by Jessa Archer
“You do know that’s a standard trope in mystery books, right?”
“Apparently it’s a trope for a reason. Is the sheriff really racist?”
“Blevins? He was definitely a racist in high school. Nothing else about his personality seems to have changed, so I doubt that did. He asked me out on multiple occasions, but he didn’t like Wren. Told me I shouldn’t hang out with her and her brother. Said people would get the wrong idea.”
“Wow,” Cassie said. “Did you know Ed in high school?”
I shook my head. “Not really. He’d been out of school for a while. He’s quite a bit older than me.”
The doorbell dinged, and Cronkite dashed past the open door. I’ve tried to tell him that this isn’t appropriate behavior for a feline. He’s supposed to be aloof and reserved. But in addition to—or possibly as a result of—his duties as guard cat, Cronkite considers himself the official greeter of the household.
“Aaaand he’s here,” Cassie said with a smile.
I blew out a sigh and headed for the door. Cassie stopped me by gently grabbing my arm. “Whoa. Where do you think you’re going?”
“To answer the door.”
“No, you aren’t. I’ll get it.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the way these things are done. I’ll get the door, let him in, and you wait a few minutes before coming down for the big reveal.”
“Cassie. You can’t be serious.”
She bounced out into the hallway. “Oh, yes. I most certainly am.”
✰✰✰
Ed picked a small restaurant called the Mountain View Grill. I’d never been there before, but the place definitely delivered on its name. Parked on a ridge with the entire back of the building in glass, the Mountain View had a breathtaking view of—you guessed it—mountains. The place would no doubt be hopping during the tourist season, but they had just reopened on the first of March, with limited hours until Memorial Day. I was glad to see they had a decent amount of traffic for off-season. As Ed and I entered, I counted maybe a dozen others.
With its wooden walls, exposed beams across the vaulted ceiling, and a crackling fire blazing off to my left, it felt like we’d stepped into someone’s luxurious hunting lodge. There were no booths, only small tables topped with spotless white linens.
“What do you think?” Ed asked.
I smiled. “It’s beautiful. Seriously, Ed.”
“Can’t hold a candle to you, though.” He said the words so lightly that I almost wondered if I hadn’t imagined them. I smiled at him, and then looked away to hide my blush. I would never have pegged Ed Shelton as suave, but I was beginning to think there were layers to his personality I hadn’t discovered.
The hostess welcomed us as if we were family or long-lost friends that she hadn’t seen in a month of Sundays. The stress of the day, of finding Edith’s body, began to melt away as she led us to an open table near the back and promised to return shortly to take our order.
I took a moment to breathe in the scenery. Our seats overlooked a patio that ran the length of the building. It was unoccupied this evening—even the tables had been cleared away, most likely stored for the winter in a dark room, awaiting their days in the sun. Flood lights illuminated the corners of the patio, shining down on the dark, tangled mass of trees that dropped away into complete darkness below. It was a stunning view, beautiful, but also a bit scary.
Ed leaned across the table. “Happy birthday.”
“It’s the day after tomorrow,” I said.
“I know. But I like to get a jump on things.”
The waitress took our drink orders. We both asked for unsweetened tea, which seemed to surprise her.
When she left, Ed said, “She’s going to think we’re tourists,” and we giggled like a couple of teenagers. He had a point. I wasn’t sure if anyone else in Thistlewood even knew tea came unsweetened. At Pat’s Diner, the tea has so much sugar that it doubles as dessert. Not that it keeps anyone from ordering dessert.
“I tried to call Blevins this afternoon,” I told Ed. “After you and Cassie left. To verify cause of death.”
“Well, what did he say?”
“Nothing. The phone rang and rang. I know he wasn’t still at Edith’s house, because I asked Wren.”
“I’m sure he was just busy,” Ed said with a sarcastic laugh. “We don’t have too many accidents like that around here. Don’t have too many people around here, period, so it’s a case of basic math.”
I took a sip of my tea. “There’s something bothering me about that. The accident, I mean. Remember the broken coffee cup I mentioned just before Cassie came in?”
“Sure.”
“Well, as an added point of interest, the carpet smelled like whiskey.”
“So? You think she fell because she’d been drinking?”
“Maybe. Only…I’m not convinced that she fell, Ed. The cup looked like it dropped straight down. The spill was localized. Contained. Not spread all over heck and half of Georgia. If you fall with a drink in your hand, it goes everywhere.”
I could practically see his thinking cap come on. “Maybe she had a heart attack and just dropped it?”
“It’s possible. I guess we’ll have to wait on the autopsy results.”
“Except, there isn’t going to be one.”
“What?”
“There isn’t going to be an autopsy. At least that’s what Billy said when I ran into him on the way back home this afternoon.”
Billy Thorpe had been a deputy when Ed was sheriff. He’s still a deputy under Blevins, but let’s just say he prefers his old boss to the new one. Billy’s not the type to sit around and chatter about police business in the diner, but he keeps Ed informed.
“Why?” My voice must have risen, because the couple at the next table turned to look.
“Why,” I repeated at a lower volume, “aren’t they doing an autopsy?”
“Clarence,” Ed said simply. “He said his mother wouldn’t want one. Said she wouldn’t want to be all cut up like that.”
“And Blevins?”
“Well, he agrees. Edith Morton was eighty-five, after all. Everyone seems certain she fell.”
“Not everyone,” I said.
“Are y’all talking about that poor Morton woman?” the waitress asked. I hadn’t even realized she was standing behind me. “It’s so sad. The whole place has been talking about it tonight. Poor Clarence.”
I tried to keep a sympathetic face, but the whole autopsy thing bothered me. If my mother had died in suspicious circumstances, I would have wanted to know.
The waitress nodded toward a tall young man sitting alone in the corner. He was dressed in blue jeans and a faded plaid shirt. I thought he looked familiar, but it took a moment for me to place him. It was Dean, the guy who delivered my mail. He was usually in a uniform, so I hadn’t recognized him.
“Dean Jacobs is really torn up about it,” she said, dropping her voice so that only Ed and I could hear her.
“Why is that?” Ed asked.
“Well, he’s her mailman. He saw her every day. Said she always came to the door when she saw him coming.” She took a deep breath and touched her heart. “He said he was there this morning. Knew something was wrong when she didn’t come to greet him but thought maybe she was just under the weather.”
“I want to talk to him,” I told Ed as soon as the girl took our order and whisked off to the kitchen. “He may know something.”
Ed reached out and touched my hand gently. “Wait until after dinner. We’ll both talk to him.”
I looked across the restaurant. Dean hadn’t gotten his food yet either, so I thought it was pretty safe to wait. “Okay. But if he makes a dash for the door, I’m following him.”
Ed laughed and shook his head. “I’ll be right behind you.”
✰ Chapter Six ✰
Wren sent me a short text before we finished dinner. I squinted at the screen.
“Well, that seems fast,�
�� I said to Ed as I dropped my phone back into my purse. “Edith’s visitation is tomorrow. Funeral on Friday.” That meant I didn’t have much time. I needed to get her obituary and information about services posted on the website by tomorrow, even though my next physical copy of the paper wouldn’t be out until next week.
A thought occurred to me. “How much money do you think Edith was worth?”
He shrugged. “No clue. I do know she had money, though. Her house is one of the nicest in the county, and she used to drive that Mercedes around like she was some kind of movie star.”
“But where did the money come from? Did she have a job or…”
“She did. Edith retired from that old factory out near the dump. Do you remember it?”
I nodded. “Vaguely. They made shirts, right?”
“Yes. She worked in the front office, but I think it was more to have something to do than because she really needed the income. Her husband used to own a couple of old hotels up near Pigeon Forge. Sold them right before he died in the eighties. And Edith got the money. They’d been divorced for a while. I guess he felt guilty about running off like he did.”
“You’d think he’d have left the money to Clarence. I mean, he’d have been an adult by then.”
Ed gave me a wry smile. “I think Clarence would probably agree with you on that point. But the will was written when Clarence was a kid, apparently, and his old man never bothered to change it. Edith gave Clarence anything he wanted. He may have had a job when he was living in Chattanooga, but he’s been back here well over two decades, and I don’t recall him working. So, Edith held the purse strings.”
“Well, I guess he’ll inherit now, won’t he?”
“Yes, I would imagine so.” He sighed and rubbed his face. “Dang it, Ruth. Now you’ve got me questioning things, and I don’t like this feeling in my gut. It’s rarely wrong.”
I knew what he meant. I’d had the same feeling since this afternoon, and it wouldn’t go away no matter how delicious dinner was or how charming Ed was. There was a dark cloud hanging over the Mountain View Grill. I could feel its weight as I choked down the last of my grilled chicken and asparagus, which I’m sure were both delicious, but I hardly tasted anything.
We were just finishing up when I noticed movement from Dean’s table. He was signing the receipt.
“He’s getting ready to leave,” I told Ed.
“Here goes nothing, then.”
We followed Dean to the front door. The waitress was watching us from the kitchen, part suspicious and part confused. We hadn’t paid yet, and I could tell she was wondering whether the middle-aged couple, one of whom was the ex-sheriff, was about to dine and ditch. Ed motioned to her that we would be right back. She looked from us to the tall, broad-shouldered young man heading out the front door and nodded.
“Mr. Jacobs,” I said as we stepped out into the cool night. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
He startled. “Ms. Townsend?” The light in the parking lot was low, and I knew he couldn’t see us clearly. “Ed? Is that you?”
“Hey, son,” Ed said. His voice dropped down into a lower gear—his cop voice, as I had come to think of it. “Do you have a second?”
He took a few steps toward us. “Sure.” Upon closer inspection, I couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was. Nice guy, too, with a steady job. I wondered if he was single. Might be a good match for Cassie? I pushed the thought away. Her life was in Nashville. Although she seemed intent on playing matchmaker for me and Ed, I wasn’t going to be that mom. Although it would kind of serve her right for teasing me.
“This is about Miss Edith, isn’t it?” Dean asked, sticking his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket. “What would you like to know, Ms. Townsend?”
“It’s Ruth.” I cleared my throat, wishing I had my notebook with me. “You were there this morning?”
He nodded. “A little after ten, as usual. I rang her doorbell several times.”
“You didn’t just put her stuff in the mailbox?”
Dean shook his head. “No, I usually bring it up to the door for her. Clarence is a little on the lazy side, if you ask me. He hardly ever checks the box, and Miss Edith doesn’t get around so well anymore. Plus, I think she likes—liked—to have someone tell her good morning.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary today?”
He huffed, and then said, “It was totally out of the ordinary. Miss Edith answers the door right off the bat. Well, it sometimes takes a bit for her to get to the door, but she always shouts out that she’s coming. She didn’t this morning. I’d have thought she was at a doctor’s appointment or something, but she mentioned yesterday that Clarence was out of town. I waited for several minutes. Even tried the doorknob.”
I leaned forward. “You did?”
“Of course. I was worried about her. It was locked.”
Locked? That struck me as odd. Elaine had said she just went right in. Even went so far as to wonder if she would be in trouble for doing so.
“You’re sure the door was locked?” I glanced back at Ed. In the darkness of the parking lot, I couldn’t read his face.
“Yes. So, I put her stuff in the mailbox and went on with my route.” Dean’s eyes glistened with unshed tears in the darkness. “I should have called someone to check on her. They might have been able to save her. But I thought maybe she decided to sleep in for a change, so I just left.”
I reached out and patted his shoulder. “No. I saw her body. I’m pretty sure she died instantly, and…probably hours before you arrived. There’s nothing you could have done.”
And I really didn’t think there was anything he could have done. But my mind was whirling from his insistence that the door was locked.
“Ruth is right,” Ed told him. “Don’t even think about that, okay? Does no good at all.”
“I know,” Dean said. He wiped at his face, seeming embarrassed. “I need to get home. It’s been a long day.”
“Interesting,” I said as the headlights on Dean’s truck blinked to life. “Either Elaine is lying or someone else was at Edith’s house this morning.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She said the door was unlocked. Said she let herself right in.”
Ed scratched his head. “I guess we need to tell Blevins, then.”
I nodded. “But first we need to go inside and settle this check. Our poor waitress is probably about to call the sheriff herself.”
It was nearly ten by the time we made it back down the mountain and into Thistlewood. That’s a late hour to call on someone, particularly the sheriff, but I knew I would have a better shot with a face-to-face meeting. He seemed to be ignoring my calls, which really left me no other choice.
The fact that Ed was with me complicated things a little, something he clearly recognized, considering that he offered to wait in the car. I had a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn’t be there long, anyway. In fact, I’d be lucky if the good sheriff even answered the door.
Blevins lives in a medium-sized, two-story faux-log cabin on the edge of town, about a mile from Pat’s Diner. There were lights on all over the bottom floor as we pulled in, and I caught glimpses of a flickering television behind gossamer curtains. Blevins was still up, as I had predicted—probably with a beer in one hand and a remote in the other. I just hoped he didn’t answer the door in his boxers. Today had held enough horrors without that.
“Here goes nothing,” I said to Ed. “Let’s hope he doesn’t shoot me before I make it up the driveway.”
Ed shook his head. “Odds are he’s already seen my truck. He knows it.”
“That’s part of the reason I’m afraid he might shoot,” I said, and Ed responded with a laugh.
As soon as my feet hit the wooden boards of the front porch, the light kicked on. I froze like a deer in the headlights. He had been watching.
“Well, well, well,” Blevins said from the doorway. “To what do I owe the honor? And at
this late hour?”
I was relieved to see he was completely dressed. In the exact same clothes I had seen him in earlier in the day, in fact, minus the hat. And my guess about the hat hiding a rapidly receding hairline was pretty much on point. To his credit, at least he hadn’t adopted one of those awful comb-over styles.
“Can I come in?” I said. “It’s kind of chilly. I need to talk to you about something.”
Blevins glanced over my shoulder at Ed’s idling truck. The heater thumped on and the sound seemed abnormally loud in the quiet of the night.
“Ed’s not getting out?” Blevins raised his eyebrows.
“His hip gives him trouble in the cold.”
While I half expected that little dig to get me bounced out on my ear, Blevins stepped out of the doorway. “Come on in,” he said with a deep sigh that seemed to suggest this invitation was against his better judgment. “But be quiet. Jenny is asleep upstairs. Don’t want to wake her.”
I followed him into the cabin. He didn’t need to worry about me waking his wife. Truth be told, I had always felt a little sorry for her.
The front door opened into a large living room and kitchen combo, a completely open space. There was a flat-screen TV above a darkened electric fireplace. The nightly news was flashing across the screen, muted, with the mouth of the news anchor moving a mile a minute.
Blevins sat in the recliner and motioned toward the vacant sofa across from him.
“So, what brings you and Ed out tonight?”
“It’s about Edith Morton.”
He nodded. “I figured as much. What about her?”
“Why no autopsy?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Edith was eighty-five years old. She fell. That’s all there is to it.”
“But what if it isn’t? I’m not convinced that she simply fell.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, there was the broken coffee cup on the landing upstairs.”
He laughed softly, but there was nothing warm about it. “The coffee cup. So you went upstairs?”
