by J. C. Kenney
“Your dad and I raised you to do three things. Make good choices, think for yourself, and follow your heart.” She pulled me into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you. Try not to end up in the hospital again, okay? My heart can’t take that.”
“I’ll try my best.”
We returned to the game in time to see one of the Aces score a goal to tie the score at one. Later, Theresa got another chance at a goal. This time her shot was true, and, after a few nail-biting minutes and an amazing save by the Aces’ goalkeeper, the team in blue took the victory.
It was a wonderful way to end a difficult day. There was a new Greek restaurant in town, so Sloane and Luke invited me to join them for dinner so we could check it out. We stopped by the library to get Brent and chose a cozy booth close to a fireplace.
The burning logs in the hearth created a relaxing ambiance and took the edge off the chill from standing outside, cheering on the kids. In the mood to unwind, I ordered a bottle of wine and artichoke dip for an appetizer.
“Are you going to order our entrees, too?” Sloane stuck her tongue out at me.
“I’m transitioning to take-charge mode, my friend. It’s what we superheroes do.” I crinkled up my nose at her, grateful for our special friendship. Her free-spiritedness was good for my soul. I was a lucky woman.
While we dined, Sloane caught us up on her latest trail-running exploits. She’d finished second in her class at the national championships the previous fall. Our celebration of that feat had been exceeded only by the raucous reception at her and Luke’s wedding a few weeks after the race. The fabulous result had her convinced she’d bring home the title of national champion this coming autumn.
I marveled at my bestie’s metamorphosis over the last few years. She’d always been her true delightful self when it was just the two of us. For as long as I could remember, though, around others, she turned into an anxiety-ridden, nervous wreck.
The change began when her father, bestselling author and notorious drinker Thornwell Winchester, swore off alcohol in response to my dad’s cancer diagnosis. When Thornwell got sober, he started treating Sloane with kindness and respect. They were emotions he’d rarely shown her in all the years she was growing up. He even made efforts to reconcile with his ex-wife, Kathryn. That inspired Sloane to repair her fraught relationship with the woman.
About the same time, Sloane and Luke started spending time together. Their relationship got more serious after first my dad, then her dad, died.
It was as if Sloane had been forced to navigate the depths of Hell and somehow made it through. Though still scarred from those battles, some of which went on for years, she emerged stronger, more confident, and more aware of those around her who truly loved her.
She was still the same old Sloane Winchester I’d known and loved all my life and would know and love the rest of my life. These days, though, she was happy and confident, both with herself and with those around her. It was heartwarming for everyone to get to know the Sloane Winchester I’d known for years.
Even if she did put me in my place a lot more than she used to.
While I was finishing the last of my gyro salad, Sloane leaned in close to me and whispered in my ear, “That guy that just came in, in the blue suit jacket, isn’t that Mrs. Napier’s ex?”
In as casual a manner as I could manage, I turned my head in the direction Sloane was nodding. I took in a little breath when I recognized the man who was being seated at a table near the entrance. It was, without a doubt, Gary Napier, Vicky’s ex-husband.
I’d seen the man a dozen times over the years and only once since I’d moved from New York, but the shoulder-length blond hair that was parted down the middle, cleft chin, and crooked nose were unmistakable.
A knot formed in my stomach as the reason for his presence in town dawned on me. I took a long drink of my white wine while considering the consequences of his appearance.
“You might want to go easy on the vino.” Brent took my empty glass and placed it on the table.
“Sorry, guys.” I nodded toward Gary. “That’s Vicky’s ex-husband. Now that she’s gone, he shows up. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
“He looks vaguely familiar.” Brent snapped his fingers. “He was at the library today. He signed the poster.”
“Maybe he’s in town to pay his respects,” Luke said. “Not everything has to be a conspiracy, Allie.”
He had a point. He hadn’t been as close to Vicky as I’d been, though. The hurtful comments and whispered rumors during and after the divorce proceedings had extracted a toll on the woman Brent never saw.
During one of our late-night conversations, I’d asked Vicky why she and Gary split up. She told me Gary wanted kids. Vicky wanted kids, too. After ten years of trying, they’d had no success getting pregnant, though.
Testing proved the problem wasn’t with Vicky. She was relieved, but he got angry and refused to be tested. Instead, he blamed her and demanded a divorce. Rumors spread that the breakup was due to everything from infidelity to financial misdeeds.
While those close to Vicky and Gary knew there was nothing to the rumors, they still stung. Gary left town a week after filing for divorce, which left Vicky to deal with the whisperings alone.
And now he was back.
“There’s one way to find out why he’s here.” I got to my feet. “Order dessert. I’m going to have a chat with Mr. Napier.”
I had no idea what I was going to say, but once I’d covered half the distance to his table, Gary looked up and made eye contact with me. It was too late to turn back now.
“Hi, Mr. Napier.” I stuck out my hand as I introduced myself. “You probably don’t remember me, but I spent a lot of time at the library with your ex-wife when I was growing up. I wanted to offer my condolences. May I join you?” Without waiting for a reply, I took the seat across from him.
“Thank you. It was a shock when Chief Roberson called me.” He took a long drink of the beer the waiter had placed in front of him. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Indeed. It’s very upsetting.” I made a tiny circle in the white, linen tablecloth with my index finger. “So, at the risk of sounding indelicate, what brings you to town?”
“I get it.” He chuckled, then drained his beer. “Ex-husband shows up a few days after the murder.”
Keeping interrogation lessons learned from Matt in mind, I kept my mouth shut. Gary wasn’t comfortable, and hopefully my silence would make it too tough for him to stay quiet.
“Allie Cobb. I remember Vicky going on about you. She got a kick out of how much you loved the library.” He blew out a long breath. “Truth be told, I’m here because of the house. I want to make sure it isn’t broken into or vandalized. Despite how things ended, we made some good memories there.”
A lump formed in my throat. With Vicky’s sister in Florida and her parents deceased, there were no family members nearby to look after her things. I wanted to hate the man, but, with this act of decency, I couldn’t.
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Thanks. There was an oversight in the divorce settlement, so it turns out my name’s still on the deed. Hopefully I’ll be able to get it sold quickly. It would make a great home for a young family.”
Or maybe not so kind of him. More like calculating. Or greedy. I handed him one of my business cards. “If you need help with anything, e-mail me. I’m happy to do whatever I can.”
We said our goodbyes and I headed back to my table, thankful I always kept a couple of business cards in a pocket. Hopefully, he’d take me up on the offer. It would be a perfect way to keep tabs on him.
“Get anything good?” Sloane raised her eyebrows in anticipation of a juicy report.
“Maybe.” I stabbed my fork into a piece of baklava and slid it into my mouth, pausing just long enough to savor the gooey sweetness. The paper-thin dough
melted in my mouth, while the nuts provided a satisfying crunch. It was a bite of sugary paradise and exactly what I needed after the conversation with Gary.
I recounted my conversation as my fabulous dessert disappeared, bite by delectable bite. The more I talked, the situation seemed to grow increasingly shady, but I was trying to keep Luke’s admonishment in mind.
“Okay, maybe I was wrong.” Luke took a drink of water. “I’d bet that house is easily worth two hundred grand.”
“Seriously? In Rushing Creek, Indiana?”
Vicky’s house was beautiful, but that amount was jaw-dropping.
“I think that’s a conservative number.” Sloane wiped her fingers on a cloth napkin. “What are the three key factors in real estate? Location, location, location. That house is in a great, old neighborhood. It’s got a good-sized lot and, with only one person living there, I’d bet Allie’s apartment lease there hasn’t been much wear and tear.”
My bestie was in the final stages of selling her father’s one-hundred-acre estate. Over the last year or so, she’d taken a deep dive in to the real estate world and had become quite knowledgeable about property values in the area. Her word was golden in my book.
“Okay, let me get this straight.” Brent placed his hands on the tablecloth, spreading his long fingers out like a fan. “That guy over there divorced Vicky decades ago. He moved away. She got the house, but nobody got around to taking his name off the deed. Now, a couple of days after she’s murdered, he shows up, ready to sell the house for at least two hundred thousand dollars. Does that sum things up?”
“Sounds about right,” I said.
“And it sounds like a motive for murder that the Kickboxing Crusader needs to investigate.” Sloane extended her fist toward me.
I bumped my knuckles against hers. “Things definitely aren’t quite so cut and dried, are they? I’ve got work to do.”
Chapter Eight
The following morning, I snuck out of bed without waking Brent. It was Sunday, which meant Mass, followed by brunch with Mom. It also meant my beau would be leaving town to return to his job today, so I wanted him to be well rested for his trip.
As I led Sammy by his leash down the stairs and out the door to a nearby grassy area, my heart was lighter than it had been in days. The thought of Brent getting a job here in Rushing Creek was more enticing than reading a Jane Austen novel by the window on a rainy day. And not just because I wouldn’t feel compelled to take his canine outside and wait around for the pup to do his business while Brent snoozed away.
It meant we might have an actual future together. Brent’s current job took him all over the State of Indiana, managing the installation of genealogy departments in public libraries of all sizes. His work was funded by a grant, so there was no shortage of libraries happy to retain his services.
While this was great for library patrons all the way from Angola in northeast Indiana to Evansville in the southwestern part of the state, it left Brent and me with two serious challenges. First, the short-term nature of the installations meant he only spent a few weeks in any city or town before moving to the next. It was a transient lifestyle that suited Brent well since he had no attachments beyond Sammy.
It was a lifestyle that, to me, was as appealing as fresh roadkill. I loved my job, my apartment, and my hometown. More than that, after spending almost a decade on my own in New York City, I appreciated how fortunate I was to have family and friends nearby. I didn’t want to give that up for a life that was basically living out of a suitcase.
The second issue was even thornier. With every installation Brent completed, his waiting list grew shorter. When we met, he’d completed work for about one third of the libraries in the state. Now, he was finished with over half of those interested. We’d spent one evening discussing his future and reached an unavoidable conclusion.
At his current pace, Brent would work himself out of a job in about three years.
What would he do then? Take his program to another state? The grant only provided funding for Indiana, so that option was filled with uncertainty. He could apply to work at a library, but with his Ph.D. in library science, finding a position to fit his skillset might not be easy.
Now, here we were. While it was under the worst of circumstances, depending on how the library board chose to proceed, there might be a job opportunity here in Rushing Creek for Brent.
If he did apply, and if he was offered the job, what would he do about his current commitments? I knew the man well enough to know he wouldn’t quit without making sure someone was lined up to take over his genealogy installation work. How long would it take to find a replacement his funders would approve? So many questions remained unanswered. Well, nobody said life was easy.
Man, talk about it being the best of times and the worst of times.
As I threw the plastic bag containing Sammy’s droppings into the dumpster behind my building, a disturbing thought stopped me short. If my investigation into Gary Napier led Matt into doubting Porter’s guilt, would the police chief move Brent into the suspect column again? After all, it wasn’t unreasonable for one to consider a steady job a prime motive for murder.
I shook my head. Brent was innocent, beyond a doubt. And if Matt wanted to put him under the microscope again? I’d deal with that possibility when, and if, it came to pass.
Once back inside, I settled down on the couch with my laptop and a cup of coffee. I had an hour before I had to get ready to meet Mom at church, so sixty minutes of peace and quiet would be perfect to start editing a client’s manuscript. With Sammy on the seat cushion next to me and Ursi lurking over my shoulder, I got lost in a thrilling world of espionage and money laundering with the Andes Mountains for a backdrop.
A while later, my phone beeped to let me know my editing time was up. With a grumble, I shut down the computer, gave each of my furry friends solid scratches behind the ears, and headed for the shower.
While I was in the bathroom, I put my thoughts about Vicky’s murder into order. Porter was the obvious prime suspect. That couldn’t be disputed. He’d gotten to the library before any other potential witnesses, so he had the opportunity. If he truly had dangerous plants in his greenhouse, he had the means. And if he was obsessed with Vicky, as some people believed, he had the motive.
As Dad liked to say, “if” was the biggest two letter word in the English language. So, if Porter wasn’t the murderer, who was? Ozzy? It seemed like a stretch to me, but, to him, maybe five thousand dollars was an amount worthy of committing murder. The means and opportunity seemed to be lacking, though. Well, I’d talk to Shirley first. Based on how that conversation went, I’d figure out what to do next.
My third suspect, Gary Napier, had motive in spades. A few minutes of research at the county assessor’s office would confirm Gary’s claim about the home’s ownership status. If his name was on the deed, that left him in line to receive all the proceeds from the sale of the house.
Another thought popped into my head as I worked shampoo into my hair. Did Vicky have a will? If so, who was in line to inherit her estate? If she didn’t have a will, her estate would have to go through probate. What would be involved with that? I’d have to ask Jeanette about a will and keep my fingers crossed one could be found. That would sure make things a little simpler.
As I rinsed off the shampoo, I ruminated over Gary’s means and opportunity. Just because he claimed he came to town after the call with Matt didn’t make it true. What if he was having money problems and saw the house as his way out of debt? Until I established his whereabouts the day of Vicky’s murder, I couldn’t rule him out.
Matt might not have been willing to completely rule out Brent, but I was. I knew Brent as well as I knew anyone outside my immediate family and Sloane. He said he didn’t do it. I believed him one hundred percent. It was simply a matter of time until Matt confirmed his indisputable innocence.
That left me with three credible suspects. While I got dressed, I formulated a plan. Since all signs pointed at Porter, I’d focus on him first.
I dillydallied on my way to church so I could join Mom just in time to grab a spot and sit. She hugged me when I reached the top step of the building’s entrance but was frowning.
I wasn’t out of her doghouse.
“I haven’t had to call you from the hospital yet. That’s a good thing, right?” I scrunched up my nose and crossed my eyes.
Mom rolled her eyes. Mission accomplished at diffusing her frustration with me.
“You, my dear little one, should be the poster child of why a parent never stops worrying.” She put her arm through mine. “Shall we ask for some divine intervention?”
Since I was back in investigator mode, I made a point of scanning the pews to see who else was attending Mass. I never knew when something important would catch my attention, so I was always in observation mode. That was one benefit of the attention to detail Dad had ingrained in me from a young age.
Or maybe it was a curse. Sometimes, it was hard to tell.
None of my suspects were in attendance. That didn’t mean much, since a half dozen churches could be found within a mile of my apartment. Porter and Ozzy could be members of another denomination, and Gary didn’t even live here anymore.
With nobody to keep an eye on, I cleared my mind and spent the hour-long service meditating. I also asked Dad for the divine intervention Mom mentioned. I was pretty sure I was going to need all the help I could get.
When Mass was over, Mom and I went to the Brown County Diner for brunch. The place was buzzing with the after-church crowd, which was normal. What wasn’t normal was being served coffee by the mayor herself, Angela Miller.
Angela owned the diner and ran it with her husband, Claude. For years he supervised the kitchen while she oversaw the dining room. Many scoffed when she ran for mayor because she put in so many hours at the diner. There was no way she would put the community above her business, they said. And then when she was elected mayor, a lot of those same naysayers wondered how she would cope juggling two full-time jobs.
