Feeding the Fire: A Rosewood Novel

by Andrea Laurence

  “No, not at all.” Pepper had been dreading this discussion since the moment she learned the truth about her mother and Norman Chamberlain. There was so much more to the story than she ever expected. It had shaken her. Her mother had been deliberately vague about the details of her pregnancy, leaving Pepper to wonder if she’d had the baby and given it away, or ended the pregnancy. If the baby was adopted, that meant she had a brother or sister out in the world. It made her wonder what else she didn’t know about.

  But the hardest part was not being able to talk about it with anyone. She couldn’t tell Grant what was really behind their families’ differences. Instead, she reached across the table and took his hand. “I’m perfectly content with my decision.”

  “Then let me guess,” he offered as his thumb stroked over her skin. “It’s your mother.”

  Pepper opened her mouth to argue, but it was the truth. Perhaps a part of the story would be enough to get her through their impromptu dinner. “Forget my mother,” she said dismissively. “Her beef with your family has nothing to do with either of us. I’ll date whomever I want to date. I’m tired of her prejudices coloring my opinions.”

  Grant frowned. “I don’t want to cause friction in your family.”

  “Unfortunately, Chamberlains breathing is enough to irritate my mother and brother. Nothing will make them happy, but I’m hoping in time, they’ll change their mind. If you and I . . .” Her voice trailed off. Even though they were dating, she had a hard time speaking about their relationship in a long-term context. Would that scare him off? Make her sound more invested than she was? “I think once they get to know you,” she corrected, “they will realize they’ve misjudged you. You’re not your father.”

  “Thank God for that,” Grant said.

  Pepper’s gaze flicked up to meet his. She hadn’t expected that response. It was one thing for her mother to have issues with Norman, but she never expected his own son to feel that way. “Do you two not get along?”

  Grant straightened up and looked over her shoulder. His line of sight shifted until she realized that the waitress was bringing their dinner. He pulled his hand away from her and the conversation was put on hold as their platters of fried, flavorful meals were presented.

  “My father and I get along fine,” Grant replied once the waitress left. “I just don’t agree with some of the choices he’s made in his life. I don’t exactly hold him up as a shining example of who I want to be someday.”

  “Why?” Pepper asked. She knew his father wasn’t quite the upstanding citizen he liked to portray, but did Grant know more about Norman’s escapades than she expected? “What did he do?”

  Grant just shook his head and pointed at her plate with his fork. “Don’t let your food get cold. It’s best when it’s piping hot from the kitchen.”

  Tuesday afternoon, the chime of his front door startled Logan out of a rousing game of Candy Crush Saga. He leapt up from his desk to greet the woman standing in his lobby.

  “Hello. How can I help you?”

  The woman was middle-aged, in her forties but in tip-top physical shape. She had nicely styled dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a few more wrinkles than she probably would’ve liked.

  There was a wariness in her eyes that made him think she wasn’t just here for estate planning. He’d held a workshop at the senior center that had brought in a few clients, but she was too young for Thursday afternoon bingo. A quick glance at her hand showed a gold wedding band. Perhaps a divorce?

  “My name is Jeanette Kincaid. I’d heard you’d opened a practice here in town and I’m afraid I may need to retain an attorney.”

  Logan took a deep breath and smiled. “Okay, Mrs. Kincaid. Let’s go back to my office and you can tell me about your situation. My first consultation is free.” He saw to it that she was settled comfortably in his guest chair before he sat down at his desk. “What sort of legal services are you interested in, Mrs. Kincaid?”

  “I’m not sure if you do this kind of thing, but I, uh, need someone to represent my husband in a criminal matter.”

  Criminal matter? He didn’t get many of those. Depending on what it was, it might be better left to one of the bigger firms in Birmingham or Gadsden. “I can handle some criminal cases, but it really depends on what the charges are. Can you tell me what kind of criminal matter your husband is facing?” Jeanette nodded nervously and looked down into her purse.

  “My husband, Pat, hasn’t been charged with anything yet, but the police have come by the house to question him. He insists he’s innocent and doesn’t need an attorney, but I would feel better if he had counsel. If he said or did the wrong thing, they could pin this whole mess on him and I know he’s innocent. We’ve been married twenty-five years come this summer and I know him better than anyone else. He is not a pervert.”

  Logan swallowed hard and pulled out a pad of paper to take notes. “What exactly were they questioning your husband about, Mrs. Kincaid?”

  “They think he’s the Rosewood Peeper,” she said with dismay.

  He tried not to stiffen too obviously in his seat. The people in Rosewood had gotten quite wound up about the peeper. If word got out that Pat Kincaid was a suspect, they’d have him strung up in the square before Logan could do anything about it.

  “Why do they suspect your husband?”

  “I don’t know. They wouldn’t say. But they did ask my husband a lot of questions about his work boots; where he ordered them, what size he wore, could they see them? He handed those shoes over without hesitation.” Jeanette frowned. “That was stupid of him. I watch enough Law and Order to know that was a bad idea. He should’ve waited for a warrant or subpoena or something. He’s so convinced that his innocence will be proven, he’s making dumb mistakes.”

  Shoes? Logan remembered hearing a footprint had been found outside one of the windows where the peeper was reported. They probably wanted to compare treads, but to trace the shoe to Pat initially, they must’ve identified the type of shoe as one carried at the local shoe store, Good Soles. If they searched their records for that style and size and came up with Pat’s order, that might have brought the police to their door without any evidence.

  “Does your husband have an alibi? Were you with him on any of the nights the peeper struck?” Jeanette got quiet then. He knew instantly that she wasn’t with her husband. Any officer worth his salt would’ve come to the same conclusion if they asked her that question as well. That was troubling from a defense standpoint. If he wasn’t home, how could she possibly know it wasn’t him?

  “No,” she admitted at last. “I’m not certain of every date, but on the night they asked about specifically, I wasn’t with him.”

  “Even though you weren’t with him, do you know where Mr. Kincaid was that night?”

  “He told me he had to work late,” she said.

  Logan noted that she answered the question without really answering it. Just because he said he was at work doesn’t mean that’s where he was. And judging by Mrs. Kincaid’s demeanor, she didn’t believe his story.

  “Does your husband work in the evenings a lot?”

  “Every now and then. He’s the manager at the Piggly Wiggly. Usually he works the day shift, but over the last few months there have been a lot of evenings where he’s had to stay until nine or ten at night.”

  That would be something the records at the store could prove or disprove. Of course, if he was the manager, Pat could make sure the records said whatever he wanted them to say.

  “Mrs. Kincaid, do you have any reason to believe that your husband wasn’t where he said he was on those nights he worked late?”

  There was an initial flash of panic in her eyes, but it quickly faded. Her lips tightened into a flat line and she shook her head a little too adamantly. “My husband wouldn’t lie to me. If he said he was working, he was working. But either way, he’s not the peeper. That’s the most important thing you need to know. Are you willing to represent him?”

  L
ogan sat back in his chair and considered his options. This could end up being a high-profile case, at least in Rosewood terms. It could bring a lot of publicity, both good and bad, to his tiny firm. He could make an ass of himself publicly if he botched this. And even if he did a flawless job and Pat was acquitted, there would be people in town who would still think he was guilty and would blame Logan for getting him off.

  At the same time, it could all go well and he could really make a name for himself as an attorney in Rosewood. It would sure be sweet to see Norman Chamberlain knocked down a peg or two.

  Before he agreed to anything, he wanted to talk to Pat. He got the feeling his wife wasn’t telling Logan everything. The question was whether it was because she was hiding the truth to protect her husband, or because she didn’t know the whole story. “Mrs. Kincaid, why isn’t your husband here to speak to me about this?”

  “Like I said, he doesn’t think he needs an attorney. Old fool. I came here without telling him because I know, I just know, that they’re going to arrest him. It would be a huge mistake, but I know Sheriff Todd is under a lot of pressure to catch this guy.”

  “Well, I have to admit I’m intrigued, and inclined to take your case. But before I do, I really need to speak with your husband.” The Piggly Wiggly was only a block away from his office, so there was no reason why he couldn’t come by after work. “If you could get Mr. Kincaid to come by here tonight when he gets off work, I’d be happy to chat with him. You can rest assured that if he needs an attorney, I’ll see to it he gets one, even if he’s resistant to the idea.”

  Jeanette breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll do that. Thanks so much, Mr. Anthony.” She stood up and Logan escorted her out of his office and down the hallway to the lobby.

  Once she slipped out the front door, Logan decided to make a field trip to the Rosewood Library. The library archived every copy of the Rosewood Times and each incident of the peeper was likely reported in the paper. After that, he’d follow up with Clark Newton to see if there was anything he heard about that didn’t make it into the periodical.

  Logan wanted to compile a list of dates and locations to see if there was a date for which they could exclude Pat Kincaid as a possible suspect. He technically wasn’t the man’s attorney yet, but Logan already knew which side he was leaning toward.

  Playing Candy Crush Saga wasn’t going to build his law firm.

  Being bold would.

  And potentially representing the Rosewood Peeper was a make-or-break type of case that rarely popped up in a little town like this one.

  Chapter 12

  There was a lot to be said for the excitement of a southern wedding, but there was nothing like a southern funeral.

  Grant would never understand it, even though he’d lived in the South his whole life. Over the years, he’d attended his share of funerals. He’d watched his mother fret over what she was going to wear (Hint: the answer was something black) and what she was going to take to the family. It wasn’t just a simple matter of ordering a floral spray and dusting off the “marry and bury” suit in the back of your closet. Well, it might be for the men. For the women, it was a major event that started the minute the body was rolled out of the house.

  Grant could just imagine the chaos going on in the kitchen of the mansion he grew up in. Cookie would be spun up, not only to make a dish for the family, but because his mother would’ve pushed her way in to make something when she normally stayed far, far from the kitchen.

  Grant had no doubt that Robin Townsend was already the recipient of more casseroles and buckets of fried chicken than she could ever eat. It was southern tradition to feed the grieving, and feed they did. When Grant’s grandfather died, Cookie and Winston, the butler, tag-teamed the door as every family in town came by to bring food and pay their respects. There wasn’t a square inch of space in the freezer or refrigerator. Every available spot on the counters were covered in platters with cakes, cookies, chess squares, lemon bars . . .

  Grant didn’t know much about Estelle’s daughter, but he thought bringing her baked goods was probably a bad idea considering her mother owned the bakery. Nothing like rubbing her dead mother’s memory in her face.

  When he arrived at Hancock’s Funeral Home for the visitation, the place was buzzing with activity. The parking lot was filled with cars and the traffic had actually spilled out into the Piggly Wiggly parking lot next door. Grant opted to park there so he could make an easier getaway when the time came.

  As he rounded the building, Grant noticed the Petal Pushers’ van parked out back. Miss Francine was directing the unloading of floral arrangements that would decorate the room with the body and blanket the casket.

  Grant hated the visitation, but everyone had to attend, especially since he wouldn’t be going to the funeral. There were no excuses unless you were on the verge of having your own visitation. The guys at the firehouse would even take turns going down and watching the station so everyone could pay their respects. If given the choice, Grant would volunteer to watch it alone so everyone could go, but no dice. He was directed to go, then come back so Mack could go.

  Stepping inside the funeral home, Grant signed the condolence register and queued up with everyone else. The doors to the visitation room were still closed, which meant the family was in with the body getting their first glimpse of the deceased. If there was going to be wailing and bodies thrown across the casket, now was the most appropriate time.

  Fortunately, the room remained blessedly silent. It wasn’t long until the doors opened and people slowly started filing inside. Grant stuffed tissues in his pockets to distribute to the ladies, as needed, and moved forward.

  He prayed for a closed casket, but he knew he wouldn’t get it. Open caskets made him uncomfortable as a child and it hadn’t changed much now that he was an adult. Part of him always expected the body to sit up and lunge for him like in some old horror movie. It didn’t matter how good a job Mr. Hancock did on makeup for the body, or how lifelike everyone declared her to be, to him it still looked like a coat of spray paint on a corpse. Traditionally, the line to pay your respects to the family went right by the casket, so there was no avoiding it.

  “Did you hear how she passed?”

  Grant looked up to see two older ladies standing in front of him. Both were wearing large-brimmed hats, blocking their faces. He quickly turned to study his shoes, not wanting to get drawn into the conversation, but it was very difficult not to overhear it. The lady in the dark blue pantsuit was whispering very loudly.

  “No, I hadn’t,” the woman in the black dress replied. “How?”

  He knew the rumors would fly fast and furious. No one on the Fire and Rescue squad would breathe a word about what they saw, but it would get out anyway. The driver at the funeral home would see something when he picked up the body, like a giant pink dildo, and tell someone in strict confidence. The neighbors across the street would see Estelle’s body rolled out of Bert’s house in the early-morning hours. That’s all it would take for the news to spread like wildfire. Whatever details they didn’t have, gossip would happily fill in.

  “I heard Bert killed her with sex.”

  Like that.

  “Dotty! You can’t be serious. Admit it, you’re telling me a tall one.”

  Ahh. That explained it. That was Miss Dotty standing in front of him. Dollars to doughnuts it was Miss Vera she was talking to: the strong scent of Chanel No. 5, her trademark perfume, and aerosol hair spray hung in the air around him.

  The gears of gossip turned quickly in Rosewood, and Dotty and Vera were the conductors of the train. He had no doubt Miss Francine would hop on board as soon as she finished with the flowers.

  “No, it’s true,” Miss Dotty insisted. “Her Oldsmobile had been parked in his driveway all night and her son just picked it up this morning. Jasper Daniels saw it. He also saw her body get rolled out of Bert’s house early Monday morning. Rumor is that he gave it to her so good her heart just gave out. Can you im
agine?”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Miss Vera muttered, bringing a gloved hand to her mouth. “I certainly could. I remember Margaret complaining when she first got married about what a machine Bert was. She couldn’t finish a sink of dishes without him interrupting her for sex. It sounds like he hasn’t lost his touch over the decades.”

  Grant closed his eyes and wished to be struck by temporary nerve deafness.

  “I should’ve bid higher at the auction,” Miss Vera complained, “but I knew Estelle would pay any price just to get back at me. I let her waste her money. Turns out she didn’t need it much longer anyway.”

  “What was all that between you two?” Miss Dotty asked.

  “Well, to be honest, I stole Herman from Estelle during our senior year in high school. I don’t know why she was still so upset over it, it was over forty years ago. Clyde was a much better match for her than Herman, anyway. We’ve never been friendly, but I didn’t realize she still carried so much animosity toward me until that night.”

  “Well, she won,” Miss Dotty said. “And lost at the same time.”

  “At the very least, I hope she got to work out some of that aggression with Bert before she died. Lord, I hope her daughter hasn’t heard all the rumors. I’d hate for one of my kids to hear that about me, even if it was true.”

  “You’re just lucky it wasn’t you, Vera. You could’ve just as easily won the auction.”

  “Yes, but my heart is fine. He wouldn’t kill me with pleasure.” Grant heard her make a thoughtful humming sound. “He could sure try, though.”

  “Vera! He’s right over there.” Miss Dotty pointed over to the small seating area where Bert and several other men were congregating. “What if he hears you?”

  “So what?” Miss Vera eyed Bert for a moment too long. “I made it clear I was interested in him at the auction, it’s no secret. Look, there’s Francine!”

  Grant turned in time to see Miss Francine come down the line from the visitation room and meet up with her partners in crime.