“Oh,” I said.
“Listen, I don’t know what goes on in your head. But this idea that I don’t see you clearly is nuts.”
“But—”
“No, it’s crazy. I checked out this honeymoon-period business. If you think for a second I didn’t have your number from the moment we met, then you don’t think much of me as a cop.”
“Of course I do, but—”
“Yes, I’m a law-and-order guy. That’s my job. And keeping an eye on my parents has made me more conscious of lists and schedules and all the other things that come with helping out two people who are having a harder time taking care of themselves. These are the things I do. But they’re not all of who I am. You and Charlene . . .” He shook his head. “You’re controlled chaos. Honestly, I don’t know how you manage this pie shop so well and find time to dangle from statues of Spanish monks. But the fact that you can do it all gives me hope. I want there to be more to my life than work and elder care. That’s not some romantic delusion. It’s you, helping bring something into my world that I didn’t even realize I was looking for or needed.”
My heart expanded. “Really?” I laid my hand on his chest. The fabric of his navy suit jacket was between us, but I could feel his heart beating.
“Really.”
I grimaced. “Then I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Because it looks like I was the one with the delusions,” I said. “I’ve been so worried about repeating my past mistake with Mark that I guess I didn’t trust myself to see things clearly. And then I blamed you for being guilty of exactly the same thing.”
He grinned. “I forgive you.”
“But—”
“Controlled chaos, remember?” He pulled me close and kissed me again, warming me in all sorts of places.
“I need to get back to crowd control,” he finally said when we moved apart.
“Yeah. And me. The kitchen.” My brain was spinning too fast for complete sentences. I’d like to think this is why I didn’t tell Gordon about the latest info Charlene and I had uncovered and intuited. But the reality was, I wasn’t sure how to tell him about the human resources files without getting Ray and Henrietta into trouble. Or if they actually meant anything.
“Oh,” I said. “Wait.”
He paused, one hand on the office door, and raised a brow.
“I was taking another look at Starke’s poem, which is probably Aidan’s story, since Starke wasn’t at the college when Theresa Keller died.”
He released the doorknob and folded his arms. “Go on,” he said cautiously.
“I was doing a close reading—”
“A what?”
“It’s when you analyze a work of literature by picking apart every word and line. And I think it’s saying that someone—Theresa, I think—was killed in the college parking lot, and then her car and body dumped over the cliff. That would explain the lack of skid marks, wouldn’t it?”
“How do you get she was killed at the college?”
I explained about the poem, and what Abril, Charlene, and I had deduced.
He nodded. “Okay. What else?”
Wasn’t it enough? “Um, that’s all. But Starke wasn’t working at the college when Theresa died. Aidan, however, was. So, when he accused Starke of stealing at the poetry reading, that’s probably what he meant. Professor Starke had stolen his story.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You think it’s ridiculous,” I said, disappointed.
He sighed. “It’s speculation. I can’t base an arrest on this. And even if it is true, it doesn’t tell us who killed Michael Starke and Aidan McClary.”
I opened my mouth and closed it just as quickly. In my gut, I did know. But I couldn’t say that, because Gordon needed evidence, not instincts.
“But thanks for letting me know,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“But why kill Theresa Keller?” he asked. “That’s what we’re saying, right? That the same person who killed Theresa killed the two professors to cover it up?”
I bit my lip. “Yeah, I heard a . . . rumor that she might have been involved with one of her students too. Like Starke was.”
Gordon’s emerald eyes narrowed. “Where did you hear this?”
“Around?”
“Who’s Around?”
“Look,” I said, speaking rapidly, “I can’t tell you. But if you get a warrant to take a look at the college personnel files, I’ll bet you’ll find something interesting in Theresa’s.”
“Val—”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know how I got this information.”
“Okay. I do trust you.” His phone buzzed in his jacket’s inside pocket. He pulled it out and checked the screen. “I’ve got to go.” He pressed his lips to my forehead and walked out.
Smiling, I stared at the slowly closing office door. It hadn’t been the sexiest goodbye kiss, but we were okay.
I leaned against the metal desk. I needed evidence. Fine. I had lots of puzzle pieces. It was time to assemble them.
Taking a yellow pad from a desk drawer, I drew three columns with the names of the murder victims at the top of each. I listed the suspects down one side. If I could logic this out, maybe I could prove my theory.
The office door swooshed open, and Petronella stuck her head in. “I saw Gordon leave. Is everything okay?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t it be?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because you’re in here, and things are crazy out there.”
I dropped my pen, and my cheeks heated. Once again, I’d abandoned my team. “Sorry. I’m coming.” I hurried into the restaurant and spent the next four hours racing around like a madwoman.
At some point, Charlene vanished, like she usually did in the afternoons.
No riots broke out inside or outside Pie Town, and I started to relax. We were selling pie and making news and managing to feed everyone. Maybe this would turn out okay?
“Val?” Doran said from behind me.
I jumped, and the plate swayed in my hands. Blowing out a slow breath, I steadied the dish and glanced over my shoulder. “Let me deliver this to the table.” I walked the pecan pie slice to a two-top, retrieved the plastic number tent, and returned to Doran. “Hey.”
“Hey.” My brother jammed his fists in the pockets of his black leather jacket and looked out at me from beneath his shock of black hair. “So. I guess I overreacted.”
“No. I mean—”
He laughed shortly. “I did. But . . . there’s something I haven’t told you.”
“Oh?” I took a step backward and bumped against the Dutch door.
“There’s just been a lot happening really fast. Discovering I had a sister. That business with dad. Moving here . . .”
“I know. And part of that’s my fault. I was so excited to learn I wasn’t alone, that maybe I was pushing this relationship too hard.”
“Look, he said, “can we talk in private?”
“Sure. But I’ve got to be quick.” I led him into my office. “What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing bad. I mean, I hope you won’t think it’s bad.”
“What?”
“The thing I didn’t tell you.”
“Is . . . ?”
“My mom wants to come to San Nicholas and meet you.”
“Oh.” His mom? My heart thumped unevenly. His mother and I weren’t related. Why would she want to meet me?
“Yeah. I know. Crazy, right? I’ve told her not to, but you know—” He shook his head. “No, you don’t know my mom. Look, I thought if I left, maybe she’d back off. But she’s determined to meet her . . . stepdaughter.”
“Step . . . ?” I blinked. I was a stepdaughter? But I already had a mother. She’d passed on, but . . . I scrubbed one hand across my face, realized what I was doing, and rubbed it on my apron. “Oh.”
“I know. Look. She means well. I’ll see what I can do, but the bottom line is, I can�
�t control her.” He smiled. “I’m not sure I’d want to try.”
“No. It’s okay.” I shook my head. A stepmom. I could deal with a new relative. “Wait. So, the reason you wanted to leave San Nicholas was to avoid your mom?”
“No, it was because things felt like they were getting too complicated. And it is expensive here.”
I blew out a breath. Wasn’t that the truth. “Tell me about it.” I hated what I had to charge for pie.
“But I could always raise my rates.”
“Yeah! I mean, I’d love it if you stayed. And I promise not to be so in-your-face about us.”
He laughed hollowly. “Oh, don’t worry. Once you meet my mom, well, you’ll see.”
I felt myself blanch. I’ll see? What did that mean?
I guess I’d see.
“Oh, and about Abril,” I said. “Look, I think she might really be interested in you.”
He grinned. “I know. We went out last night.”
“You what?” Lightly, I punched him in the arm of his leather jacket. “That’s fantastic! But if you hurt her, I’m dumping you as a brother. Seriously.”
His dusky skin turned a shade darker. “I won’t. Don’t worry.”
I glanced down at my desk and frowned at the blank yellow pad.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“My notepad. I’d made some notes on the top page, but the sheet is gone.”
“Was it important?”
“Well, no. I mean, I didn’t get to finish . . .” My stomach rolled. I grabbed a pencil from the desk. Angling it nearly parallel to the paper, I brushed the lead across the page. Words in familiar handwriting emerged.
“Cool,” Doran said. “That old detective trick.”
“Not cool,” I croaked. “Charlene finished my chart. She figured it out.”
She’d gone to confront a killer.
CHAPTER 31
Grabbing my phone from my apron pocket, I called Charlene.
Voicemail.
I paced in front of my desk. “Charlene, where are you? I’m worried. Call me.”
The wall clock above the supply shelf ticked away the seconds while I called Gordon. Again, I got stuck with voicemail.
“Gordon, it’s Val. I think Charlene’s gone to confront the killer.” Hastily, I explained and hung up, dropping the phone on my desk.
“What can I do?” Doran asked.
“Gordon’s somewhere in that crowd of demonstrators on Main Street. Find him and tell him what’s happened. Give him this.” I handed him the yellow pad. “He may need it.”
“What are you going to do?”
I grabbed my keys and purse off the metal bookcase. “Find Charlene.” She’d let Marla get under her skin about the pie tins. I really wanted to think she wouldn’t do anything crazy—at least, not without me. But this was Charlene.
Doran nodded and bolted out the door.
I followed him into the restaurant. “Petronella, it’s an emergency. You’re going to have to manage without me.”
The regulars at the counter leaned forward, peering around the register.
Petronella’s near-black brows curved downward. “Sure, boss. Is everything okay?”
“It’s Charlene,” I said.
The regulars nodded wisely.
Hustling through the kitchen, I leapt into my van in the alley. I roared to the end of the alley and screeched to a halt when a group of UFOnauts waving picket signs marched in front of me.
Moving more slowly, I took the back streets to the edge of town and promptly landed in a traffic jam on Highway One.
“Come on, come on.” I pounded the wheel and inched forward. But there was only one way out of San Nicholas and to the college, and I was on it.
Teeth grinding, I made it to the traffic light for the Ninety-Two, and I turned east. Cars crawled along the winding, forested road, past pumpkin farms and wineries. Finally, we gained another lane. I roared forward, my pink, sixties-era van lurching past more sedate Teslas and Camaros.
On the other side of the hill, I got stuck again in a winding section and a twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit.
Finally, the road straightened, and I was flying past the reservoirs and onto a genuine freeway. I was only five miles from the college, but I hauled ass, screeching into the college’s parking lot.
My stomach bottomed. Charlene’s yellow Jeep sat in the visitors’ lot near the English department. “Dammit, Charlene!”
Springing from the van, I slammed the door shut and sprinted toward the modern building’s glass doors.
A student on a bike whizzed past. I skidded to keep from slamming into him, and stumbled onto the lawn beside the bell tower.
“Nice pie!” the bicyclist shouted. He grinned over his shoulder.
“What? Watch where you’re going!” I looked down, realized I was still wearing my Pie Town apron, didn’t care.
I raced inside the building. Dodging students in the wide corridor, I found the office I was looking for. I rattled the doorknob.
Locked.
If Charlene wasn’t here, where was she?
I stopped a girl carrying an armful of books. “Have you seen an elderly woman in a purple tunic and striped leggings?”
“Oh, yeah. I saw her headed outside, to the parking—”
I ran down the hallway and pushed through the glass doors. Charlene, where are you? I jogged into the lot and turned in circles in the shadow of the bell tower.
A horn blared. I jumped out of the way of a red Honda Fit.
A flash of purple tunic vanished into the bell tower on the opposite lawn.
“Charlene!” I raced to the sidewalk and across the lawn.
The door to the bell tower slowly drifted closed. I grabbed its handle before it could shut, and I raced into a cool, concrete stairwell.
Footsteps sounded above me.
I bit back a shout. Charlene had huffed and puffed her way onto Tally Wally’s roof. She wouldn’t be climbing a bell tower willingly.
I sent a text to Gordon. FOLLOWING CHARLENE UP BELL TOWER. SHE’S NOT ALONE.
Dropping my phone into my apron pocket, I tiptoed up the stairs.
“You won’t get away with this,” she gasped above me. Her footsteps slowed.
“You think people won’t believe you fell attempting your stupid pie-tin stunt?” a man’s voice asked. “Move!”
I gripped the railing and felt the blood drain from my face. Pie tins? Fall? She’d brought a pie-tin UFO to confront a murder suspect?
“Everyone,” she panted, “knows . . . I use Val . . . for the heavy . . . lifting.”
“Do they? I rather doubt that.”
I tiptoed higher.
“But Frederick!” She wheezed. “He’s innocent.”
“I’m not a monster. I wouldn’t kill your cat. Er, you’re sure he’s alive?”
“He’s got narcolepsy!”
“Cat’s can get narcolepsy? That doesn’t seem likely.”
“And he’s deaf.”
“I’ve heard that about white cats,” he said. “I wonder what the connection is between deafness and white fur?”
“Let’s go downstairs and . . . check the Internet,” she said. “I’m sure . . . we can find the answer.”
He chuckled. “I do regret killing you. You’re excellent at your job, and the random knowledge in your head is worthy of a modern college course. Unfortunately, most modern courses are useless garbage. The Sociology of Harry Potter. The Philosophy of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. On Being Bored. Those are all courses they tried to weasel into the English department.”
“No Stargate? Now that’s a show worthy of analysis.”
“Never heard of it,” he said.
“I need to stop. My heart.”
My head jerked upward. Was this a delaying tactic, or was her heart pain real? My hand moved to my phone. I tried to quiet my breathing.
“You’re having a heart attack?” he asked. “Even better. Falls from this height can
be so messy. I imagine the college would have to hire a special cleaning crew.”
“I knew there was something wrong . . . with you from the very beginning,” Charlene said.
“Nice view, isn’t it?” he asked. “I like to come up here at night.”
“You would.”
My fingers brushed across my phone’s screen. I pocketed it and hurried to the next landing. Charlene and her captor must be at the top of the bell tower now. I was one level beneath.
Whatever the killer was up to—throwing Charlene from the bell tower?—it was going to happen soon.
Crouching, I crept up the stairs.
And came face-to-face with the wrong end of a gun.
“Ah,” Dean Prophet said. “Val Harris. I thought you might be joining us.”
CHAPTER 32
Charlene’s pie-tin UFO clattered to the cement floor, and my heart seemed to stop.
“Hey, Dean Prophet.” I waved limply. It was hard to play casual when there was a gun in my face.
Rectangles of light streamed through the bell tower’s narrow concrete windows, open to the air. Sunshine glinted off the bells, high in the center of the room and protected by a plexiglass shield that went to the floor. Beneath the bells sat an unmanned keyboard.
Charlene leaned, wheezing, against the stair railing.
I took a step toward her.
“No,” the dean said, raising the gun higher. “Stay where you are, please.” Beneath his jacket, his V-neck sweater strained against his gut. And to think I’d once thought him jolly.
“What’s going on?” My insides curdled.
He scratched his neatly trimmed beard. “Honestly? You can’t figure it out?”
“Okay,” I said, stalling. “You’re trying to kill Charlene, because she figured out you killed Starke and Aidan. You also killed Theresa all those years ago.”
“And now you, of course.” He adjusted his glasses.
“And now me,” I said weakly. “But you don’t have to.”
“No,” he said, “it does sort of go against my theme.”
Charlene raised a finger, as if to interject, then pressed her hand to her chest.
“Your theme?” I edged toward Charlene. Gordon must have gotten my text. He’d be here soon, and he’d have called the campus cops as well. All I needed was time. “You mean covering up Theresa Keller’s murder?”
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