“I’m not sure.” It was better if she didn’t know that Jake and I planned to interview Noah. She had spent her whole life in a small town where people took family feuds seriously. So despite the fact that Noah had betrayed me more than a decade ago, the mere mention of my high school boyfriend’s name usually sent Gran into a paroxysm of cursing that would make a rap singer blush.
“When are you seeing Tony’s grandnephew again?” Gran’s blasé expression didn’t fool me one bit.
“We haven’t made any firm plans.” Last night, the moment Jake pulled up to my back door, I’d hightailed it out of his truck without giving him a chance to even say good-bye, let alone set up a time to question Noah.
Escaping from the kitchen, I went into my bedroom to get ready for work. Since there was a good chance I’d be seeing both Noah and Jake today, I considered wearing something other than my usual clothes. But I decided that dressing differently for them would be admitting I cared what either man thought of me. I did put on my best, most slimming jeans, and the aquamarine Devereaux’s Dime Store sweatshirt that brought out the color of my eyes, but I drew the line at makeup, or changing my hairstyle from its usual ponytail.
As I headed into town, I noticed that the wind had really picked up overnight. It was so strong that the birds were riding their feeders as if they were Tilt-A-Whirls, and sleet blew across the blacktop, making it hard to see where the road ended and the ditch began.
It was a relief to cross into the city limits since there the streets were plowed and salted. The snow-covered village square, with the bandstand at the heart of it, reminded me of everything I loved about Shadow Bend. I had fond memories of playing tag with Boone and Poppy among the eight white cast-iron columns and then, once we had exhausted ourselves, lying on our backs and staring at the summer blue sky through the intricately carved decorative arches that linked the pillars.
I cruised the four blocks, passing the Greek Revival building that housed the bank, the unadorned cinder-block newspaper office, Little’s Tea Room in its Queen Anne–style house, and the movie theater with its limestone facade and art deco entrance. Because it was too cold and too early for many folks to be out and about, the sidewalks were deserted, and the area looked like a postcard of an idyllic Midwestern small town.
Shadow Bend had an oddly divided population. On the homegrown side were the farmers, ranchers, and people who worked at one of the three small factories that had managed to ride out both the first recession in the eighties and the more recent economic slump of the past few years.
On the nonindigenous side were the individuals who had moved to the area to raise their families in a more wholesome atmosphere than most city neighborhoods could offer. Although they were willing to face a long, often brutal commute to provide a simpler childhood for their kids, many felt the town should adjust to them rather than vice versa. And that attitude often created problems.
Native Shadow Benders were trying hard to maintain the way of life with which they had grown up. A way of life that meant taking civic responsibility and working hard. A way of life in which it never occurred to people that they were entitled to something just for being born. They wanted their world to remain a safe and orderly place, as it had been for the past hundred years. And they distrusted the change the newcomers brought with them.
Since I had worked in Kansas City for many years but always lived in Shadow Bend, I tried hard to make my store a spot where both factions felt comfortable. Unlike Brewfully Yours, which catered to the commuters, or the feed store, whose sign out front said it all—GUNS, COLD BEER, BAIT—my goal was to offer a neutral zone where the two groups could find some common ground.
And I had been succeeding; Blood, Sweat, and Shears, the sewing club that met on Wednesday evenings at the dime store, had nearly equal numbers of townies and outsiders in its membership. In addition, the kids who hung around after school had accepted my decree that if I saw any evidence of cliques, discrimination, or bullying, everyone would be kicked out, not just the guilty parties.
All of which explained why it was so important for me to protect the respectable reputation that I had been slowly regaining after my previous run-in with the law. I needed to find out who had killed Joelle Ayers, and I needed to find out fast—before Detective Woods pointed all eyes in my direction and ruined everything.
Jake’s inquiries had helped by shedding new light on the victim, but as he’d said, it was doubtful that anything he’d discovered would shake Woods’s conviction that I was the murderer. Jake’s prediction was confirmed when I found the detective waiting for me as I turned down the alley and parked in the small lot behind my store.
Huddled in a puffy dark blue Michelin Man coat, Woods stood by his unmarked Crown Victoria, and as I got out of my car, he silently followed me inside. I stopped in the back room and faced him. Even though the store wasn’t yet open for the day, and there weren’t any customers present, I wanted to make absolutely sure that this conversation took place in private.
“I had an interesting phone call this morning,” Woods said, rocking on his heels. When I didn’t respond, his expression soured and he continued. “It was a request from the feds for our victim’s fingerprints.”
Wow! It was only eight thirty and Jake’s girlfriend at the U.S. Marshal’s office had already contacted the Kansas City PD. That was impressive.
“Really.” I tried hard to sound only mildly interested. “Why would they want that?”
“They wouldn’t say.” Woods crossed his arms. “Do you want to hear my theory?”
“Knock yourself out.” I hoped he knew I meant that literally.
“I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got the call. I asked myself, who else involved in this case has a history with the feds? And guess what? The only name that came to mind was yours.”
“The feds completely cleared me of any suspicion concerning their investigation of Stramp Investments.” It took all of my self-control not to groan. “They are not interested in me anymore.” Damn! In helping me, Jake had put an even bigger target on my back.
“Or so they told you.” Woods’s voice dripped with satisfaction.
“This isn’t about me.” I didn’t stamp my foot at his stupidity, but I may have tapped my toe a couple of times. “While you’re trying to pin the murder on me, the real killer is laughing up his sleeve at you.”
“Oh, you won’t be laughing once I figure out what you and Joelle Ayers and the feds all have in common,” Woods warned. “Was she in on the embezzlement scheme with you and your boss?”
“No. As I’ve said repeatedly, I wasn’t in on the scheme. And as far as I know, Joelle has never had anything to do with Stramp Investments. She definitely was never an employee or client while I worked there.”
“Don’t think you can hide your connection with Joelle forever.” He fingered his gun. “My partner and I are turning over every rock, and eventually someone is going to slither out and spill their guts about you and the vic.”
Maybe I had made a mistake in my desire for no witnesses to our encounter. “Look. I’d like to help you out.” I edged farther away from Woods. “The door’s right behind you.”
Ignoring my invitation to leave, Woods said, “And once the department legal eagles clear it, everyone in this town will know you’re under suspicion.”
Ah. So that was why there hadn’t been any gossip about me so far. Boone had said he had threatened the Kansas City Police Department with a lawsuit if they leaked my name to the press without any evidence against me.
“You’re not getting off scot-free this time.” Woods advanced on me.
It was time to get serious. “You need to go.” I held up my cell and hit the button for Boone. “I just called my lawyer and he’ll hear anything you do or say to me. Unless you have a warrant, this conversation is over and I’m requesting that you leave my property.”
“I hate cell phones.” Woods whirled around and marched out, muttering, “Your boss may
have weaseled out of serving prison time, but someone is going to pay for losing my retirement money.”
I was still flustered by the detective’s visit an hour later when I opened the front door for Hannah. My anxiety must have shown, because she followed me over to the bookrack and watched as I fumbled with the paperbacks. The ability to slip them into the correct slots was eluding me.
“Are you okay, Dev?” Hannah tilted her head, and the tiny gold hoop adorning her right nostril caught the light streaming in through the big plate-glass window.
“I’m fine.”
“Then why are you putting the new Jennifer Crusie where the fantasy/science fiction books go?” Hannah was more astute than a lot of adults gave her credit for being. The way she dressed—today she had on a pink Hello Kitty T-shirt, black lace knee-length tights, and a white tutu—and her unusual way of thinking fooled them into believing she was too weird to be insightful.
“Well, the happily-ever-after romances Crusie writes are about as realistic as the magical world in the Harry Potter books.” My feeble attempt to distract Hannah with humor didn’t work.
“Fine.” Hannah narrowed her eyes. “But the next time I have a problem, you won’t be able to make me tell you about it.”
Was that a threat or a promise? Missing out on some teenage angst didn’t sound that bad to me. But then, I didn’t have a maternal bone in my body.
The morning went downhill from there. After dealing with unhappy vendors, dissatisfied customers, and a ninety-year-old shoplifter who stuffed skeins of yarn down her bra and a floral arrangement into her underwear, I was close to screaming when Poppy arrived at a little after eleven. She took one look at my face, opened her gigantic lime green purse, and handed me a sheet of bubble wrap.
When I raised a questioning brow, Poppy said with a straight face, “Therapy is expensive. Bursting bubble wrap is cheap. You choose.”
While Poppy explained her presence, I discovered the joys of popping.
Poppy had been on her way to see the mayor, but realized she needed a witness in case he said anything incriminating, so she asked me to go with her. As I opened my mouth to agree, a part of my mind automatically reminded me of all that I had to do around the store—restock shelves, place orders, pay bills, and select the next candy of the month. But if I was in prison none of that would matter. Despite my enormous to-do list, my priority had to be clearing my name.
CHAPTER 10
Jake had slept poorly. The pain in his leg and thoughts of Devereaux had kept him awake as he alternated between staring at the ceiling and the clock. By five a.m. he was already dressed and outside doing chores.
It looked as if Wednesday’s weather would be a repeat of the past couple of days—cold, windy, and miserable. In the winter, the cows didn’t have grass to eat, so they had to be given the hay that had been harvested from the fields during the summer. Jake, Tony, and the hired hands had to haul bale after bale out to the pastures, and the blowing snow made feeding the herd even more difficult.
While he worked, Jake brooded about his actions the night before. After hanging up on Meg, he’d forced himself to keep his expression impassive as he turned back to Devereaux. Poker-faced, he’d coolly discussed the implications of Joelle Ayers’s apparent false identity and the results of his interview with Anya Hamilton. Had he made the right decision to hide his frustration and raging lust? Or should he have swept Devereaux back into his arms?
It had been tough ignoring the voice inside his head that insisted he explain to her both why he’d been checking up on her and what the situation was with Meg. In the long run, he knew it was better to let Devereaux think he was a two-timing jerk. That way she wouldn’t be tempted to do something he’d no doubt make her regret. Relationships never worked for him, and she didn’t seem the type who would be satisfied with just hooking up for a few nights of wild sex.
As he’d driven back to the ranch, he’d nearly managed to convince himself that he was glad they’d been interrupted and that in the future he would keep a professional distance from the luscious Miss Devereaux Sinclair. That is, until he’d leaned over the passenger seat to reach into the glove compartment for his gun and caught a whiff of her perfume. Its crisp, yet sweet scent brought his desire rushing back.
When Jake had stomped into the house a few minutes later, the look on his face must have deterred his uncle from asking any questions, because Tony hadn’t tried to detain him. Instead, he’d silently shoved a bottle of Corona into his hand and patted his back as Jake trudged past him into his bedroom.
Now, while Jake took care of the infected navel of one calf, the injured ear of a second, and the snotty nose of a third, then headed back to the house for breakfast, he wondered what Tony would have to say about his behavior last night. The old man usually had an opinion and he wasn’t shy about sharing it.
Tony’s housekeeper, Ulysses, nodded at Jake when he entered the kitchen, then placed half a dozen slices of bacon on a paper towel, broke three eggs into a sizzling-hot cast-iron fry pan, and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster.
Ulysses was a short, rotund man of unidentifiable age and ethnicity. In the twenty-plus years when Jake had visited his granduncle during each and every one of his school vacations, the housekeeper had looked exactly as he did now: like a silent, golden brown Pillsbury Doughboy.
Jake greeted Ulysses, then spotted his uncle sitting at the table and braced himself for the older man’s comments.
Tony glanced up from his newspaper, skewered his nephew with a pointed stare, and asked, “You in any better a mood this morning than last night?”
Jake sighed, knowing his uncle would keep at him until he got the information he wanted. Not out of nosiness, but because of concern. Tony had been more of a father to Jake than his own dad had ever been. Jake’s parents had shipped him off to military school when he turned eight and had rarely spent more than a day or so with him since then.
Tony was the one who had taught Jake how to bait a hook, shoot a rifle, and be a man. He was also the one with whom Jake had shared his hopes, dreams, and troubles. The ranch was Jake’s real home, not any of his parents’ opulent houses, condos, or villas.
“I’m fine.”
“You looked madder than a wet hen last night.” Tony put aside his newspaper. “Did Birdie’s granddaughter give you a hard time? I hear she’s as feisty as her grandma.”
“Nothing happened.” Jake got up and walked to the coffeemaker on the counter. “Want a refill?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Tony rubbed his hands together. “Hard to warm up after being outside on a day like today. It’s colder than a corpse’s big toe.”
Jake grabbed a cup for himself, filled it, then emptied the rest of the pot into his uncle’s white crockery mug.
“Thanks.” Tony leaned back and took a long sip. “So what’s your impression of Dev Sinclair?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know, come to think about it, I’m surprised you two don’t know each other.”
“We met a couple of times as kids when I went to the grocery store with Aunt Sabina, but you were never one to go to town much, and I liked hanging around with you.” Jake shrugged. “Plus, after being surrounded by people all day, every day at school, I liked the elbow room here at the ranch.”
“That explains it.” Tony nodded before pursuing his original question. “Anyway, what do you think about Dev now that you’ve finally met her?”
“She’s got herself a problem.” Jake settled into the wooden slat-back chair. “Her grandmother was right. She’s in deep shit.”
“Yep.” Tony’s expression was mournful. “I figured as much if Birdie was willing to ask me for a favor.” He quirked his mouth. “I been waiting for that woman to need me for more than fifty years.”
“Why didn’t you two get together once you were both free?” Jake asked. “Aunt Sabina’s been gone nearly four years and Birdie’s husband passed over a decade ago.”
“She needed t
o make the first move.” Tony’s tone was stubborn. “And we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about Dev’s trouble. Did she agree to your helping her?”
“Yes.” Jake thought back to her acceptance. “Though I think she might not have if she wasn’t so worried about her grandma.”
Ulysses slid a plate in front of Jake and removed the dish Tony had finished with.
“Before I forget, I remembered something I saw a week or so ago.” Tony tucked a small red notebook in the back pocket of his overalls. “I was at the bank and the woman in front of me was trying to cash a check, but she didn’t have enough money in her account.”
“Oh?” Jake wasn’t sure where Tony was going, but he knew his uncle didn’t make idle chitchat. “Who was the woman?”
“I didn’t know her, but the teller called her Ms. Ayers when he suggested phoning her fiancé and having him transfer funds from his account into hers.” Tony folded his reading glasses into their case. “She yelled at the teller to mind his own business; that her financial affairs were confidential and she’d get him fired if he told anyone about them.”
“Interesting.” Jake buttered his toast. “So the victim was having problems with cash flow.” Anya’s comment about Joelle wanting to marry a rich guy struck a different chord when that piece of information was added. “I’ll have to find out the name of the vic’s attorney and check out her estate.”
“So what’d you do yesterday afternoon?” Tony leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I figured when you didn’t come home, you got right on the case.”
Between bites, Jake filled his uncle in on his investigation, ending with, “After I talked to that Hamilton woman, I took a ride into Kansas City to take a look at the hotel where the vic’s body was found. I knew I couldn’t see the crime scene, but I wanted to get the lay of the land.”
“Did Dev go with you?”
“No.” Jake dipped his toast into the yolk of a perfect sunny-side-up egg. Ulysses was a genius with a spatula and a frying pan. “She went with Boone St. Onge to a CDM fund-raiser to talk to the vic’s future mother-in-law. Devereaux, St. Onge, and that woman who owns that bar just outside of town already had a plan to look into the murder.”
Little Shop of Homicide: A Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery Page 9
