“Myrna?”
Myrna turned halfway around and looked at her.
“Do you have time for another cigarette?”
For a minute, Allie thought she would walk away. Then, she turned and came back. “One more,” she said, pulling one out of her crumpled pack. She lit it and looked off toward the highway.
Allie was shocked as the words came out of her mouth. “I want to do a story about the sheriff. I want to look into his son’s allegations. I don’t think Cord killed his wife, but I can keep an open mind. I want to find out about his wife and the person who might have killed her if the sheriff didn’t. If she committed suicide, I want to find out about that. I want to find out about his relationship with his son and the reasons it’s so bad. And I want to write a story about it. Maybe more than one.”
As Allie spoke, a smile had been slowly forming on Myrna’s face. It took ten years off her age.
“How do you plan to go about it?”
“I thought I’d interview her friends. Her neighbors. Find out what she did with herself all day. I want to talk to the sheriff again. And his son. I need to find out if they have other relatives and their thoughts on the sheriff and his wife. It will probably take a while, and I want to do a lot of the work from home. I have DSL there and my computer.”
Allie thought she saw tears in Myrna’s eyes, but the woman turned away before she was sure. “You’d probably get more answers if you worked for the newspaper officially, don’t you think? A press ID opens a lot of doors. And you might have expenses. We have a pretty liberal expense policy.”
“I don’t expect any expenses, but I think you’re right about the newspaper affiliation. That would give me credibility.”
A car slowed and pulled into the lot. Stuart, the graphics guy. Myrna ignored him. “So, you’ll stay? For now, anyway. Until you get this story finished.”
Allie reached out and touched her arm. “Yes, I’ll stay.”
***
When Allie arrived home, she half-expected to find Sheryl in her kitchen or on her rooftop deck, but the house was empty. Silent. And she was glad.
For the first time in her memory, Allie felt a fire burning within her. After petting Spook, she changed out of her work clothes and into shorts and a tank top. No shoes.
She headed into the guestroom and looked around. She’d need to have them run a DSL cable in here too. Until they did, she could run her own cable. She’d get rid of the bed and dresser. Unlike her aunt’s room, the furniture in here held no special place in her heart. She would buy a desk. She needed a printer. A tape recorder for recording her interviews. Paper. Stapler. She felt an adrenaline rush like she’d never felt before. She would put the desk facing the window. She couldn’t see the ocean from here, but she could hear it with the windows open. New paint, eventually. No time for that now.
She pulled her briefcase out of the closet and tossed it on the bed. She sat down and pulled out a legal pad and pen, and she began to make lists.
***
When Sheryl showed up that evening, Allie was sitting in the middle of the living room floor wrestling with a hex wrench as she tried to assemble her new desk. “What’s that?”
“My future,” Allie said without looking up.
“Uh huh,” Sheryl said, her voice cautious. She looked toward the kitchen. “So, what’s for dinner?”
“Whatever you want to get.”
Sheryl sat down. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”
Allie looked up at her, wiping the sweat off her forehead. “I’m going to work for the paper.”
“You already work for the paper.”
“No, I mean, I’m going to work for the paper from here. I’m going to do my first story on the sheriff’s wife. What made her tick. What killed her. Who killed her.” She wiped her forehead again.
Sheryl got up and went to the air conditioner. “This broken?” she asked.
Allie looked at her blankly.
“Jeez,” Sheryl said, flipping the unit on. The click was followed by a steady hum. She came back and sat down beside Allie. “Maybe you’d better take it from the top.”
By the time Allie had finished telling Sheryl what transpired at the paper, Sheryl had taken the desk away from her and had it assembled. The house was cool, and the sun was making its slow descent in the west. Sheryl got to her feet and stretched her back. For the first time, Allie realized she was still in uniform.
“Are you supposed to be working?”
“Nah, I got off at four. She looked around at the chaos in the living room. “What else you got?”
Allie looked sheepish. “A bookcase. Printer stand. A few other things.”
Sheryl blew out a disgusted breath. “Geez, this is going to take all night. Why don’t you feed Spook and order a pizza? I’m going to change.” And she was out the door.
Allie got stiffly to her feet and hobbled into the guestroom. Goodwill had come and gone, and it was empty now; but in her mind, she saw her newly assembled desk facing the window, her printer stand next to it, and her file cabinet. She took a step back. She had forgotten to get a file cabinet. No matter. Tomorrow, she’d pick one up.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“What was me?”
“At the newspaper, telling Myrna all those things.”
“No, Allie, that was all you.”
“But where did it come from? I didn’t even know that was what I wanted to do until I told Myrna.”
“Life is like that sometimes, honey. We don’t know what we want until it’s standing right in front of us, and then we realize we knew what we wanted all along.”
“Is that some kind of innuendo?”
Silence.
“Because, if it is, I’m not going to try to figure it out. I want you to know that.”
Chapter 11
Her first stop the next morning was at Office Depot for her two-drawer lateral file cabinet. With the box tucked snugly in the back of the Jeep, she headed to her first interview.
She had no trouble finding the house this time; its current resident proved more elusive. No one answered the bell. She didn’t think Rand Arbutten was the kind of man to hide under the bed, so he must be out. Or maybe he’d gone back to Orlando. No matter. She could drive over there to interview him later. Because she was in the neighborhood, she decided to visit a few of the Arbutten’s neighbors.
No one was home at the house on the left. The house on the right proved more fruitful. The woman was probably fifty, comfortably overweight and friendly. She was wearing a sundress and a broad smile when she answered the door. “Yes?”
“I’m Allison Grainger. I’m a reporter with the Brevard Sun.”
“Is this about that poor woman next door?” she asked, curiosity lighting up her face. “I’ve just made a fresh pitcher of sweet tea. Why don’t you come on inside out of this heat?”
***
Allie was hunched over her laptop in the new office when Sheryl showed up that night. She had typed her notes from the day. Her sources—the word gave her a little thrill—had put her on to others who might have information, and the few of those Allie had a chance to interview had told her plenty. Tomorrow, she would approach the rest and see where that led. Right now, she was trying to digest what she’d gotten so far.
A sound made her glance over her shoulder. Sheryl stood behind her holding a butcher knife over Allie’s head. “Oh, hi. What’s with the knife?”
“I could have been a killer,” Sheryl said in disgust, her arm dropping to her side, “or a mad rapist. You could be dead right now, bleeding on the floor.”
Allie looked down at the floor. “Would I still be bleeding if I was dead?”
Sheryl tossed the knife on the new bookcase. “For God’s sake, didn’t you learn anything from what happened to you?”
“More than I wanted to, actually,” Allie said, rolling her head on her shoulders. She stopped, looking at Sheryl fo
r the first time. She wasn’t in uniform. Instead, she wore shorts and a peasant blouse. That was almost evening wear for her. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to remind you that Joe’s mom is moving in tomorrow,” Sheryl said, leaning against the corner of Allie’s desk. “And I thought we might go over to Lester’s and grab a bite.”
“Lester’s.” Allie’s eyes strayed back to her computer.
“Or not,” Sheryl said.
“I’m sorry,” Allie said, forcing herself to focus on Sheryl. “I’m trying to get my notes organized before my interviews tomorrow.”
“Did you learn something?” Sheryl asked in surprise.
“More than I expected. A lot more.”
“Like what?”
Allie squinted back at her computer screen. “I’m not exactly sure yet. I’m still trying to make some sense of it.” She turned back to her laptop as a new thought struck her. For a minute, the only sound in the room was the tapping of Allie’s fingertips on the keyboard.
“You feed Spook yet?”
Allie looked up at her. “Huh?”
Sheryl blew out a breath. “Never mind. What’s this?” she asked, reaching out with her toe and nudging a box on the floor.
Allie looked at it for a minute before it registered. “File cabinet. I’m going to put it together. Sometime,” she added, her eyes going back to the computer screen. In a moment, she was lost in the words there. She heard Sheryl mutter something that sounded profane before she left the room. Then, she heard the refrigerator door open and close.
None of the neighbors knew Rand Arbutten, and many them were curious about who the young man staying at the sheriff’s house might be. Funny, they all referred to it as the sheriff’s house, not the Arbutten house or Jean’s house. Jean Arbutten was turning out to be an enigma. Allie had intended to gather background on both her and Cord with her questions, but most knew the sheriff as only that—the sheriff. An authority figure. Pleasant enough, they all agreed, but remote. Allie had gotten the same impression herself. Was that his public face, or was that all there was to the man? Then, she remembered how he had looked at her aunt’s picture. “I don’t deserve it,” he had said, and the pain in his words burned her. No, there was more to Cord Arbutten than his public face, but Allie didn’t think it was evil.
The same couldn’t be said for his wife. Jean Arbutten seemed to have several public faces, none of them popular. No one knew her well, and those who were acquainted with her didn’t like her. Even though Allie could tell that people were trying to adhere to the don’t-speak-ill-of-the-dead rule, their feelings came through, but none had seemed to dislike her enough to kill her. She was—
Allie jumped as a plate banged down on the desk beside the computer. “I fed and walked Spook. Now, you eat,” Sheryl ordered.
Allie looked down at the plate—a bologna sandwich and chips. That was elaborate cuisine for Sheryl, who usually ate the bologna, then the bread, all while standing at the kitchen sink. “What about you?” Allie asked.
“I’ll grab something later,” she said, kneeling down beside the box holding Allie’s file cabinet. “After I get this put together.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Eat,” Sheryl repeated, pointing at the sandwich. “You have to keep up your strength if you’re going to prove the sheriff didn’t do it.”
Allie was dismayed. “Oh, Sheryl, I can’t promise—”
“I didn’t ask for a promise. Did you hear me ask for a promise? I know he’s innocent, and you’re going to prove it. So, get busy,” she said, ripping the box open with her hands.
Allie thought about arguing, but only for as long as it took her to pick up her sandwich and look back at her computer screen. Then, she was lost, but not so much that she didn’t hear the occasional muttered curse as Sheryl struggled with the file cabinet.
Some time later, she registered an “I’m outta here,” then the sound of her front door opening and closing, the scrape of a key in the deadbolt. After that, only her own puzzlement.
***
Interviewing her few remaining leads only took a few hours the next morning. Most were willing to have their answers taped. Rand still hadn’t made an appearance, so Allie realized there was nothing else she could do but talk to the sheriff.
As the thought formed in her mind, she realized she’d been putting it off, afraid of what she might see in his eyes. She didn’t want to believe he’d killed his wife, and not only because her aunt had loved him. Allie had meant what she told Sheryl. Over the last six months, she had come to admire the sheriff, to respect him, and not because he was a figurehead. Figureheads didn’t impress her. No, it was the man himself. In her dealings with him since her return, she’d sensed in him an inherent honesty, an honor, outdated as the concept might be. If he’d killed Jean Arbutten, what did that say about her ability to judge human nature? That it hadn’t improved at all. Back in Belgium, she’d been convinced that Garrison was the loving, faithful husband she believed him to be, and nothing could be further from the truth. No, she would reserve final judgment until this was over. She pointed her Jeep north toward Titusville.
The Brevard County Sheriff’s Office was a few blocks off US 1, and Allie made several wrong turns before she found it. The building looked sleek and modern from the front, but the back looked more like a converted high school—two stories, with outside corridors leading to the various officers. Allie parked under an ancient oak tree dripping Spanish moss from most of its branches. She was in full professional garb, a skirt and jacket, with heels high enough to threaten her balance as she picked her way across the cracked asphalt lot.
Inside was not what she might have expected from the movies and TV shows she’d seen—no thugs handcuffed to chairs, no tired-looking detectives lounging against walls or pounding out hated reports on old typewriters. That was the stuff of Barney Miller. Instead, it was modern and comfortable. It could have been any company’s reception area, except that most people milling around were in uniform, the same uniform Joe used to wear. She winced but shook it off.
The woman at the front desk―a civilian―told her that the sheriff was with someone, but she could wait if she wanted. Allie did. As she sat on the sofa, she caught just a brief back glimpse of an officer who reminded her of Joe.
“It will ease in time, sweetheart.”
“How can it? I see him everywhere. I hurt every time I think about it. It’s not the way I feel about your dying.”
“Of course, it isn’t. Joe’s death was sudden. It was traumatic. It almost cost you your life, and you’re still feeling guilt for your part in it.”
“I am not.”
She blinked at the sound of a door opening. She heard footsteps and looked around as Cord and another man stepped into the corridor. The man was dressed in casual clothes, khakis and a polo shirt, but even that didn’t diminish his air of authority. He walked like a cop.
Cord was clearly agitated. He stared at the floor as he navigated the hall. He didn’t see Allie sitting near the entrance. The man did, and his eyes widened slightly as a smile appeared on his face.
Something in his manner must have alerted Cord. He looked up. “Allie,” he said, coming up to her and offering his hand. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I know I should have called,” Allie said, getting to her feet, “but—” But what? “I thought I’d take a chance that you might be here.”
The man beside Cord cleared his throat. Cord looked back at him. After a moment, he extended his hand. “Thanks for coming by, Frank,” he said, shaking his hand. “I’ll keep you posted on how things are going.” The dismissal clearly wasn’t what the man had expected, but with another smile at Allie, he was gone.
“Come on back,” Cord said, leading the way.
“That man looked familiar.”
Cord opened the door to his office and motioned her to a chair. “Frank LaGrange,” he said, settling into his desk chair. “He’s retired now,
but he was a member of the command staff. You probably saw him at the funeral,” he added, frowning. “He came as a favor to warn me. The command staff keeps its eye on situations that might cause problems in the departments. He wanted to talk about that newspaper article, about the effect it might have on my officers. They’re worried.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “So am I. We can’t afford this kind of suspicion and doubt in the department.”
“Surely, they don’t believe what Alf Reed wrote,” Allie said, watching him
“Maybe they don’t believe it, but I’m sure it’s put questions in a lot of minds.” He sat back in his chair. “Brevard County runs well, and it does so because people have confidence in this department. Our reputation is unblemished. Always has been. Now?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll have to give what he said some thought. We’re a tourist town now, the closest beach to Orlando and Disney World. We have all those cruises going out of Port Canaveral. We can’t afford for people to lose faith in the law enforcement here.”
He seemed to come back to himself suddenly. “I’m sorry,” he told Allie. “None of this need concern you. Now, tell me, what brings you here?”
Allie hesitated. The man clearly had enough on his shoulders, but she wouldn’t find out anything unless she asked. “I’m here on behalf of the newspaper,” she said, steeling herself for his reaction. The last time she had come to him with questions, Cord had made her feel like a voyeur, a lesser mortal trying to gather dirty gossip. He had thought she was there to blackmail him.
When he only nodded, she added, “I’ve talked to Myrna, and she’s authorized me to do a story on your wife’s death. You know, the human interest angle.” Cord grimaced, but Allie went on. “Myrna is trying to turn the Sun back into a newspaper that prints more than just sensationalism.”
LIVE Ammo (Sunshine State Mystery Series Book 2) Page 10
