced his words. “Oh. That. No, I’m calling because you were supposed to pick Fay up to tour Fair Haven.”
My GPS told me to turn left. “I’m on my way, so if she was worried, I’ll be there in just a minute. It took longer to get my car than I thought it would.”
“Actually, I’m calling because Fay isn’t feeling well enough to go out today. You’ll have to reschedule.”
Before I could ask him if there was anything I could do for her, he hung up. Which was kind of rude.
I kept following the GPS directions. I was so close to their house now that I might as well swing by. Fay couldn’t go out, but perhaps she wanted some company or a gofer to pick up something for her. It must be horrible to be trapped in your home, scared and frustrated.
I parked in their driveway and made my way up to the front door.
Chief Wilson’s police cruiser sat in the driveway beside my car, so I should be okay to ring the bell. If it hadn’t been here, I might have stuck my head in the door and asked Fay if I could come in so she wouldn’t have to get up.
I reached for the doorbell, and the door swung open.
Chief Wilson’s mouth drooped and he frowned. He was dressed in his uniform.
I held up a hand. “I know you said she’s not feeling up to taking a ride around town, but I wanted to see if there was some way I could help.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “I don’t want her tired out by—”
“Ask her in,” a strained version of Fay’s voice said from somewhere behind him. “Then you don’t have to feel guilty about leaving me to go to work.”
Chief Wilson grunted and stepped aside.
Once I was inside, I spotted Fay in the living room recliner, her feet up and what looked like a handmade quilt spread over her. Her face had a distinctive gray pallor.
I knelt beside her chair and took one of her hands in mine. It was like holding ice. I chuffed her hand a little to warm it up. “I know I don’t like to be alone when I’m not feeling well. I thought you might be the same.”
She blinked rapidly. “I hate feeling this way.”
Chief Wilson kissed Fay on the forehead. “I’ll be home at the usual time.”
She nodded.
His heavy footsteps faded away, and the click of the front door finally muffled them completely.
I got to my feet. “How about something warm to drink? Tea?”
“Chamomile.” Fay leaned her head back. “I don’t want to risk anything with caffeine. I probably brought this on myself. I had a second cup of coffee this morning. I should know better.” She tapped her chest gently. “Caffeine and heart conditions don’t mix.”
I’d guessed as much when I found only decaf in Uncle Stan’s cupboards this morning. I needed to make a grocery run later today and stock up since I planned to stay for a while. A girl cannot live on decaf alone. At least not this girl.
I put her kettle on the stove. Did you add something to herbal teas or drink them straight? “Milk and sugar?” I called back.
Liz’s laugh told me I had it all wrong. “Honey and lemon. There should be a lemon in the fridge.”
I stuck my head in her fridge and poked around in search of the lemon. A bottle toppled over and I caught it before it rolled off the shelf. Beaver’s Tail beer again. If it was any good, I should buy a six-pack to take home to my dad, help smooth things over. He loved trying out regional beers from microbreweries.
I carried the bottle out into the living room and held it up. “Is this any good?”
Fay made a face. “Oh heavens no. You don’t want to drink that. It’s awful stuff. The only people who actually drink it are tourists looking for the best buzz they can get without breaking the law.”
My mind spun with questions. If this beer was so bad that only tourists drank it, then why did Uncle Stan, Russ, and Carl all have bottles in their fridge? Someone had planted the bottles in Uncle Stan’s fridge, and I had to assume the only person with a reason to do that would be the person who forced him to drink it.
Right now, I didn’t like where the options for who that person was were pointing.
I made sure my voice came out level and casual. “Do you keep it in your fridge as a conversation piece then?”
Fay tucked her blanket in more tightly around her legs. “Carl bought a few six-packs during the investigation. He couldn’t bring home any logged in as actual evidence, but he wanted to do some extra research into the contents himself.”
The kettle whistled. I ducked back into the kitchen, prepared Fay’s tea, and put some of the sugar cookies from the other day onto a plate as well in case she felt like a snack.
After I set her up with a TV table, I dropped onto the seat of the couch nearest her. “Your husband was investigating beer?”
Fay actually smiled. Talking did seem to be taking her mind off of how poorly she felt. Which was a good thing, since otherwise I wouldn’t have felt right about pestering her. When I’d made my original plan to question her about the small town gossip su
rrounding Russ and Uncle Stan’s falling out, I hadn’t counted on her health taking a dip.
“He was investigating Beaver Tail Brewery,” Fay said. “Someone accused them of producing beer with a dangerously high caffeine content. Since this is a tourist town, Carl didn’t want to take any chances. He shut them down until he could be sure the beer was safe.”
I crossed my legs to keep from bouncing on my seat like a little kid. On my first day in town, hadn’t someone at The Chop Shop been talking about a local brewer who was in trouble with the law again? I didn’t technically have a connection to Uncle Stan yet, so I’d need more information, but a man with a history of legal trouble seemed like someone it would be reasonable to check out. And I liked thinking about him as a suspect a lot more than I liked thinking about Russ as a suspect.
It was the middle of the afternoon by the time I left Fay and headed for The Chop Shop. If the small-town gossip mill was as well-developed as everyone claimed it was, I should be able to find out at least a bit of useful information about Beaver Tail Brewers there before I went barging up to the owner and asking questions about his relationship with Uncle Stan.
I paused outside The Chop Shop’s doorway. The only problem with this plan was that it required me to have my hair cut. I kept my hair long for a reason. It had zero volume, and that meant my two favorite hairstyles were ponytails and a French twist. If I cut it off, I’d be out of luck.
But hair grew back. People didn’t.
I pushed open the door. The same little boy as before camped out in the corner. Today’s toys were a multi-colored collection of blocks that he seemed to be building into a fort.
Unlike the first day I’d come, the place seemed deserted.
“You’re too late,” the little boy said. “Today is close-early day.”
Most hairdressers I knew stayed closed on Mondays since they were open Saturdays, but I’d never heard of one closing early on Tuesdays. “What’s close-early day?”
His tongue stuck out a little as he worked to balance another brick on a precariously high corner tower. “When tourists aren’t coming in, we close early on Tuesdays because all the regular customers go to Bingo at five o’clock.”
I swallowed down a little snort. “Do you think your mom would make an exception for me?”
It wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped for, but maybe this would actually work out better. I wouldn’t have the benefit of all the local gossips, but I could talk one-on-one with Liz, and perhaps she’d be more open with her opinions than she would have been in a group setting.
“I think I can make an exception just this once,” Liz’s voice said from behind me.
I tried to turn around, but only managed to lose my balance and flop down onto my bottom. Liz covered her mouth with her hand.
I picked myself up and brushed off my bottom. “It’s okay. You can laugh. I’m pretty much the clumsiest person on the planet, much to my mother’s dismay and embarrassment.”
Liz moved her hand, revealing a grin. “Let me lock the door and switch the sign so I don’t end up with any more walk-ins on close-early day.” She winked at me. “Derek looks forward to close-early day because we have time to play before supper.”
Liz washed my hair and set me up in a chair while we made the regular get-to-know-you small talk.
“So what would you like done today?” she finally asked.
I glanced at her reflection in the mirror in front of me. She had the kind of hair I’d always wanted—dark, thick, and curly. My own hair was more like a flattened mouse. “I’d ask if you could give me more body and curl, but I’d been there before and it was a disaster.”
“One thing I’ve discovered since becoming a stylist is that women with straight hair envy women with curly hair, and women with curly hair envy women with straight hair.” She caught my gaze in the mirror. “We’re never happy just being us. Somehow I don’t think guys have these problems.”
“Probably not,” I said.
“How about you trust me to give you a cut that’ll look great on you?”
I don’t know that I’d ever trusted any hairdresser to be able to do that, but nothing she could do would be worse than the other cuts I’d had before. The last stylist convinced me that I needed a change in color. Not everyone looks good as a blonde, let me tell you.
But what I said was, “Sure. I’ll trust you.”
Liz set to work. “So I hear you’ve decided to stay in Fair Haven.”
The first long strand of hair fell to the ground and I closed my eyes. It was now or never to start poking around. “I’m considering it. I’m a little concerned about how much crime there might be. I’m single, so I’d be living alone out on the edge of town.”
Liz let out a puff of air. “Don’t believe everything you hear about tourist towns. You’re probably safer here than you are in whatever city you came from.”
Liz’s scissors fell silent.
I opened my eyes. She was looking at my hair with the same expression Derek had worn when trying to balance that last block, even down to the tip of her tongue peeking out between her lips.
I stayed perfectly still. “I’ve been hearing rumors about a brewery near here and problems with the police.”
“That’s just Jason.” Her scissors went to work again, and she glanced over at where Derek played. “Jason and I dated in high school. That’s how I ended up a single mom. He’s an idiot, but he’s otherwise harmless.”
If I’d actually been worried about crime in Fair Haven, that pronouncement would have made me happy. But harmless wasn’t how I was hoping to hear him described. If he was harmless and hadn’t been behind Uncle Stan’s murder, than that left me back with Russ again.
Then again, I couldn’t simply take Liz’s word for it. Her past history with him might be clouding her judgment. “You’re sure? I heard he had a history of violence.”
Hopefully she wouldn’t ask me who I’d heard it from since I highly doubted making up a person for my made up lie would work.
“That was just the one time. He took a crowbar to my car. But it worked out for me in the end because I got full custody of Jason.”
She swiveled my chair around so I wasn’t facing the mirror and turned on the blow dryer, effectively stopping any conversation, but what I’d heard was enough. Jason the Brewer was back on my list of suspects.
After a few minutes, Liz spun me back around. “What do you think?”
I blinked and rubbed my eyes. That was not my hair. It couldn’t possibly be my hair. It looked…amazing. It had body. “Holy crap. How’d you do that?”
Liz grinned. “I’ll write down the instructions for you. Best part is that it shouldn’t take you more than five minutes to style when you get out of the shower.”
I drove back to Uncle Stan’s house—now my house—trying not to think about what Mark would say if he could see me now. Then I dove back into sorting through Uncle Stan’s belongings.
I must have fallen asleep because I woke up with a kink in my neck, a queasy stomach, and smelling natural gas.
Chapter Twelve
I stumbled to my feet, but the world spun around me and my stomach rolled. Every step felt like the floor tipped under me in a different direction.
How long I had been breathing this in? The smell, like a mix of rotten eggs and skunk, was strong, but didn’t they make it that way on purpose so you’d know in time if you had a leak? What happened to Uncle Stan’s carbon monoxide detectors? Back when he lived in Virginia, he was the kind of man who changed his fire alarm batteries with the twice-yearly time change and had not one but two carbon monoxide detectors in his thousand-square-foot apartment.
I focused on dragging my mind back from the rabbit trails it wanted to run down. Had to be the effect of the gas.
I couldn’t remember if I was supposed to open a window if I smelled gas or if I was supposed to leave the house and call the gas company. My brain felt fuzzy, like someone took an eraser to it. I picked up my pur
se and headed for the stairs. I wasn’t going to risk taking the time to open a window. I needed to get out.
I tripped over my own feet and caught myself on the railing, inches from tumbling head-first down the stairs.
One step at a time. I reached the bottom.
It was dark outside. Dark in the house. But I didn’t dare turn on any lights.
I ran my shin into something, and pain spiraled up my leg.
The door had to be somewhere to the left. I limped toward it and groped around until I located the doorknob. It didn’t budge.
My heart punched up into my throat. Don’t let it be stuck. Don’t let it be stuck.
I tugged again, straining all the muscles in my back. Wait. It couldn’t be stuck. I’d come in through this door a few hours ago. Had I locked it?
I felt for the lock switch and turned it. I wrenched the knob again. This time the door flew open easily and I half raced, half fell out the door and into the yard. I left the door hanging open behind me.
I gulped in breaths of air so cold it burned down into my lungs. My coat was inside, but I wasn’t going back for it.
I glanced behind me, barely able to make out the bulk of the house. Dark clouds blocked out all but the tiniest sliver of light from the moon.
My head started to clear, and my teeth chattered. I still felt too close. I backed up right to the edge of the trees and took out my phone, dialing 9-1-1.
The dispatcher assured me she was sending help. She wanted me to stay on the line, but my hands shook so hard I couldn’t hold the phone. I accidentally dropped it, and the call disconnected.
The eerie darkness closed in on me, along with a sense of absolute vulnerability. I wrapped my arms around my waist. Somehow I needed to focus my mind on something other than the fact that I could have died and that I was alone out here. Nothing came to mind, so I recited the Constitution just to hear my own voice.
In less than five minutes, flashing lights zoomed up the drive way, and I waved an arm at the approaching vehicles. Soon I was wrapped in a blanket in the back of an ambulance, while a paramedic examined me.
