Deadly News

by Jody Holford

  Crazy, indeed. “Anyway, that means we definitely have an opening at the paper, so I’m going to call Jill on my way over to Vanessa Phillips’s house.”

  Sam frowned. Before he could say what he was thinking, the side door opened and another mechanic poked his head through.

  “Hey, boss? Can you take a quick look at something for me?”

  The guy didn’t look old enough to be a mechanic.

  Sam smiled his way. “Sure, Mac. Be right there.” Sam turned back to Molly. “Work placement through the high school. Why are you heading to Vanessa’s?”

  “We still want to run the interview, but Vernon never emailed it. I’m going to go speak to her myself. Her daughter said she enjoyed chatting, so I figured it wouldn’t be a big deal. But I can’t get ahold of her. I’ve left four messages.”

  His lips tilted down. “Maybe she’s out of town? Did you try phoning Clara?”

  Molly had thought about it, but since she hoped the sheriff would be following through on asking Savannah about blue paint, she didn’t want to risk getting in the way. The officers of Britton Bay already thought she was developing a habit.

  “No reason to. She told me when she stopped by that she and her husband are busy getting the town ready for tourist season. I’ll just swing by Vanessa’s and see if I can catch her.”

  The phone rang again. Molly smiled. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  Sam reached over the countertop and grabbed her keys. “You want to grab a pizza later or something?” They walked out of the shop together, around the side of the building, where her Jeep—freshly coated—was parked.

  “I’d like that. Oh! It looks fantastic. Thank you,” Molly said, rushing forward. Her insurance had taken care of the cost, minus the deductible, which still stung, but the shine made it look brand new.

  “No problem.” He put his hands in the pockets of his coveralls and rocked back on his heels.

  “It looks like it just rolled off the showroom floor,” Molly said.

  “Nothing a little backwoods camping trip wouldn’t fix,” Sam teased.

  Molly’s smile was quick, like the spark of heat that trailed over her skin. “Not in this lifetime. Even if we come to some sort of glamping compromise, there’ll be no backwoods involved.”

  Sam laughed and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “See you later, city girl.”

  She watched him walk away and then slid behind the wheel, gripping it in her excitement to finally have it back. Vanessa Phillips lived on the outer edge of town, where more land separated each home. The further Molly drove from Main Street, the larger the homes got. Unlike Alan’s area of town, however, the upper point of Britton Bay was set back, more in the hills, without the view of the water.

  At one time, it had probably been farmland, but now, it was where the more established residents of the area resided. Even if Molly could afford one of the stately homes, she preferred the view of the water and the easy access to all of the shops. As she took the winding road that led to the Phillips home, she could admit that there was a different kind of peace and serenity in this area than the ocean offered; like they were removed from the frenzy of life.

  As Molly parked the Jeep in the circular driveway, she saw a woman in a wide-brimmed sun hat kneeling in front of one of the many flower gardens. Color blossomed everywhere, a rainbow of blooms that Molly couldn’t even begin to name. She got out of her Jeep and strolled over. The woman turned, tipping her head up to greet Molly. In the shade of her hat, Molly could see the striking resemblance to Clara and a classic kind of beauty that only grew more with age.

  “Hi there,” the woman—who had to be Vanessa—greeted with an inviting smile.

  Around her knees, which Molly saw were covered with pads, weeds were tossed in small piles.

  “Hi. Are you Mrs. Phillips?” Molly greeted.

  Small creases formed on the woman’s mostly smooth skin. “I am.” She stood, brushed off her dark, linen pants. Trim, with thick, dark hair that trailed out from under the hat, Vanessa Phillips did not look like she was suffering from dementia. Looks can be deceiving.

  Still, she decided to tread lightly. “I’m sorry to bother you at home. My name is Molly Owens,” she said, extending her hand.

  Vanessa’s eyes widened and she took a step back. “The reporter. You’ve been leaving messages.”

  Nerves clanged in Molly’s chest like cymbals. Had she truly been that annoying? “I’m actually an editor for the Britton Bay Bulletin. I wasn’t trying to pester you, Mrs. Phillips.”

  The woman waved her hand, cutting off Molly’s intent to apologize. “No. Stop. It doesn’t matter. You need to go. If I’d wanted to talk to you, I’d have answered or returned your call.”

  Pressing her lips together, Molly held both hands up. Was paranoia a sign of dementia? “I mean no harm. Honestly. I just wanted to follow up on Mr. East’s interview with you.”

  Vanessa shook her head, almost frantically. “No. Stop. I shouldn’t have done the interview. I need you to leave.”

  Words flooded Molly’s head, but she couldn’t get any of them out in coherent sentences. Her pulse raced as Vanessa walked a wide berth around her and headed for the stairs that led up to the columned porch. She opened the huge wooden door and turned before going inside.

  “Don’t come back. And stop calling.”

  She slammed the door, leaving Molly with absolutely no clue what had just happened.

  Irritation and nerves took turns nagging Molly as she got back in her Jeep. What on earth? Officer Beatty said it was just a rumor, but if that reaction is anything to go by, Vanessa Phillips is certainly suffering from something. She looked almost…scared. The last person who interviewed her ended up dead. Maybe she’s developed an aversion.

  It didn’t sit right and on top of not understanding, Molly felt badly for upsetting the woman. Turning back in the direction of town, she saw the sign for the Greedy Grocer and remembered Calliope telling her it was the best place to shop. Maybe instead of pizza, she could make Sam dinner. She was an editor, for goodness sakes—surely she could follow a recipe well enough to make up for her ineptitude with sweet-talk. She tried to think of what she could make instead of rolling the conversation—or lack thereof—with Vanessa. The grocery store was tucked back from the street. It shared a large parking lot with a gelato shop, an antique store, and a liquor store.

  Molly got out, thinking more about Vernon’s thoughts that Vanessa was a drinker, than of what she could make for dinner. The inside of the store was much like any chain store, but smaller. An older gentleman was behind the counter, scratching a lottery ticket. He nodded hello when she stepped inside. The cool air sent goose bumps up her arms. Heading away from the check-out area, Molly combed the aisles with a basket, paying little attention to the food, even though that’s what she was there for.

  In the end, she grabbed some soda, beer, cereal, and a delicious-looking chocolate torte cake. They could have pizza and cake. She saw the headline of the newspaper before she reached the counter. She’d helped print it and it still surprised her to see it there.

  “Sure is a shame, isn’t it?” The man who’d greeted her gestured to the copy of the Bulletin he had sitting in front of him.

  Molly nodded. She set her basket on the counter and unloaded the items.

  “You’re new around here. I’m Archie,” he said as he tapped on the register.

  “Molly. I work at the Bulletin, actually. We printed the story for today’s edition.”

  Archie’s weathered face scrunched up. “Not the best time to start a job there, now is it? Been no trouble of this sort in this town for as long as I can remember. Sad to see, I’ll tell you that. Where you from, Molly?”

  She shared the basics as he rang her up.

  “California. Well, I’d say we’re a lot quieter and friendlier than a big city, recent ci
rcumstances aside. He was in here just last week complaining about my prices.”

  Molly froze as she was putting the basket into the stack of them. “Who was? Vernon?”

  Archie nodded, placing her items in a paper bag. “Who else? Hadn’t seen him in a while. He was dating a woman out this way last year. Didn’t last long, but he used to come in once a week, Wednesday nights, grab a bottle of wine.”

  Molly couldn’t even begin to think of Vernon grabbing a bottle of anything to share with a date. He’d have to be civil to be on one and she’d never had a chance to see him that way.

  “What did he buy?”

  Archie pushed the bag over to her. “Hmm?”

  Feeling an unusual amount of impatience, she forced her tone to stay steady. “What did Vernon buy? When he came in?”

  “Oh. Nothing. Came in and asked if I had a landline. Checked the price of bananas on his way out and told me they were cheaper at the Stop and Shop. Some people are born complainers.”

  Molly was only partially listening to Archie by this point. “Who did he phone?” More importantly, why didn’t he use his cell phone? Maybe it died.

  The old guy stared at her as if she’d grown feathers. “Gosh, girl. I don’t know. Didn’t ask him. Costs nothing to make a local call. I let him use the phone, he told someone to meet him at his house and hung up on ’em. His cell was chiming away in his pocket, so he answered that as he wandered around checking out my prices. That’s twelve forty-seven.” Archie was clearly done with their conversation or Molly’s questioning.

  She handed him a twenty and waited for the change. She didn’t want to ask more questions and irritate someone else in town, but there were dozens brewing in her head.

  “It was nice to meet you, Archie,” Molly said.

  He frowned, like he wasn’t entirely sure he could say the same. “You too, girl. Have a good day.”

  She loaded her things in the Jeep and forced herself to take a few steadying breaths before she started the engine. Something wasn’t right. The puzzle pieces might fit, but they were being jammed into open spaces. Molly had a feeling that the pieces needed—the ones that actually went with this puzzle—were still missing.

  Putting the Jeep in drive, she headed toward town. She crossed a couple of items off of her to-do list, but she’d sure put a lot more on her mind. Clay might have confessed—heck, he may well have done it, but Molly firmly believed there was more to the story. What am I missing? She wasn’t sure, but she couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that she really needed to see Vernon’s laptop.

  Chapter 23

  Who had he called and why hadn’t he used his cell phone? The questions slapped at Molly like pesky mosquitos. She pulled into the driveway of Vernon’s home, her stomach clenching at the sight of his car. Gretta’s car, with its trove of teddy bears, was parked behind it.

  Molly got out of her Jeep and walked to the door. It was opened seconds after she knocked. Gretta’s face was red and blotchy. She could have been a human version of a puffer fish.

  “Hi,” Gretta said, her voice scratchy.

  “Hi. I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Molly Owens. I worked with Vernon and Clay at the Bulletin.”

  The teary-eyed woman inhaled a bumpy breath. “Okay. What can I do for you, Molly?”

  Beyond Gretta, she saw boxes scattered, but didn’t hear anyone moving around.

  “You packing up Vernon’s things?”

  Gretta wiped her nose as she nodded. “I am. It’s gotta be done. Clay was supposed to help me.” Her voice trailed off and she turned, her shoulders shaking as she walked away.

  Molly stepped inside and closed the door behind her, unsure of how to proceed. Setting her purse on the coat hook by the door, Molly followed Gretta down the hall and into the living room.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. Molly had no idea what she could do for this woman, but she was willing to try.

  Gretta sank into the couch, still sniffling. “Can you bring back the man I love? Get my boy out of jail?”

  Frowning, Molly watched her step as she went into the sunken living room. She took a seat on the edge of a chair, her eyes drawn to the desk; to the spot beside the desk on the floor, where Vernon’s body had lain lifeless. Her pulse slowed and her breathing felt thick. You’re fine. You’re fine. She hadn’t considered how it would feel to come back here.

  “I’m sorry to say I can’t do either of those things. But I can listen if you need to talk or help you pack if you’d like.”

  “Were you friends with Clay or Vernon?”

  Molly figured honesty was the best route. “No. I’ve only known both of them just over a week. I’m the new editor at the Bulletin. Vernon and I didn’t get off to a great start, because I’d assigned an addition to the story he was working on.”

  Gretta gave a rough laugh. “Yeah, he didn’t care much for being told what to do.”

  Molly glanced at the laptop sitting on the desk. “No. I wish we’d gotten off on better footing, though. Actually, the reason I’m here is because the story Vernon was supposed to send to me, he never did. The police had to check the laptop, but I see they’ve given it back.”

  Glancing over, Gretta shrugged. “Yeah. I’m not much good with computers.”

  “Is there any chance I could take a look at it? I could pull up the interview he was working on and email it to myself. Alan—he owns the paper—wanted to do a special tribute to Vernon in the next few weeks, so we’d really like to have the last piece he was working on.”

  Gretta nodded. “Sure. That sounds nice. I’m probably just going to sell it anyway. I’ve got all of this stuff to sell. I don’t want it. He left me everything. Why would he do that?”

  Molly eased back in the chair. “I don’t know. Maybe he was still in love with you? You’re the mother of his son.”

  Tears started flowing again. “The son that killed him. I just can’t believe it. I don’t understand. When I got here last week and found out Vernon was dead, Clay said he thought it was some Elizabeth woman that they worked with.”

  He wouldn’t likely point the finger at himself. “The police did suspect her, but they found nothing when they looked.”

  Gretta stood abruptly. “I don’t believe my boy has it in him to kill.”

  Speaking over the heavy pounding of her heart, Molly tried to keep her tone neutral. “It sounds like things just got out of control. An argument that led to blows and it just got pushed too far. Have you talked to Clay since he confessed?”

  Pacing, she shook her head. “Doesn’t want to see me.”

  Because he’s ashamed? Gretta’s earlier words registered. “You were already here when Vernon was killed?” Clay had said he was going to go visit his mother. Presumably at her house. He’d said Portland.

  The woman stopped, her breathing ragged. Her back-and-forth motion on top of the crying was wearing her out. “I’d gotten here the day before he died. Wanted to surprise Vernon. We’d started keeping in touch through texts. Should have known I was reading too much into them. I showed up on Clay’s doorstep Wednesday night. I tried to go talk to Vernon at his work Thursday. Couldn’t believe how angry he was I’d just shown up. Said he’d texted cause he was bored, but it was a mistake. He didn’t want nothing to do with me. We argued some, but I thought, Why bother? I was going to just go home. Spend a few days with my boy and head back to my own life. But then Clay came home and told me they’d found his dad dead.”

  The timeline flashed like cue cards in Molly’s head. “You saw Vernon on Thursday? Behind the Bulletin?”

  Gretta started up her pacing again. “I did. There’s a lot of history between us and I know a lot of the bad things that have happened are my fault. I owned that. But I told him I was ready to start fresh. Gave him my favorite teddy in my collection and that jerk threw it as I was driving away. God. Why’d I ev
er love that man? He was born with poison in his veins.”

  Once more, she flopped to the couch, displacing one of the cushions. “And even knowing that, I loved him.”

  Molly was trying to focus on staying compassionate, but questions fired like missiles in her head. “Vernon was killed Friday night sometime. Was Clay home at all that night?”

  “Sure. We ordered in and watched some television. One of those fix-it shows. I was telling him he could stand to fix up his little dump of a house. Must have made him mad because he said he had to go out. I was in bed before he came home.”

  Clay had left his house, with his mother there, to kill his father? But why? “Do you know what Clay and his dad argued about?”

  Closing her eyes and resting her head back on the couch, Gretta shook her head again. “What didn’t they argue about? I know Clay was mad at his dad for treating me like dirt and telling me to get lost. But they’ve always fought. Never had two nice words to say about each other. But I still can’t believe my boy would hurt someone. Especially not his own family. Heck, half the time he was spitting mad at us because we didn’t act enough like a family.”

  The sad, lonely boy who wanted his parents back together, even as an adult? It didn’t seem like much of a motive to Molly, but she didn’t mind not being able to understand how a killer’s thought process worked.

  Gretta was staring at her, most of her tears dry now. “When the sheriff came to arrest him, I tried to stop them, but they had one of those warrants. There was nothing I could do. Clay looked like he was going to cry. He just kept looking at me, like he couldn’t believe it was happening, you know? And he told me that it was about time one of us did something for the other. Then he told the officers he did it.”

  Molly’s phone buzzed and she pulled it from her pocket. Wincing, she apologized to Gretta for the interruption and answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi Molly, its Officer Beatty. I wanted to talk to you about your Jeep. You at home?”

  “Uh…no. But I will be in a little while.”