by Sara Rosett
I glanced at the landscaping around Grandpa Franklin’s house as I closed the front door. I was glad to see he had hearty bushes that could weather the cold snap. I carried the packing supplies into the kitchen and set everything on the countertop. Detective Kalra put down the box of newspapers and said, “Do you still have that business card?”
“Yes.” I pulled it out of the pocket of my fleece jacket. I’d figured she’d want it. I’d already entered the phone number into my phone. I hadn’t called it, but I wanted to have it—just in case.
“I’ll follow up on this. I stopped by the pharmacy on the way into town and Roy was there last Monday night. The store closes at ten, but the pharmacy is open all night. A pharmacy tech confirmed that Roy was with her from nine that night until six the next morning.”
I aligned the flaps on a box and ran a strip of tape over them. “And it was obvious from the pictures she showed me that she really was at that Italian restaurant. I’m sure her friends will confirm it. They went to a late movie afterward.”
So Aunt Christine and Roy hadn’t been anywhere near the house that night. I was relieved. I didn’t want to think that she could have been involved, but with Detective Kalra’s lingering suspicions, I was glad there was incontrovertible proof she’d been somewhere else.
Detective Kalra’s phone rang. While she took the call, I flipped the box over and layered some newspaper in for a liner, then I moved several stacks of plates from the china cabinet to the kitchen counter. Her side of the conversation consisted of a few murmurs. I opened several pages of newspaper and set the first dinner plate in the center of it. I leaned my palms against the counter and looked up at her, not wanting to noisily crumple newspaper while she was on the phone. Her eyebrows were drawn down into a frown as she gazed at me intently. As soon as I looked at her, she pivoted away, transferring her gaze to the front door. “Right. On my way.” Detective Kalra replaced her phone in her pocket and I pulled the corners of the paper over the plate. I repeated the process with a few more plates, then rolled the whole stack into a protective shell of paper.
Over the crackle of paper, Detective Kalra said, “I have to go.” She was already moving to the front door. I stowed the bundle of plates in the box and followed her to the door.
“Do you think ‘Anderson’ talked to anyone else in Smarr?”
“I have no idea,” Detective Kalra said shortly. Her carefully neutral tone surprised me. The casual, confiding tone of our conversation was gone. I realized her expression was different, too. Her face was blank, as if she’d pulled a veil of neutrality over herself. I had the distinct feeling we weren’t on the same side anymore. I was off the team. “Thank you for turning over the business card, Mrs. Avery,” she said in a way that reminded me of those automatic phone system menus that always sound so pleasant and accommodating, but never actually get me to the person I want to talk to. She turned and trotted down the steps.
I closed the front door and went back to the kitchen slowly. It must have been the phone call. She hadn’t even wanted to look at me, which was troubling. I knew I hadn’t done anything remotely out of line. I didn’t even live here, so she couldn’t think I was . . . involved . . . in the situation around Grandpa Franklin’s death. I’d been in Georgia when he died, so I knew she couldn’t think I was a suspect. I wrapped more plates in thick layers of newsprint, my movements automatic. I’d packed and unpacked so often, I didn’t have to think about the rote movements. I’d finished the plates and moved on to cups and saucers when I heard the crunch of gravel again. Mitch wouldn’t get back that quickly. Maybe Detective Kalra forgot something?
The back of the house was lined with windows, but the front of the house only had two windows and the curtains were still closed. I wasn’t planning on being inside the house very long, so I’d left them closed. I stood on my tiptoes to peer through the small paned window set in the door and saw Detective Rickets’s shaved head reflecting the bright sunlight as he climbed the porch steps. I instantly recoiled from the window, but I wasn’t fast enough. The detective had raised his head as he cleared the last step and I knew he’d seen me. I opened the door reluctantly.
“Ah, Mrs. Avery, just the person I wanted to talk to,” he said, stepping through the narrow opening.
“That’s a change, then,” I said.
He swaggered over to the kitchen and looked over the array of boxes, newspaper, and china, then with his hands on his hips, he swiveled back to me and said, “Packing up already?” Before I could answer, he walked with a cocky little spring in his step to the hallway. He leaned into the door frame. “Haven’t got to the bedrooms yet, I see. What are you going to do? Estate sale? You could list some of the smaller items on eBay,” he said, and picked up a silver-framed picture of Mitch’s parents from a pie crust table. “That’s a nice piece, too, that table,” he said, pointing at it with the frame. He tossed the picture frame onto the couch and ambled back toward me, hands on hips again. “Yep,” he said, his gaze traveling around the room, “this is quite a jackpot. Not like hitting the lottery or anything, but still, a pretty penny once you’ve cleaned it all out.”
He came to a stop in front of me, just close enough that the distance was uncomfortable. “When are you moving in?” he asked.
I wanted to step back and create a little space, but I knew I couldn’t. “We’re not moving.” I forced myself to keep my feet planted as I said, “Those dishes are for Aunt Nanette. It was a bequest in Grandpa Franklin’s will.”
“Oh, a bequest,” he said, drawing out the last word to show his disbelief.
A white hot surge of anger raced through me. “Yes, a bequest,” I said. I was so furious my hands were trembling. “Now, I think it’s time you left.”
“Can’t do that,” he said. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why? According to you, everything is all sorted out—Grandpa Franklin died of natural causes and Stanley Anderson was just a clumsy wanna-be thief who missed a step on the stairs.”
“The status of any particular case is not something I can discuss with you, Mrs. Avery. I can tell you that certain events, say, the reading of a will, or the discovery of new evidence, can cause us to reexamine a case and consider the possibility of reopening it.”
“So you’re saying you’re reopening the case? Stan Anderson’s case?”
“We are following up new leads that have come to light. The facts we find might or might not cause us to reexamine that case—or other cases.”
“Grandpa Franklin’s case, too?”
Detective Rickets nodded. He was going to investigate Grandpa Franklin’s death, but without officially reopening the case, which would keep him in the clear with Uncle Bud, who’d wanted that investigation closed quickly. I hated his sneaky, calculated approach. It reminded me of the office politics Mitch had to deal with. I was so glad I worked alone. Juggling being a mom and a professional organizer was tough, but at least I didn’t have to deal with sly, manipulative crap like this every day.
“Okay, so ask your questions. Fire away.” Anything to get rid of him. Who did he think he was, barging in here and strutting around like he owned the place?
“Seems Franklin Avery’s will surprised just about everyone.”
“News travels fast in Smarr,” I said.
“Well, the will combined with the information you so thoughtfully passed on to Detective Kalra,” he said her name with a faint inflection, a flicker of derision, then he shrugged and continued, “raises questions . . . unexpected inheritance and all.”
“We certainly weren’t expecting it.”
“That so?”
“Yes,” I said, then decided to ask a question of my own. Who knew—he might answer it. “The man who died here . . . Stanley or Anderson or whoever he was, have you found anything new about him?”
“Kalra’s handling that,” he said dismissively. “Probably won’t come to anything.”
“How can you say
that?”
“He was a stranger—didn’t know Mr. Avery. Probably a coincidence.”
“A coincidence?” I said, my voice raising.
“Yeah. See, when something bad happens, people like to blame it on a stranger.” He took a step closer. “That way, their little world is safe,” he said, his breath heavy with the smell of old coffee. “No one they know could do something horrible. But most of the time, the bad guy isn’t some stranger, someone who was passing through town. No, most of the time, the bad guy is right there in the middle of things.” He’d been speaking softly, but now he shifted back to his normal tone of voice. “I hear that your husband and Felicity Avery have a history,” he said, releasing another wave of bitter coffee breath.
I was speechless for a moment, which isn’t unusual when I’m in a heated discussion. When my adrenaline starts pumping, it seriously messes up my thought process and I never seem to be able to think of snappy comebacks until later—much later. Hours, even days sometimes. But this time, I was tongue-tied because Felicity was the last thing I expected him to talk about.
“Mrs. Avery,” he prodded, leaning forward slightly.
“That was a statement, not a question,” I said flatly.
“Oh, so you want to play it that way, do you?” He wheeled away from me and walked to the kitchen where he leaned one hip against the counter. “So were you aware of their past?”
“I don’t think one date in high school qualifies as a ‘past.’” I took a deep breath of fresh air.
“You did know. Interesting,” he said. His close-set eyes narrowed. “What is the nature of their relationship now?”
“Now? Felicity is his cousin-in-law,” I said, impatiently. “Unless you have something important to discuss, I have things I need to do.” I walked briskly into the kitchen and began noisily wrapping cups and saucers.
He raised his voice. “When were they last in contact?”
I paused, my hands full of a half-wrapped stack of saucers. “Felicity and Mitch? At the attorney’s today.”
“No, before Mr. Avery died.”
“I don’t know . . . Christmas, probably. I think we talked to them then.”
I went back to folding and he watched me for a moment, then said, “I can subpoena his phone records, you know.”
“Fine. Do that,” I said as I felt my pulse rising. “Waste your time.”
“Oh, I think your husband’s phone records might prove to be very interesting.”
I stuffed a bundle of paper into a corner of the box and slapped more newspapers down on the counter. “Why?”
“Because he gained the most from Mr. Avery’s death. I understand you and your husband don’t own a home. Well, you didn’t own a home until this morning. Is that correct?”
A jolt of anger fired through me, setting my heart to thumping. “Are you seriously suggesting that Mitch had something to do with—,” I broke off. I was so angry I couldn’t get the words out.
“It’s just mighty interesting to me. With Mitch inheriting this house . . . makes me wonder. Where was Mitch last Monday night?”
“Home,” I snapped. “We were in Georgia. There’s no way we could possibly be involved in this . . . this . . . scenario you’ve pulled out of thin air.”
“So he was home, was he? And you’re his alibi? Convenient.”
“It’s not convenient. It’s the truth!” I sputtered.
He went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “Things aren’t going so good for Dan and Felicity. Anyone can see that. And the word around town was that she expected to inherit this house, along with a good chunk of change, I imagine. With Mr. Avery seeming to be going strong health-wise, maybe Felicity decided to do something to help things along.” Detective Rickets shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled over to the windows that lined the back of the room. “Course, she probably wouldn’t want to do it herself and Dan seems too timid to be involved . . . but she might think of an old boyfriend, someone like Mitch.”
“That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.” My hands were shaking so badly I braced them on the countertop. I pressed my palms down hard on the coolness of the Formica. “Mitch would never do anything like that.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised what people will do. Especially what people—men, to be exact—will do for a pretty lady. Not that you’re not attractive, but Felicity . . . she’s kept herself in shape nicely and that can’t be discounted.”
“That is outrageous,” I sputtered. I was so furious I could barely talk. “And baseless. I think you should go.”
“I’ll leave,” he said, and sauntered across the room.
As he passed me, he pulled a brown envelope out of his back pocket and tossed in on the newspaper. “You might want to take a look at that.” He opened the front door and said, “Don’t worry about getting those back to me. I’ve got another set. I’ll be in touch.” He pulled the door closed with a thump.
I stood there staring at the envelope, my hands bearing down on the cabinet, then I snatched it up and fumbled with the flap. A small stack of pictures fell out on the newspaper. They were all of Mitch and Felicity.
Chapter Fifteen
I don’t know how long I stood there staring at the jumbled photos. The one on top was a snapshot of Mitch and Felicity standing in a parking lot beside a red car on a blindingly sunny day. They were the only people in the picture. The sun was behind them and their expressions were shadowy and indistinct. Mitch’s arm was extended, almost touching Felicity’s tan shoulder. I could tell she was smiling as she leaned toward him. I ran through my memories of the times we’d been with Dan and Felicity. Surely this was a picture from one of our visits to Alabama or maybe the family reunion? Felicity was wearing a light blue tank top that revealed every toned muscle and shapely curve. Mitch was in a white collared polo shirt and tan shorts. I scanned the blurry background, but didn’t see anything familiar that would help me place the photo in a recognizable context.
Finally, I reached out and touched it with the tip of my index finger, as if I might get a severe burn or shock from touching it. Carefully, I pushed it aside and revealed the next photo. Mitch and Felicity embracing. I closed my eyes and swallowed. This could not be happening. Mitch and Felicity? It was impossible. Mitch would never do something like that. Never. I opened my eyes and looked at the picture again. It’s happened to other wives, a little voice whispered. I grabbed the rest of the photos and quickly flipped through them. They seemed to have been taken only a few seconds apart. In the next photo, Mitch and Felicity were standing apart, then he handed her a small cardboard box. I was flipping quickly. It was almost like watching a stop action movie. There was another embrace, this time Felicity closed the distance between them and kissed Mitch on the cheek. That picture was the last one.
I pressed the stack to my chest. I felt weird. Light-headed. I turned around and slid down to sit on the floor. I tipped my head over and rested my forehead on my knees. For a while I sat there with my eyes closed, breathing deeply. Finally, when my head felt normal again, I leaned back against the cabinets and looked at the photos again. Okay, I lectured myself, calm down. You’ve always trusted Mitch. Don’t leap to conclusions.
Why didn’t I recognize the photos or remember this happening? Because you weren’t there, the small voice whispered again. And Mitch had been so quiet and reserved lately. I bit my lip and forced myself to focus only on the pictures. I rubbed the corner of the paper between my thumb and finger. It wasn’t photo paper with a glossy finish. It was plain typing paper. I frowned. The paper meant these pictures had probably been downloaded and printed from a computer. Had someone e-mailed them to Detective Rickets? I shook my head. Why would someone do that? Was this some sort of tip that the sheriff’s department received?
I went back through the photos, scrutinizing each one, but I didn’t see anything that would help me place where or when they were taken. The last one had a faint line down it that seemed to follow the outline of Mitch’s body.
I squinted, pulling the paper closer. Was the line from the printer—too much ink? Or were these photos not even real? I’d only dabbled with photo editing software, but I knew some of the programs were pretty advanced. Could someone have photoshopped Mitch into those pictures? It might be hard to fake an embrace, though. I drummed the photos against my leg.
And why had Detective Rickets given me a set? The police didn’t usually go around handing out evidence, even copies, to people involved in an investigation.
He wanted to know what I would do with the photos, I realized. I scrambled to my feet and went to the front windows. No sign of his car, but I was willing to bet he was tucked away into some hidden driveway or curve of the road, waiting to see what I did, where I went after he’d dropped these photos on me.
My phone rang, startling me. I checked the caller ID. It was Mitch. I blew out a breath that sent my bangs flying. “Hello,” I said, my voice sounding strained and oddly formal.
“You okay?”
I cleared my throat. “Ah—give me a minute,” I said and swallowed, then cleared my throat again. “There. Mitch, did you . . .” I paused, not sure if this was a conversation I wanted to have on the phone. Did I want to see his face when I asked him? “Ah . . . today I saw some—,” I broke off. Should I even mention the pictures? Maybe it would be better to ask him point-blank about Felicity. Save the pictures, in case he denied it. My stomach roiled. “Never mind,” I said.
“You sure you’re all right? You sound . . . odd.”
“I just swallowed wrong. I’m fine now,” I said brightly.
“Now you sound really weird.” He paused for a second. I didn’t say anything. “Okay,” he said, concern in his voice. “I’m at Mom and Dad’s house. I called Aunt Nanette and asked her to drive over and pick you up. Everyone is fine, but there’s been a fire.”
“This doesn’t look too bad,” Aunt Nanette said as she put the car in park in front of Mitch’s parents’ house.
