by Madelyn Alt
Frank Turner.
Oddly enough, none of them paid any attention to me. “Frank, I understand your concern for Eddie here. But there was a report duly filed, and as such we have no choice but to bring him in for questioning. Especially under the circumstances. I know I don’t have to spell that out for you, what with the concerns you shared with me last night.”
“A report of what?” Frank demanded, and in that moment of stubbornness I could see the Turner family resemblance even more clearly.
“You know very well what. Trespassing on private property. Possible break-in. And with everything else that’s going on out there, maybe more.”
“That’s bullshit, Tom.”
A muscle ticked in Tom’s jaw, but as a cop he’d dealt with far worse. Besides, restraint was his middle name. “Bullshit, is it? The report came from your quarter.”
Frank flinched, but seemed to know what to expect when he asked, “Who?”
“You need to get with your sister-in-law to compare notes.”
“Libby.”
“Yeah.”
All the fight eased from Frank’s bulwark shoulders to be replaced with resignation. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I think you’ll understand. Libby’s under a whole lot of strain right now.”
“There have been other reports of Eddie being seen in the vicinity several times after the feed mill was closed. It’s not just Mrs. Turner.”
Frank looked back and forth between Tom and the worried-looking man standing docilely beside him, waiting for his next order. I didn’t know who Eddie was, but his fear and uncertainty were unmistakably compelling.
“Eddie had a reason for being at the feed mill after hours,” Frank said at last.
Tom stopped and gazed at him more closely. “And what might that reason have been?”
Frank’s jaw clenched and unclenched. Then he blew his breath out in one long exhale. “He had my permission.”
A cold wind swept through my mind as worry and suspicion blew into my soul. More niggles. Tom was being awfully serious for someone who’d told me just last night that sometimes an accident was just an accident. It made me think that maybe, just maybe, he’d been saying that to keep me from guessing the truth. Which was sneaky, if you asked me, but a method of protection I might have employed myself, given the right circumstances.
“Your permission.”
Frank gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”
Tom inhaled deeply, his gaze distant as he turned his head a moment to stare out the plate glass windows, still not registering my presence. “I know you’re a Turner, Frank, but I was under the impression that the feed mill was owned solely by your brother Joel. That how you see it?”
“Yeah. Joel bought it from my dad when the cancer hit and Dad needed money. Paid him top dollar for it, too,” he said approvingly, as though he wanted us all to know there had been no family squabbles over ownership of the business that carried their name. “That place was Joel’s life. He slaved over it, night and day. It was his doing that made the place what it is today. Pure and simple.”
Tom took this into consideration. “Did Eddie work for your brother in some capacity?”
“No. He’d helped us out before—shoveling out the holding barns and stuff—but things have been pretty tight lately, what with all the renovations and upgrades, and the mill buyouts, o’course. Joel had to cut back where he could.”
“Then you won’t mind me asking what reason Eddie could have had for being on the property after hours, with your permission.”
Frank stuffed his hands in the front pouch of his overalls, but said nothing.
Tom tried a different tack. “You were older than your brother, weren’t you, Frank?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“No animosity toward him? No bruised feelings that your dad sold the feed mill to your younger brother rather than you?”
From Frank emerged a wry half-laugh. “Hell, I couldn’t have afforded it anyway. My ex-wife saw to that. And the responsibility of all those people . . . it was never my thing. Nah, it was better that Joel had it. I worked for him, and it suited me just fine. In my mind, I got the best of both worlds. I got to work at the place I loved, without all the headaches of ownership. Not that managing the livestock department wasn’t important to the feed mill, but . . . well, there it is,” he summed up what for him as a man of obviously few words must have amounted to a monologue.
“And what about now that he’s gone?” Tom asked him. “Ownership would go to the wife, I’m assuming, unless the will says otherwise. She doesn’t look the type to want to run the place herself. Who’ll do it with Joel gone?”
Frank looked at Tom as though he had two heads. “You saying what I think you’re saying? You think I had something to do with my brother’s death?” His eyes flashed, cold steel. “My own brother?”
“I’m not saying anything of the kind,” Tom stated evenly. “I’m just offering up things that might need to be thought about.”
“Well, that’s what it sounded like to me. And I’ll tell you what, just so’s you know. Family is family, and blood is blood, and there ain’t no one who’s gonna be accusing me of not standing by my own.” The tersely spoken words cut through the thinly veiled accusation that was a part of any investigation, laying his position clearly on the line.
“And Eddie?” Tom asked quietly. “How does he fit into all of this? Come on, Frank. You said you gave him permission. Permission for what?” When Frank didn’t answer, Tom pivoted Eddie gently toward the door to the jail intake area and began to punch in the security access code.
“Wait.”
Tom’s hand hovered over the digital display.
“He had my permission to be there . . . because he needed a place to stay for a little while. The home he was assigned to wouldn’t let him in because there was some bungle at state level and no one was paying, so I told him he could stay at the feed mill until they got it all worked out. He doesn’t have anyone, you see. Family’s all gone. There’s a spare storage room in the barn where the bulk of the payloaders and other equipment’s kept, up on the mezzanine. I just . . . put him up there with an air mattress, even though he spends most of the time with the hogs in the holding pen. And I’ve been making sure he was getting enough to eat. I knew Joel wouldn’ta minded.”
Suddenly I understood why Frank had been doing all the talking while Eddie stood by looking scared and uncertain. Eddie was . . . special. And just as suddenly, I was seeing rough-edged Frank in a whole new light. Sometimes angels come in the most unusual packages.
Tom got Eddie’s attention. “Is that true? You’ve been staying at the feed mill, nights?”
Eddie’s saucered eyes focused, unblinking and scared, on Tom’s face before flickering in Frank’s direction and then back again. He nodded.
“You’re sure?” Tom persisted.
Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I take care of the cats. I like cats. You like cats?” He darted a glance in Frank’s direction again with a lift of his brows as though to ask, Is that all right? Did I do good?
Frank nodded his approval. The set of his mouth was grim, but his voice was gentle-gruff. “We like cats, Eddie.” He lifted his gaze to Tom. “Eddie’s a bit of a Pied Piper with animals. Hogs. Cows. They all follow him around like he was Jesus. But I guess he likes cats best. We get loads of cats out at the feed mill during the night. Joel never minded ’em, because they kept the rats and mice at bay.”
R-rats? Ehhhh . . . Still, that would explain the presence of Minnie in the steel culvert.
Tom seemed to have made up his mind. He turned away from the intake door and turned the two men toward the office. “I’d like to talk to you both more, if that’s all right with you?”
Frank assessed him carefully. Satisfied with what he saw in Tom’s face, he gave him a brief nod. “Come on, Eddie. The police officer would like to ask us a few more questions. That okay with you?”
“You’ll be there?” Eddie asked.
“Yeah. Right there with you.”
“Okay. Say, you got any chocolate? I got a real hankering for some chocolate. My ma always used to make chocolate cookies. Real good ones. You got any cookies?”
Tom guided them through the office door the dispatcher had buzzed open for them. “First door on the right. You’ll find chairs right there.” To Frank, he muttered under his breath, “You’ll also find a couple of candy bars in the upper-right-hand drawer.”
Frank gave him the first real smile I’d seen since I walked through the door. “Thanks.” He clapped Tom on the shoulder.
Tom didn’t follow them. Instead he let the office door relock itself before he turned to me where I was still standing frozen in the front entry.
I held up a hand and waved. “Hey, stranger.”
“Hey, yourself.”
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to barge in on all of that.”
“It’s okay. I knew you were there.”
Knew it, and was okay with it, his eyes seemed to say. I relaxed a little bit.
“What’s in the cooler? Dinner?”
My gaze followed the path his had taken, toward my right hand. I laughed. “Um, not dinner. I have a new friend.” I lifted the soft-sided carrier so that he could peep in at Minnie, who was sleeping soundly away.
Tom raised his brows. “First the dog, and now this. You have a real thing for animals, don’t you.”
“She needed rescuing,” I said simply.
“Ah. So you have a thing for rescuing those in need, hm?”
I heard the undertone in his voice change to one of seduction, and I grinned. “Kind of.”
“After the other night, I’ve been thinking I could use a little rescuing,” he suggested. He glanced over his shoulder at the dispatcher, but she had her eyes focused intently on the multiple data screens in front of her and was speaking into her headset while her fingers danced across the keyboard. He leaned closer to me, his breath moving my hair, and whispered, “And I’m most definitely someone in need.”
“Well,” I whispered back, mere centimeters from his ear, “that’s going to present a problem, considering that you have two people waiting for you in there, and I have three people waiting for me at Mel’s. Remember? My ailing sister?”
It wasn’t a new problem for us, by any means. In fact, it was probably our biggest holdup in the larger scheme of things, relationshipwise. This was early days for us. Time for getting-to-know-you. Time to put each other first, to delight in each other’s company, completely and utterly. It really wasn’t supposed to be this hard to get together. At least, I didn’t think it was.
Tom sighed and backed off. “Spoilsport.”
“I’m sorry. You know I would like nothing better . . . but duty calls for both of us.”
“And you’re a taskmaster, too.”
I held up the cat carrier again. “Say good night, Minnie.”
“And now you have me talking to your cat, too. Will it never end? Good night, Minnie.”
“Be sure to let me know how things go with Frank and Eddie, ‘kay?”
“Don’t know that I can share much, but . . . Hey, why did you come in just now? Did you need something?”
“I just wanted to see you. And”—because I had decided honesty was the best policy in dealing with a man who placed such a high premium on the rules—“I was wondering whether anything had changed with regards to Joel Turner’s death. Whether it was still being investigated as an accident or not.”
Tom looked back over his shoulder, but the dispatcher was still involved with her call. “There’s been nothing definitive either way. Some things aren’t really adding up for us, so until the medical examiner’s decision is filed, we’re taking it all in, as much as possible.”
His conversation with Frank and Eddie had provided that much information. “What things aren’t adding up?” I asked him.
He gave me his look, that special look that told me I was pushing too far.
“Well, you don’t have to tell me,” I said, the height of innocence, “but I do have connections to the Turner family through my sister, and . . . well . . . maybe I can help. Sometimes people give out more information to their friends and peers than they think.”
He seemed to consider this. “Might have nothing to do with the Turners at all, when all is said and done,” he reminded me, “but . . . yeah. Okay.”
“You’ll call me?”
“Yeah. Later.”
Well, at least there was something to be looking forward to. And at least I knew he was at least willing to, maybe, possibly, be a little bit open to whoever or whatever might come forward in relation to Joel’s death. Which was a very good thing, given the niggling little nudges I’d been receiving all day every time I thought about the accident. Spirit nudges. An accident that was no accident? That was what I was most afraid of. And I couldn’t get one particular, meaningless detail out of my head and had no explanation as to why.
“Tom . . .”
He paused at the locked door. “Yeah?”
“This is probably nothing, and I don’t even know why I’m telling you, except . . . well. I don’t know. I went into the feed mill office with the Turners the night Joel was found, and I accidentally happened to see Joel’s desk calendar. And . . . well . . . like I said, it’s probably meaningless, but . . . Joel Turner had two appointments with the same doctor this month. Dr. Dorffman. It was on his desk calendar. Maybe you should ask the Turners about them? If he had a serious medical problem, maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe it was . . . well . . . a suicide. You never know.”
His brows quirked together, but his face remained otherwise impassive. “Okay. Sure, yeah. Thanks for the tip.”
Chapter 11
Minnie and I made our way to Mel’s house once I left the PD. Well, I did. Minnie just snoozed and yawned and stretched her way there. I didn’t know how Mel would feel about me bringing Minnie along, but beggars cannot be choosers. Besides, after what Liss had told me about the effects cats can have on the darker spirits out there, perhaps Mel should think about adopting one herself.
Mom was in the kitchen, waiting for me. “There you are!” she said. “I thought maybe I was on my own tonight after all.”
“Sorry,” I told her, setting the carrier down on a chair. “I needed to stop in to see Tom before I came over.”
Instantly her annoyance left her. “Oh. Oh, well, that’s fine, dear. Whatever you need to do is fine with me, of course. You know that.”
Yeah, I knew that. If it meant I had a boyfriend (i.e. potential husband material) that she approved of, I could get away with murder. So to speak. Mom’s goals for us kids had turned out to be fairly simple. Raise us to be good Catholics, who would marry other good Catholics and then very quickly have children who would of course be raised to be—you guessed it—good Catholics. Elevating the family’s status in Stony Mill society was a secondary plan that followed neatly in line with the first. It wasn’t a bad plan; just slightly suffocating. My older brother, Marshall, had escaped her watchful eye by making a bid for freedom and autonomy in New York City, which had the unfortunate side effect of focusing Mom even more intently on my life. Especially since Mel had married her college sweetheart the weekend after graduation and immediately set off on fulfilling the details of my mother’s master plan down to the minute. I, on the other hand, had disappointed Mom at every turn by leaving school without a degree, by breaking up with a fiancé owing to technical difficulties, and even by avoiding the Church she loved so well because my heart just wasn’t in it. I think she had almost given up on me entirely when I started seeing Tom. In her mind, I think we were already well on the way to the altar and Babyland. And what she didn’t know . . . would keep me out of the doghouse.
There really was something to be said for a breakdown in communication.
“What have you got there?” Mom asked.
I showed her Minnie.
&nbs
p; “Oh, how sweet. But did you have to choose black, dear? I mean, I suppose that is just superstition, but sometimes I think it’s better not to tempt fate.”
I had never really taken notice of my mother’s superstitions before. Or maybe I had viewed them as an offshoot of her religious convictions. “I didn’t choose her. She chose me.”
Mom gave me a sidelong glance. “Don’t be silly, Margaret. She’s a cat. Beings without souls do not choose. They simply act based on the instincts God gave them.”
There would be no arguing with her, so I didn’t even try. How could I explain that even in the space of a single day, Minnie had shown a very special affinity to me? That she had followed me around the store, preferring to be in my sphere over all others, and that she would watch me, her jewel-toned eyes bright and happy whenever I looked in her direction? That she seemed to be trying to communicate?
“Where are the girls?” I asked instead as I took Minnie out of the carrier. Immediately she scrambled up my arms and took up her perch on my shoulders.
“Well, I never . . .” Mom’s eyes were focused on the kitten. “Oh, the girls? They just left. They have a double dance class tonight. Margo Craig offered to take them with her daughter. With everything going on right now with your sister, Margo thought it best that their lives were disrupted as little as possible.”
I nodded. “That was . . . nice.” When it came to Margo, that was a supremely difficult admission for me to make, but the truth is the truth.
“Mm. Anyway, they won’t be home until eight-thirty.” Mom gathered up her bulging purse, an equally bulging tote bag, and her latest reading material, Agatha Christie’s Sleeping Murder. My mom was a big aficionado of Dame Agatha. She must have read each of the books at least five times, but she still found enjoyment in the simple truths Christie put forth: That nothing was as it might seem, and yet everything made perfect sense. That the only truth was the one that facts supported. That people always have reasons, right or wrong, for the things that they do. And that no matter how much people lied, or tried to hide, the truth, eventually it would come out in the most mysterious of ways.
