I was curious, but more than that, I was happy when Virginia grudgingly agreed through gritted teeth. “Fine.” She turned to me. “I will go get dressed.”
“Thank you,” I said, addressing both Mitch and Virginia.
Neither one of them replied. Mitch followed his wife into the house, and although he’d been so quick to welcome me, I ended up waiting on the porch, worrying about Piper and wondering why Mitch believed Virginia should be obligated to do anything.
And what the heck did he mean by “at this point?”
Chapter 23
I leaped up off the couch when Piper finally arrived home at about seven o’clock. Artie rushed to greet my sister, and for once, even Socrates appeared sympathetic. His eyes were droopier than usual, and I was pretty sure I heard him whine, briefly and very softly, when Piper crashed down onto a chair, rubbing her face with her hands.
“Are you okay?” I asked, sitting down again, too, right next to her. The dogs drew close, and I rested one hand on her knee. “What can I get you? Tea? Something to eat?” While I’d waited for her return, I’d picked some raspberries off the bushes near the barn and made her favorite dessert. “How about some cobbler, with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream?”
“No, thanks,” Piper said glumly. She let her hands drop, and I saw that she was exhausted. Her cheeks were hollow, and her eyes were rimmed with red. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”
I didn’t mention how early it was. She definitely needed some sleep.
Still, I had to ask, “What happened? Why were you gone so long?”
“I made the mistake of trying to convince them that I didn’t kill Steve, when I should’ve just forced them either to arrest me or let me go,” Piper said. “I just kept thinking that they would have to believe me, because I am innocent. I don’t know how the poison got in the thermos or how Steve ended up in the tunnel.... I’m sure I don’t know. . . .”
I drew back, confused, because Piper almost sounded like she doubted herself.
Had Jonathan and his partner grilled her so intensely that she’d begun to question herself?
“Of course you’re innocent,” I assured her. “You are!”
Piper didn’t rush to agree with me. She just stared blankly ahead, her hands limp at her sides.
“Did Virginia help you? What did she say?”
My sister shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. She didn’t say very much.”
I’d thought that Virginia’s legal training and shark-like nature would kick in when she actually started working for Piper. But apparently, I’d been wrong. It sounded like Virginia had literally done “the least she could do.”
I really couldn’t understand that. Virginia was never overly nice to me, but I’d never thought of her as completely heartless. And if she planned to bill Piper, shouldn’t she have protected my sister’s interests?
“What is wrong with her?” I muttered.
Piper sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m sure she tried.”
I exchanged concerned glances with Socrates and Artie, who both appeared worried. Socrates even deigned to rest a big paw on Piper’s foot in a very uncharacteristic gesture of support, and I patted her knee again, not sure what else to do.
Under most circumstances, my sister was a fighter—and usually a winner.
Okay, she was almost always a winner. I couldn’t recall ever beating her at a board game, even the ones that were 90 percent luck, like Sorry! I used to think she could control the dice with her mind.
But she was mourning right then, and that was stealing away her fight.
It probably didn’t help that I had trouble understanding the depth of her grief. I was still angry about the way Steve had treated her. I felt sorry that he was dead, but I couldn’t bring myself to like him, and I knew that added to Piper’s misery.
I wished I could cry, so maybe she’d cry, too, and let out some of the pain I was sure she was hiding.
“I’m going to bed,” Piper finally said, standing up. She tried to smile. “Maybe things will look better tomorrow.”
“I’m sure they will,” I promised as she went upstairs. “This will all be cleared up soon.”
Her silence told me that she wasn’t reassured.
The dogs and I sat quietly for a long time, just listening to Piper get ready for bed—before eight o’clock. She moved slowly, like she was completely beaten down.
Knowing what I did about Jonathan at that point, I could imagine that he was a tough interrogator. What sort of ordeal had he put my sister through to make her doubt her own innocence, even for a moment?
I needed to know, and when I heard Piper’s bedroom door shut, I found my cell phone, hit it against my palm to get the loose wires connected, and punched in the four on my speed dial.
The person on the other end answered immediately. Of course.
“Hey, Mom,” I said. “Where is Jonathan Black living right now? I really need to see him.”
Chapter 24
“There is no such thing as Realtor-client privilege,” I grumbled, tearing apart a particularly gooey cheese stick. The mozzarella refused to break, even though my arms were stretched nearly as wide as possible. “I know my mother made that up.”
Moxie made a face as she struggled to crack open a crab. We were at the Lakeside, sitting at one of the old barrels that served as tables and enjoying the bar’s signature messy food and the sunset over Lake Wallapawakee. As I’d expected on a warm August night, the place was crowded, and I wondered, like I always did, how the old pier could stand up under the weight of so many people. I swore I felt the whole clapboard building sway sometimes.
“Not to side with your mother, but I kind of understand why she wouldn’t give you Detective Black’s address,” Moxie said, reaching for a mallet. As a vegetarian, I found the whole process of cracking crabs a little barbaric, but obviously, I was in the minority. Most folks at the Lakeside had bushel baskets at their tables. “Especially since you were upset with him.”
I finally got the cheese—the glorious cheese—to snap apart. “But—”
“Think about it,” Moxie interrupted, licking her butter-covered fingers before wiping them on what was left of a napkin. “Your mom could’ve lost a sale. And what could you have really accomplished by confronting him? You might’ve made things worse for Piper.”
“That’s possible,” I grudgingly admitted. “But if you’d seen Piper when she got home, you would’ve been mad, too. She was crushed—and I know whose fault that was!”
“I hate that Piper is possibly in trouble,” Moxie agreed. “But it sounds like Detective Black was just doing his job.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Piper will hardly talk about what happened, but she says she was questioned for three hours. Isn’t that torture? And it sounds like Jonathan basically bullied her to the point that even she’s not sure she’s innocent!”
Moxie stopped digging white meat out of a claw long enough to meet my gaze. Then she bit her crimson lip and ventured hesitantly, “Are you sure you didn’t want an excuse to see Jonathan?”
“No!” I answered quickly and vehemently. I jammed the broken cheese stick into a dish of warm marinara, which splashed on my shirt. “Definitely not!”
Moxie watched me skeptically, no doubt in part because she didn’t believe me, but also because I was cramming a really big glob of seasoned bread crumbs, mozzarella, and spicy tomato sauce into my mouth. As I savored the delicious treat, I thought about Jonathan’s past. And when I could talk again, I nearly opened my mouth to tell Moxie what I’d learned by researching him online. Then something made me stay quiet, for once. I just had this sense that Jonathan wouldn’t appreciate being the subject of gossip, and if I shared his history with Moxie, the whole town would soon know everything.
Maybe a person like Jonathan Black would like to maintain his privacy.
I looked down at my shirt, which sported not just a new stain but also a peace sign, and felt conflicted.
; Or did he deserve privacy?
I was reconsidering my decision and was about to blab everything to Moxie when someone said, “Excuse me, but did you know that you have cheese in your hair, Daphne?”
I turned slowly on my stool, which wobbled beneath me, to discover that the man I’d just been thinking about had materialized.
I’d recently been determined to talk with Jonathan, but suddenly I wasn’t so certain that was a good idea. Maybe Moxie was right about me possibly causing more trouble for Piper, because I could already feel myself getting aggravated with him.
Did he always have to find fault with me?
So I had a little cheese in my curls. Big deal.
I was about to thank him, in a tone frostier than my mug of Budweiser, then turn my back on him, when Moxie took it upon herself to suggest in a chirpy voice, “Hey, Detective! Why don’t you join us?”
Chapter 25
“No, thanks. That’s all right,” Jonathan said in response to Moxie’s invitation. He smiled at her, and I thought she might melt away, like the clarified butter she was again licking off her fingers. I also had to admit that Jonathan looked pretty good in a gray V-neck T-shirt and jeans. He turned to me and grew more serious, like he could tell I wasn’t happy with him. “I don’t want to interfere with your night out.”
I wanted to thank him for understanding that three would be a crowd, but suddenly Moxie popped up off her stool and said, “No, please. I was just leaving—”
“What?” I asked, dumbstruck. “Since when?”
Moxie bent to pick up her purse, which was shaped like an oversize red Chinese take-out container. “I want to get out of here before the folk music starts,” she informed me. “You know I love Dylan, but simple chord progressions played on a beat-up guitar, accompanied by lyrics about the plight of the workingman . . .” She mock shuddered. “I just can’t take it!”
“But . . . but . . .”
“Here. Have a seat,” she told Jonathan, gesturing to her empty stool. “You can finish the crabs, if you want. There are two left.”
Jonathan warily eyed the seat and the unappetizing pile of shells Moxie was offering him. If there was even a single unpicked crab in that mess, I couldn’t see it. Then he looked at me, as if seeking permission. He must’ve seen that it was about to be denied. “Thanks, but . . .”
For some reason known only to her—at least until I called her later and demanded that she explain herself—Moxie would not leave well enough alone. “Where else are you going to sit?” she asked Jonathan. “The place is packed.” She gestured to me. “And Daphne’s going to be all alone. It will look weird if you’re standing somewhere by yourself, and she’s sitting here with no one to talk to.” She patted the stool, smiling. “Just sit down.”
Jonathan looked at me and arched an eyebrow, again asking unspoken authorization to join me.
I stared back at him for a long time, not sure why in the world he’d want to hang out with me. Then I realized he probably wanted a seat more than a dinner companion. I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Oh, fine. Sit down.”
“Thanks,” he said, taking Moxie’s place. He pushed aside the soggy newsprint that held the disgusting pile of shells, then wiped his hand on a none too clean napkin. “So nice of you to let me join you.”
I caught the sarcasm.
“Did I have a choice?” I asked, spinning around, because I couldn’t find Moxie to say good-bye and to warn her that we would talk later.
How had she disappeared so quickly?
And had she just stuck me with both a detective and the bill for her meal?
It seemed that way.
Feeling decidedly unhappy with my friend, I turned back around to find Jonathan watching me.
I took a moment to remind myself that I shouldn’t get into a confrontation with him. At least not one that could land Piper in more trouble.
Yet not two seconds later I heard myself ask in an aggravated tone, “Why in the world are you here? And what did you do to my sister?”
Chapter 26
“I’m here because, as I told you, I saw your boyfriend’s flyers all over town,” Jonathan explained, after placing an order with the waitress, who’d interrupted my attempt to conduct an interrogation. “I like folk music. I thought I’d stop by.”
I didn’t believe for a second that he appreciated folk music any more than Moxie did. I barely knew him, but I would’ve guessed that his tastes ran to dark and thunderous symphonies, like Beethoven’s Fifth. I could practically hear the ominous opening notes—“dun, dun, dun, dun!”—whenever he walked into a room. I was pretty sure he’d “stopped by” to see if any suspects in the Steve Beamus murder were lurking around, drinking beer, and loosening up their tongues. I didn’t dispute his assertion about his musical tastes, though, or correct him again regarding Dylan’s and my relationship. I just folded my arms across my chest and let him keep talking.
“As for your sister,” he continued, “I understand that you’re upset because I questioned her so thoroughly. But you need to understand that I’m solving a murder, not throwing a tea party. I’m not worried about whether the conversation is polite or people are comfortable. I have to ask tough questions, sometimes repeatedly, to get to the truth.”
I uncrossed my arms and rested them on the table, leaning closer to challenge him. “You can’t really believe that Piper is guilty—”
He raised a hand, stopping me. “I don’t want to—correction, I can’t—discuss my thoughts on that. Surely you understand that, too.”
I supposed I did get why he couldn’t speculate about Piper’s guilt or innocence. At least, not with me. And I also grasped on some level that he did need to ask difficult questions in his pursuit of justice for Steve. Yet I remained irritated with him.
Sitting back, to the extent that I could on a wobbly three-legged stool, I traced the condensation on my mug of beer. Then I raised my eyes to meet his gaze, and I spoke more calmly, too. “I’m also mad because when you stormed Winding Hill, you acted like we’d never met. I know we aren’t best friends, but we spent an hour in your truck together. You could’ve at least smiled at me.”
Jonathan leaned back, too, so our waitress could slide a frosty mug of beer and a plate of the Lakeside’s jumbo lump crab cakes in front of him. It was pretty dark by then, so she lit the old-fashioned netting-covered candle that was on our table, too. Jonathan thanked her; then he turned back to me, his face lit by the flickering flame. “Yes, didn’t you promise to pay to have my vehicle detailed? To remove the iced tea stain from the upholstery?”
Had I offered to do that?
Perhaps, but that wasn’t the point.
“I just don’t get how you can be joking with me now. . . .” I hesitated. “You are joking about me paying to clean your truck, right?”
“Not re—”
Of course, he hadn’t been serious, so I continued, talking right over him. “I don’t get how you can be friendly now, and at Steve’s house, but act totally aloof when you put on your suit and tie.”
He poured a neat circle of ketchup next to his fries. I liked to smother mine. Then he frowned. “I have to separate the personal and the professional, Daphne. It’s the nature of my work.”
“I could never do that,” I said. “I think Cicero was right when he said, ‘A friend is, as it were, a second self.’ I couldn’t ignore a second self!”
Jonathan had been about to pop a fry into his mouth, but he hesitated. “You quote Cicero and have a dog named Socrates. . . .”
“I’ve got a Ph.D. in philosophy,” I told him. Before he could make some cutting remark, I added, “Please don’t make fun of how impractical the degree is. Believe me, I hear that enough from my mother.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Jonathan said. “I’m actually quite impressed.”
Did I care?
Not enough to offer him my dinner, like Moxie had done with her leftover crabs. I pulled the basket, which still held a half dozen m
ozzarella sticks, closer to myself, then circled it protectively with my arms.
“I guess you weren’t kidding about liking cheese,” Jonathan noted, with a nod to the basket. “Is that all you’re eating? Cheese?”
“Yes.” I paused, still not overly eager to share, since the appetizer did constitute my entire meal. Then, my shoulders slumping, I pushed the basket toward him. “I suppose you can have some, if you want.”
He gave me an inquiring look. “I doubt you eat crab—”
“Nope,” I informed him, although even I had to admit that the Lakeside’s crab cakes were tempting. They consisted almost entirely of chunks of white crab meat, were broiled to a golden brown, and were accompanied by a dish of house-made, tangy tartar sauce and fresh lemon wedges.
“How about french fries?” he inquired as my mouth began to water traitorously. “Do you eat those?”
“Yes,” I said. “Probably too often.”
Jonathan smiled in that way that transformed his face.
Had the woman in his past—the gorgeous blonde I’d seen with him in a photograph on the Internet—sparked that smile a lot? Or was she the reason it so seldom appeared now?
It was probably the latter. Along with a lot of other stuff that had happened to him . . .
“Daphne?” he prompted. “Do we have a deal?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
I pushed my basket even closer toward the center of the table, and he turned his plate so the potatoes were within easy reach, and for the next few minutes, we ate in a companionable silence, me pretty much depleting his pile of fries while he focused on the crab cakes.
The night was warm, but there was a comfortable breeze on the lake, which lapped at the pier just below our feet, and the sound was soothing, too. But the evening was also energized by quiet conversations punctuated by bursts of laughter at the tables scattered around us, beneath long strands of twinkle lights. When the wind picked up slightly, the candle on our table flickered and the old buoys that were hung on fishing nets draped around the shack—rustic decorations that attested to the building’s age—rattled against the clapboard. Looking skyward, I saw the moon glowing behind a thin veil of clouds, portending rain by morning. But the scene was very pretty right then.
Death by Chocolate Lab Page 9
