by Robin Caroll
Maddox pushed off the table and rounded it, hovering over Watkins. "Now, why don't I believe you, Darren?"
Watkins's foot bounced, causing his knee to hop like a Mexican jumping bean. "I don't know, dude."
"Why are you so nervous?" Maddox stood straight, letting his height intimidate.
"I'm not nervous."
"Really? Then why are you biting your nails and being so jittery?"
"I want a cigarette, dude. Having a nic-fit."
Maddox backed off. "Smoking's a nasty habit."
"Yeah, but it's better than snorting. It's legal."
"It is that." Maddox returned to his chair and met Houston's glance. Switch off, take two.
Houston tapped his pen against the notebook. "Is there anyone who can verify you were in your room Friday night?"
"No. Like I said, I was sleeping." Again the markers of deception.
Maddox locked looks with Houston. They weren't going to get any more from the kid. He was lying but wasn't going to come clean. At least not yet.
Closing his notebook, Houston stood. "Well, we thank you for your time, Mr. Watkins."
His bouncing stopped. "I can go now?"
"Sure." Maddox stood and waved at the open door.
Watkins wasted no time scrambling out of the chair and from the room.
"Let's ask Alana for any documentation she has for entering and exiting on Friday night." Houston pocketed his notebook.
Maddox could just imagine how willing she'd be to give them those details. She was hiding something. Or covering for someone. She'd probably make them get a warrant for the records.
Oh man, happy day. Let the fun begin.
"SORRY I'M LATE." ED Young walked into Taylor Construction. "Had a last-minute glitch with an order."
Layla smiled at her friend. "No worries. I just finished prepping the window."
The late afternoon sun spilled into the area from the open door. A cold breeze pushed through the office.
He glanced around the office. "Doesn't look too bad."
"I've been cleaning for hours."
"Sorry." He shook his head. "Do the police have any idea why someone would do this? Any clue who?"
"Not that they've told me." She reached for her gloves. "I'm still going to try to figure things out."
"Layla, you need to be careful. Apparently someone doesn't like you looking into things."
"I know." She tugged the gloves over her hands. "Let's get the glass unloaded so I can get it installed."
"You need me to help you install?" Ed led the way to his truck.
"Nope. I can do this in my sleep."
Together they unloaded the glass and moved it inside the office. Layla walked him back out to his truck. "Thanks again for delivering this for me on such short notice."
"When's the alarm company going to come out and wire the window?"
She glanced at her watch. "In about forty-five minutes. Guess I'd better get busy installing, huh?"
He patted her shoulder. "I'll see you later. Take care, Layla."
Nodding, she grabbed her tool belt. As always, touching the smooth, worn leather sent memories skittering over her. It'd been her father's tool belt. Every memory she had of him included him wearing the belt. It was the one specific thing she valued most.
It took her less than thirty minutes to install the glass. She'd just finished cleaning it with mineral spirits when a car sounded out front. Must be the alarm company. Early for once.
Layla put away her tools and went to the door to meet them.
Alana stepped over the threshold first. "What is that awful smell?" Her upturned nose scrunched.
Laughing, Layla shook her head. "Mineral spirits. Or it could be the caulk. Both reek."
"It's disgusting. Doesn't it make you light-headed?"
"No. That's why the door's open." Layla perched on the edge of the reception desk. "What're you doing here?"
Alana tossed her purse on the desk. "I'm just so mad. Frustrated. Ugh. I could just scream."
"What's wrong?" If she'd gotten into a fight with Cameron, Layla would be no help. As the big sister, she should be able to dispense advice, but in the love department . . .
"That Detective Bishop. The man's infuriating."
"Maddox?"
Alana's eyebrows shot up. "Since when do you call him by his first name?"
"I-I . . . what's he done to get you all riled up?"
"He and his partner came by the retreat this afternoon to talk with Darren Watkins. While I understand they're trying to be thorough, they don't have to be obnoxious."
Layla sighed as her sister paced. "What did he do?"
"He actually asked me where I was on Friday night. From eleven thirty to midnight. Like I'm a suspect or something."
"He's just doing his job. They have to get everyone's alibis."
"Mine? Like I'm involved in that murder or burning down the house?"
"It's nothing personal. They asked me the same thing." And she remembered how angry it had made her. But at least they were following up. Investigating.
"He's a jerk."
Layla rubbed her palms on her jeans. "Cut him a little slack. His dad's in the hospital. Heart attack."
"How do you know that?" Alana narrowed her eyes.
"He was in the waiting room when I was there with Ms. Betty." Layla pushed off the desk. "He's worried about his father. You know how that feels."
"Doesn't excuse him for being a jerk."
"Well, I wasn't the nicest person when we were worried about Dad." Her throat tightened at the words, at the memory.
Alana dropped her scrutiny. "Yeah. I remember."
Layla pushed down the emotions that threatened to explode. "I'm just saying to give him a little extra allowance."
"I will."
And Layla vowed she would as well. Even if he did keep her off balance just by being in the same room with her.
EIGHTEEN
"Old friends pass away, new friends appear. It is just like the days. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful: a meaningful friend—or a meaningful day."
—DALAI LAMA
THE SUN'S RAYS STOLE around the faded curtains and danced into Tyson Bishop's hospital room.
Maddox stood and stretched. The padded chair had become uncomfortable around three this morning. Now his neck felt like a jackhammer had plowed at it all night. Thursday morning. Would this week never end?
He checked the clock. George would be here soon. Maddox would run home, take a shower, then meet Houston at the station.
"You still here?" Pop yawned.
"Of course." He moved to the bed beside his father. "Are you in any pain? Can I get you anything?"
"A little peace and quiet. You snore."
Maddox chuckled. "Hi, pot, meet kettle."
"I don't snore."
"Sure, Pop. How're you feeling?"
"Tired of being poked and prodded."
If his surly disposition was any indication, Pop must be feeling better. "George said the doctor would make rounds about ten or so."
"Yeah." Pop leaned forward, twisting his arm behind him and grabbing the top pillow with the tips of his fingers.
"Let me help." Maddox took hold of the pillow and fluffed it before easing it behind the small of his father's back.
"I can fix my own pillows."
There was the winning attitude of his father's. Made Maddox feel all warm and fuzzy inside. "I was just trying to help."
"Don't need help."
Maddox swallowed hard. Same old Pop. Same old argument.
He crossed the room and opened the curtains.
Pop snarled. "Did I ask you to blind me?"
"I thought maybe you'd—"
"You thought? That's your problem. You always think too late." Pop turned his head toward the door.
Maddox's muscles tensed and his gut balled. He would not get into the same argument yet again. Not here. Not while his father had suffered a heart
attack. He'd ignore the jabs. The low blows. He'd be the bigger man.
He snapped the curtains shut and returned to the uncomfortable chair. Maybe if he just sat silently, his father would change the subject.
Pop stared at him. Brows lowered, chin set. He sighed. "Maddox, we need to talk. About the night your mom was killed."
Nope, he wasn't going to let it drop. Maddox's mouth went dry. "No, let's not. We know how it will all end." With him being blamed.
"I know you think I blame you."
Where was George? Maddox stood and went to the bedside. He lifted the insulated cup on his father's tray. "Why don't I go get you some ice?"
"I don't want any ice! You need to listen to me, Maddox. The night your mother was murdered—"
Maddox set the cup down on the tray with a thud. "I know. I know. I was late for curfew and it's my fault she was killed. If I'd been on time, she'd still be alive. I know all that."
Pop held up his hand. "Listen—"
Maddox shook his head. "No, I've heard it from you so much over the years that it's a scar against my soul." He backed to the foot of the bed, guilt curling his hands into fists.
"That's just it. You need to understand something—"
The emotion erupted in Maddox—burning from his gut, into his chest, searing his throat and coating his tongue. "I've understood you've blamed me for her death from the beginning. But here's something you need to consider, Pop."
He bent over his father's feet, glowering. "Where were you when she was murdered? You were out defending our country when you should've been home, defending your wife. She died in my arms while you were more worried about your precious military career." Maddox strode to the door. He glanced over his shoulder at his father's pale face. "Live with that."
He pushed from the room, gulping in air as he leaned against the wall in the hallway. His heartbeat thudded in his head. His entire body shook. He fisted, then relaxed his hands. He inhaled . . . held the breath until his lungs burned, then exhaled slowly. And again.
The overpowering smell of disinfectant nearly made him gag.
"Hey, son. How's Tyson?" George appeared out of nowhere.
"Same as always—meaner than a snake." He ground out the words from between clenched teeth.
George gripped his shoulder. "What's wrong?"
Maddox shook his head. "He'll never let it go, Uncle George."
"What're you talking about?"
"Mom's murder. He'll always blame me. And let me know what a failure I am. How I'm basically responsible for her death."
"Oh, son, that's not so."
Maddox snorted. "Really? That's what Pop thinks. What he's always thought. Never lets an opportunity to remind me slip by him either."
"He said something?"
"Are you not hearing me?" Maddox stared at George. "He wanted to talk about the night she was killed. Again. I tried not to let him bait me. Tried to change the subject. But he'd have none of it. He's itching for a fight."
"He's just distraught. Upset over being in the hospital and letting off steam. I know for a fact that it's not your fault about Abigail. And Tyson knows it too."
"Whatever, man." Maddox pushed off the wall. "I've got to get home and get showered. I have a job to do."
George grabbed his arm. "Maddox, don't go off half-cocked. It's probably the pain medication he's on that's making him so ornery."
"I don't know how you've managed to stay his friend all these years. You're a good man, Uncle George." He jutted his chin toward his father's door. "Better than him."
"Don't say that."
"It's true. He was never around when I was a kid and then Mom got killed. He's blamed me for that from the beginning. It's his own guilt talking because he knows he should've spent more time at home. With Mom and me. But he was too fixated on his almighty career. It always came first."
"You've got a jaded memory, Maddox."
He jerked his arm free from George's hold. "I don't think so. I'll call you later."
Storming to the elevator did nothing to quench his desire to hit something. Hard. Really hard.
Maddox punched the button and paced while he waited. Always blamed. It was always his error. All his burden.
He stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid shut with a ding.
Alone, with his eyes closed, the one familiar question clawed against his soul . . .
Was his mother's murder his fault?
ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DOLLAR. That's what her father had always said. Layla missed him more than she could've ever imagined. His quick wit. His warm smile. The pride in his eyes when she talked with him.
Brring!
Layla jumped. The new phone system was louder than the old one. It would take some getting used to. She grabbed the receiver before it could ring again. "Taylor Construction."
"Layla? It's Pastor Chaney."
She smiled. "Hi, Pastor. How're you?"
"Not so good, actually. That's why I'm calling."
Uh-oh. What now? "What can I do for you?"
"It's the plumbing at the church. We can't seem to get our issue fixed. I was wondering if you could recommend someone."
She hesitated. Bob Johnson was the best plumber she knew, hands down, but with the circumstances as of late . . .
"I know it's an imposition, and I normally wouldn't ask, but we're getting desperate. James Page was working on it, but—"
"I know. I was at the hospital with Ms. Betty and him yesterday."
"She told me that last night when I visited. It was very nice of you. James isn't looking very good. The doctors still can't find what's causing his symptoms. They're still running tests."
"I'm praying for him."
"We all are." Pastor waited a beat. "But we've got to get this plumbing fixed."
It wasn't fair not to recommend Bob. He was fair and would do a good job. And there was no proof he'd done anything unethical or wrong. "Bob Johnson. He's the plumber I contracted when we did the renovations last year."
"Layla, I don't want to speak out of turn, but Bob's been by. Twice. He can't figure it out."
If Bob couldn't figure out a plumbing problem . . . "What's going on?"
"From what Bob says, the copper pipes and tubing keep getting corroded. He's replaced them twice."
Since the renovation less than a year ago? That made no sense. "He doesn't know why they keep corroding?"
"Says he hasn't a clue. It's baffled him, and it's frustrating to the deacons. The pipes get corroded, then they blow. We have to keep cleaning up the mess. Both times Bob's replaced them, we've thought the issue was resolved. Then it happens again."
That was odd. Very odd. "Tell you what, I'll head over to the church and have a look. Maybe I can figure something out."
"Thanks, Layla. I really appreciate it."
"No problem. See you soon." She hung up the phone and rubbed her bottom lip.
What could be causing the pipes and tubing to corrode?
Differences aside, this was business. With only a moment's hesitation, she lifted the phone and dialed Bob's cell.
"This is Bob."
"Hi, Bob. It's Layla."
A pregnant silence filled the connection. Had he hung up?
"What do you need?" His voice was gruff.
"Look, Bob, I'm sorry if you felt like I was accusing you before. I'm just trying to figure out what's going on."
Another space of silence.
"You heard who the body was, I suppose." Bob had softened his tone.
"No. Who?"
"Dennis LeJeune. I heard this morning."
The stickler inspector? Why would somebody have killed him and put his body in the house? "That's awful." It explained why Maddox had questioned her about him.
"I know." He inhaled sharply. "I'm sorry I was so rude to you. It's just I would never allow drugs on my sites. Ever." He blew against the phone.
She'd jumped to conclusions and hurt someone. A friend. "I know that, Bob. I'm sorry. It's just
that nothing makes sense."
"Do the police have any leads?"
"Not that they've told me about. You heard my place got broken into and trashed?"
"Yeah. Sorry to hear that." He inhaled again.
"It's more annoying than anything else. It won't be over until I figure everything out."
He exhaled against the phone. "So, you're still poking around?"
"I don't have a choice." She slumped in her chair. "Maybe that newspaper reporter is right and someone's trying to send me a message."
"Don't listen to that woman's rantings. She's just trying to make a name for herself and is using you to do it."
"Maybe." She straightened and wrapped the cord around her finger. "Listen, the reason I'm calling is about the pipes at the church."
"That's something I can't figure out." Again, a sharp intake came over the line.
"Is it possible the pipes and tubing you installed were bad from the factory?"
"I thought of that. We pulled the batch records. I've used the same copper from that batch in other buildings, and we haven't had a single report of a problem. It's just in the church."
"What could cause them to corrode? And so quickly?"
"I wish I knew. It's got me baffled." Another quick intake.
Her too. If Bob couldn't figure it out, she surely couldn't. But she'd given her word to Pastor. "I'm going to run by there and see if I notice anything odd."
"Good luck. Let me know if you find something."
"I will. And thanks, Bob." She unwound the cord from her finger and hung up the phone. Was Bob having breathing problems? With his audible breathing over the phone—Wait a minute. Did Bob smoke?
She grabbed her tool belt and truck keys from her desk, then headed out the front door. It seemed like lately nothing but confusion and trouble resided in Eternal Springs.
NINETEEN
"In a moment of decision the best thing you can do is the right thing. The worst thing you can do is nothing."
—THEODORE ROOSEVELT
"HOW'S YOUR DAD?" HOUSTON asked as soon as Maddox slipped into the passenger's seat.
"Same as always." Mean and unforgiving.
His partner cut his eyes to Maddox before looking back at the road. "You're surly this morning. Didn't get enough rest?"
