by Jody Holford
Another officer appeared behind the two. Officer Beatty stepped toward her and reached out, took her arm. “Why don’t you come with me while these officers secure the scene?”
It was a demand phrased as a gentle question, which Molly appreciated. She nodded and went outside, gulping in the fresh air like she’d been starved of it. How did everything outside look just the same as when she’d come in? Like a man wasn’t dead on his living room floor; the world was exactly as she’d left it.
“You all right?” The officer let her arm go and pulled a notepad from his breast pocket.
“Compared to what?” Molly asked.
His dark hair matched his dark eyes, which crinkled around the corners with empathy. “Seeing a dead body never gets easier.”
“I hope I don’t find that out for myself.”
“I need to ask you some questions,” he said. The radio on his shoulder crackled and he spoke into it, asking for a Sheriff Saron to come to the address.
Molly sank down to the concrete steps and wrapped her arms around her knees, surprised by the chill in the air.
“Okay, Molly. What time did you arrive here?”
Molly answered the questions about her timing, her reason for showing up, her relationship to the deceased, and when she’d last seen him. No, she hadn’t touched anything or seen anyone, hadn’t been there long, hadn’t heard anything strange. By the time Officer Beatty finished asking questions, two more squad cars and a truck with Sheriff written on the side pulled up to the house.
“Ma’am,” the sheriff greeted. “Heard you found Vernon East. Not an easy thing to see. You doing all right?”
Molly nodded. “Yes, sir. Uh, I need…to go back to work. Can I go? Can I tell…who will tell Mr. Benedict and Vernon’s coworkers?”
The sheriff and Officer Beatty exchanged a look and the officer stepped forward. “Why don’t I take you back to the newspaper office and I’ll inform them. I need to question them anyway.”
“All right,” Molly agreed.
She looked back at the house and then at the driveway. Her thoughts felt jumbled, like they were trying to wade through Jell-O. “I’ll need my Jeep.”
Officer Beatty gave a quiet smile. “Mind if I drive? I’ll get one of the other guys to bring my cruiser back to the station later.”
Molly dug through her purse and handed over her keys. Feeling as though she was moving in slow motion, Molly walked to the passenger side and climbed in. She didn’t chat as Officer Beatty drove the short distance to the office. Nor did she say anything when he parked out front. Once out of the vehicle, she saw a blond-haired woman watching from across the street. She was arranging plastic-wrapped flower bouquets in large, silver buckets. The colors popped in a rainbow of petals. Molly stopped and stared at the woman, surprised by the way life carried on, regardless. An older gentleman walked toward the woman, a cute cocker spaniel bouncing along beside him. When he waved to the woman, she spoke to him and pointed at Molly.
“Ma’am?” Officer Beatty’s voice broke through the haze.
“Molly. It’s Molly.”
He opened the door to the newspaper, gestured for her to go first. The others must have seen her through the window with the officer. Elizabeth and Alan were already walking toward her.
“What on earth? Molly, what’s wrong?” Elizabeth’s face was a study in confusion.
“Chris, what’s going on? Why are you bringing Molly in?” Alan asked, speaking directly to the officer. Molly briefly wondered how they knew each other. Small town.
Clay turned his chair to face them, but stayed in his seat. His expression was blank—no surprise, no emotion. Between his lips, he held a dark blue pen cap, just like the one on Vernon’s carpet. Molly’s stomach tightened painfully.
Like a spectator, she listened as the police officer told them what had happened. Elizabeth covered her mouth with one hand and leaned on Alan. Her boss just shook his head, as if he refused to believe what he’d just learned.
“This can’t be,” Alan said, his voice hoarse. He turned to Clay. “Weren’t you with your father yesterday?”
Molly snapped out of her fog like she’d been prodded with a branding iron. His father? Clay’s father. Clay glanced at Molly, then at Alan.
“No. Dropped him off at his house the day before. After the interview with old lady Phillips,” Clay said.
Officer Beatty pressed his lips together and breathed through his nose. He walked over to Clay. “I apologize. I didn’t realize you were his next of kin. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Clay shrugged and Molly stared, uncertainty whipping up a frenzy in her stomach.
“He’s your father?” That explained the pen cap, didn’t it? If Clay had been visiting his father, it would make sense. Maybe he’d dropped it when he said good-bye. Had he been the visitor?
Why hadn’t it been mentioned, though? It seemed odd no one had mentioned the connection. Her question was ignored when Officer Beatty spoke to Clay. “When was the last time you were in your father’s house? Did you go in the other night when you dropped him off? Notice anything unusual?”
Another shrug. “No. It’s been months. We’re not exactly close.”
Months? Clay was lying. She could feel it. She could see it.
“Molly, honey, you look like you should sit down,” Elizabeth said.
She shook her head, waved a hand in front of her. “I’m fine.”
Why hadn’t Clay said he was Vernon’s son? Would you admit to that parentage? Guilt slapped at Molly immediately. Regardless of how unkind he was, no one deserved Vernon’s fate.
“Is Mr. East married? To your mother?” Officer Beatty asked Clay, whose lip curled up.
“He’s been married twice since Clay’s mom. Gretta Reynolds hasn’t lived in Britton Bay for years. Vernon has been single for the last five,” Alan said.
Molly sat in Elizabeth’s chair, listening as more questions were asked and answered. She couldn’t stop seeing the image of Vernon lying on the floor, blood surrounding his head. What had happened? Had Clay hit his father with the coffee mug? Had they argued? If not Clay, then who? And why? And why now?
“Was Vernon working on anything controversial?” Officer Beatty asked.
Did he not read the paper? The most scandalous thing about the recent stories was how dull they were. Molly looked up to see Alan was looking at her. “Uh, he wasn’t working on anything abnormal. He interviewed Vanessa Phillips but said there wasn’t much interesting about her answers. Did the meeting seem strange in any way, Clay?”
All eyes went to the sullen man. A stab of pity pierced Molly’s heart. His father had just died. Which hadn’t seemed to catch him off guard. He looked more…irritated than sad. Had he known before she did?
“Other than being boring, it was fine. She seemed a bit tipsy, I guess. But if I had her cash, I’d be drinking the good stuff too. We went to the mansion, they talked, I took some photos, and she gave us a photo box of old newspaper clippings and pictures. She raved about her amazing family.”
Molly hadn’t seen a box anywhere. When they’d spoken, Vernon had mentioned photos and journals. He’d seemed unimpressed, but had he found something in the box he hadn’t shared? Something important? Molly’s insides froze. The last time she’d spoken with him, he’d said he was working on the story. If his death did have something to do with the box…something to do with interviewing Vanessa Phillips…Molly was the catalyst. She’d pushed him to do the interview. To do some actual reporting. Oh God. It’s my fault. A small sound left her lips, drawing all eyes to her.
She was responsible for Vernon East’s death.
Chapter 6
It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. Molly inhaled, sucking in a sharp breath when she realized how tight her chest felt.
“Molly?” Elizabeth put a hand on her arm.
&
nbsp; Molly shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“Under the circumstances, I think we should close the office for the day. Clay, let me drive you home,” Alan said.
Elizabeth continued to stare at Molly and she told herself, once again, to get it together. She didn’t need mothering. She needed to figure out if Vernon’s death was her fault. The professional part of her brain jolted. This was news. You’re a terrible person. But it was true. They needed to report on this and tell the town what had happened. This wasn’t the sort of thing to be passed around as midday gossip. Though, no doubt it would be.
“I don’t need a ride. I have my car. I’m going to head to my mother’s house in Portland,” Clay said. He had his hands shoved in his pockets and was looking down at his scuffed sneaker.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Molly muttered.
When their eyes met, she saw a flash of pain, which was quickly squelched by anger. “Not much of a loss, is it?”
“Clay!” Elizabeth glared at him.
He walked out the front door and the officer didn’t stop him. Why would he? Only Molly knew he’d lied. You think he lied. You don’t actually know. Don’t jump to conclusions.
“I’d like his contact information and his mother’s if any of you have that. Yours as well,” Officer Beatty said, pulling out his notepad.
Molly had already given hers. She didn’t want to go home to the carriage house to be alone, but she couldn’t stay in the office right now. She gathered her things and asked for permission to leave. She didn’t mention the story to Alan. She’d do it on her own, once she could pull in a breath without it getting stuck between her ribs.
She left her Jeep, deciding the walk would do her good. She’d come back later for her laptop. Slinging her messenger bag over her chest, she set out along Main Street, looking for any sign that the world had shifted—changed—with the absence of one person. She’d edited news stories on death, but there’d always been several degrees of separation. Now she’d be writing about the body she found. The little hairs on her neck stood straight.
“You lose your Jeep?”
Molly turned at the sound of Sam’s voice. The tone and tenor was inviting—soothing like a cup of tea that warmed her from the inside. He stood outside one of the work bays. Behind him was a bright red car with its hood popped. Another mechanic was working beneath a dark truck that was hoisted in the air.
Sam wandered over when Molly just stood on the sidewalk, staring at him. She hadn’t even realized she was walking past the service shop. She needed to jump out of this haze, but she couldn’t shake it. She couldn’t stop seeing Vernon’s lifeless body. If she closed her eyes, it would be all she saw. A shiver raced over her body.
“Hey, you okay?” Sam’s green eyes narrowed as he looked her over, like he could see on the outside what she felt inside.
“Vernon’s dead,” she answered.
Sam’s eyes widened and he stepped closer. “What?”
Obviously, it was too much to keep contained because her words flowed like lava, filling him in on her morning, right there on the side of the street. Cars drove by, a few honked, people called out to one another, and in the distance birds squawked as they circled the pier.
Sam listened without interrupting, his lips parted in small o. When she finished, Molly felt like the weight of a grand piano had drifted up from her shoulders.
Sam bent his knees and put a hand on her shoulder so they were eye to eye. “Stay here a second, okay?” he said.
Molly nodded. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, but she stood still, watching Sam speak to the other mechanic. He was back at her side in seconds. He took her arm and turned her in the other direction.
“Come on,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
“Let’s go grab a drink. You look like you could use the company.”
She couldn’t deny the company part. “It’s too early for a drink,” she said.
Sam laughed, dropping his arm, but staying close, as they walked side by side. “It is absolutely never too early for a milkshake.”
He held the door of Sit & Sip open for her and despite the jumbled state of her thoughts, she inhaled the fresh, crisp scent of his cologne. If only she could trap that smell, maybe she could forget the acrid odor of scotch and stale air. The cool air danced over her skin, making goose bumps come alive.
“Hey Sam. Who’s that you have there?” The guy behind the counter offered a salute-type wave. His dark blond hair was cropped close. He was tall and imposing and didn’t look much like he was the type to serve up milkshakes. He also looked familiar—he was the man she’d seen getting irrationally mad at his vehicle, by the water the other day.
“Hey Callan. This is Molly Owens. She just moved to town.”
Molly was grateful Sam kept it at that. News would spread soon enough. Callan…her mind backtracked, flipping through information. He’d fought with Vernon and he had a temper she’d witnessed. Grateful the work side of her brain even functioned at the moment, she wondered if there was a connection.
“Welcome to Britton Bay, Molly. What can I get you two?”
Sam looked down at Molly, a compassionate twinkle in his gaze. “Trust me?”
She blinked once, then nodded. He ordered one vanilla bean milkshake and one Oreo cookie shake, telling her they’d switch halfway. While Callan made their drinks, Molly forced herself to look around at what she knew was another hot spot in the area. It had retro diner–style tables with splashes of red, white, and blue on the walls and floors. Vintage posters for ice cream, soda, and summer fun adorned the walls. Her eyes kept sneaking back to look at the owner. His relaxed posture as he worked and the hint of a smile on his lips didn’t scream murderer.
“You can’t find a seat once the kids get out of school,” Sam said.
Molly looked up at him, trying to dig herself out of the fog that wouldn’t lift. He’d stayed close to her and she appreciated the warmth. He’d asked if she trusted him and on a gut level, she did. Even without the lure of how his gaze made her stomach tap-dance, he had a vibe that radiated steadfastness. When he tilted his head, bringing it slightly closer to hers, she realized she was staring.
“Here you go,” Callan said, pulling both of their attention. He set the drinks on the counter and smiled at her.
Molly thanked him, taking one of the shakes. Sam paid and took the other. Just as they settled in a booth at the back of the restaurant, near a window, but away from the door, Callan called out over the low music pumping through the speakers.
“You on for poker next Friday or too scared to lose more money to me? Scared Vernon off. My guess is he won’t be scamming any of us again.”
Sam cringed when he looked at Molly. Did Callan know with absolutely certainty how right he was? Molly stared at him, trying to assimilate the two impressions she’d gathered of this man. Was he the easygoing, good-looking shake server or the car-kicking temperamental motorist? Both? Did it even matter?
“I’ll be there. Your luck has to run out soon enough.”
Like Vernon’s, Molly thought. Her thoughts drifted to the conversation she’d had with Calliope. She hadn’t mentioned what Vernon and Callan had argued over. Scamming them, perhaps? If he hadn’t shown last night, maybe he’d been killed before the game. When her eyes drifted to Callan again, he was wiping the counter, whistling softly.
“Vernon wasn’t at poker last night. Did he always play?” Molly asked.
Sam nodded, taking a drink of the vanilla shake.
Molly took a sip of hers and started to speak, but stopped and stared at it. “Oh my God, this is delicious.”
“I know,” he said, a small smile tilting up his lips.
His smile was a distraction for sure, but murder was a bigger one.
“Did Vernon get along with everyone?”
Sam
scoffed. “Do you mean anyone?” He shook his head and frowned. “Sorry. That was insensitive. No. Vernon didn’t go out of his way to make friends, so I wouldn’t say he got along with the others. But he liked to play and until last night, never missed a game.”
Unspoken words settled between them. Vernon obviously had a good reason for missing the game. Molly wondered how close Callan and Sam were. She sipped at her milkshake as the words formed. “What about him and Callan? Calliope said they argued at her diner last week.”
Sam frowned, then gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Both of them are a little hotheaded. If they argued, it was probably just temper over something small. Callan thought Vernon was cheating. I’m not so sure. Are you okay?”
She stared at him and the need to tell someone how she felt clawed at her chest. “I can’t help feeling like I’m responsible for Vernon’s death. I pushed him to go interview the Phillips woman. He takes a day off yesterday, which he apparently never does. Then he ends up dead.”
Sam reached across the table and covered Molly’s hand with his. There was a spark of warmth that travelled up her arm, but there was also a welcome comfort in his touch. Later, when she was alone, she could think about how much she enjoyed the dual sensation.
“Molly, I can’t even imagine how hard it must have been seeing Vernon. But it’s not your fault. The police will figure this out. Sheriff Saron is a good guy. He’s good at his job. And I went to school with Officer Beatty. The truth matters to them and they’ll find it. You didn’t kill Vernon and nothing you did prompted his death. And as for Callan, he was at the game last night.”
The words soothed Molly to a small degree, easing the ache in her chest. Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t have to like the man for death to be sad. But without knowing Vernon’s time of death, could Callan really be ruled out? The man humming behind the counter did not seem like he’d kill and then carry on to a poker game. Sam pulled his hand back, slowly sliding his fingers along her skin and they both returned to their milkshakes. When he made it halfway through his, he switched, making her laugh.
