by Nancy Bush
The captain’s eyes were cold. “And you just let him?”
“Yes.”
“What were you after?” She leaned back in her chair. It protested with a groan and a squeak, much as George’s did, at least before he’d lost weight.
Figuring her goose was cooked either way, September went for total transparency and told the captain everything she’d just related to Gretchen, along with more about the steps of her investigation: interviews with the StopGo convenience store owners and Courtney Mayfield’s parents, everything that applied to Wharton County.
When she was finished, Captain Calvetti tapped a pen on her desk and asked, “And who were you working for?”
“Um . . . myself, mainly. I wasn’t paid, if that’s what you mean.”
“Other than yourself, who was involved?”
Gretchen was right. This was dangerous territory. “I worked with Dallas Denton, a defense attorney, and his brother, Luke Denton, who’s a private investigator.”
“I know who they are.”
Calvetti’s cool attitude didn’t bode well. September waited nervously for the ax to fall, but then the captain said, “Luke Denton was a good cop. Loyal to a fault, maybe, but a talented investigator. Too bad he went to the other side.”
September nodded, not quite sure what was expected.
“All right, Ms. Westerly. Your paperwork’s being processed.” Calvetti leaned forward and stuck out her hand.
September jumped up, reached across the desk, and shook the captain’s outstretched fingers. “So . . . ?” she asked.
Calvetti said, “Pick up your badge tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” She wanted to dance for joy. “Thanks a lot.”
“One more thing. We need a face to show the press. I saw some coverage on you. I’m making you our liaison with the press, so I’m counting on you to make us look good.”
The idea of dealing with news people dampened her enjoyment a little, but September wasn’t going to make waves. Fine. Whatever. All she cared about was that she was going to be on the force again.
In her Subaru again, September texted Jake before pulling out of the parking lot: Mr.Westerly, you are married to one of Laurelton PD’s finest again.
He came back with: Congratulations! That’s great! Can’t celebrate tonight. Client dinner. Unless later on . . . ? Handcuffs optional.
Chuckling, she wrote: Funny man. See you later.
She wore a smile the rest of the way home, only sobering as she pulled into the garage ... her mind turned back to Brianne Kilgore. As soon as she was inside, she looked up the number for the Wharton County Sheriff’s Department, punched in the number, and when she was connected, asked to speak with Deputy Morant. Foot tapping with repressed anger, she waited for him to come on the line, and when he did, she said, “This is September Westerly. You called up Captain Calvetti and told her that I had impersonated an officer.”
“That wasn’t why I called!” he sputtered. “I was just looking for you. I got the captain and it kind of came out.”
“I never said I was with the police,” September reminded him.
“Yes, you . . . implied it.”
She let that one go. “Why were you looking for me?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Brianne Kilgore.”
“Were you going to tell me that you recognized her voice on the phone when she called and told you to check for angel of death mushroom poisoning?”
“What?” he blustered, but she could tell she’d jolted him.
“She’s got a very distinctive way of speaking, and I’ll bet you she didn’t try to change her voice. She called because she was worried someone had used the mushrooms growing by her house on John Linfield.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.
“You know the family. You knew it was Brianne and you didn’t give her up. That’s something you could lose your job over.”
“You’re saying Brianne made that call?” His voice had turned to a squeak and he had to clear his throat.
“I’m not interested in playing games with you, Morant.” September let that sink in as she stared out her window to the deck, where a hummingbird was flitting around the clematis that wound around the covered areas. “What were you going to say about Brianne?”
“Um . . . she said you told her to talk to me.” He cleared his throat, all seriousness now.
“Did she tell you anything?”
“No, but I think she kind of wanted to.... If you could . . .” He stopped himself.
“If I could what?”
“Check on her again,” he blurted out. “She’s listening to you, whether you know it or not. She’s a good person. I don’t trust Jerome Wolfe. He’s playing her. I just want her to be okay, but she won’t open up to me.”
Finally. The truth. “I will,” September told him. “I’ll do it today.”
“Thanks,” he said, and there was a wealth of meaning in his words. She had the power to take his job away, and he’d almost derailed hers. But they both had Brianne Kilgore’s best interests at heart.
* * *
Layla was just climbing out of an Uber car that had dropped her off three blocks from home when Mary Jo called again. A warm sunshine had sprung up, but Layla had on a jacket with a hood that she’d flipped over her head. She’d had the driver pass by her building and was encouraged that there weren’t quite as many press people lurking about, although she saw the reporter who’d followed her to her work. She’d escaped him once, but she sensed he wouldn’t be so easily shaken a second time.
By the time she was unlocking the door to her apartment, her cell phone was ringing. “Hold on,” she said, quickly shutting and locking the door behind her. She swept back the hood and her eye fell on a small clock, fashioned to look old school, that Neil had bought her because he’d complained she was always late. She’d been a bit irked by the move, but she had to admit because of having the clock in her home, she’d been more prompt.
The cell was still ringing, and she pulled it from her purse and looked at the screen. Mary Jo again. She clicked it off without answering, which, of course, prompted Mary Jo to text: Buyer wants the painting. Will pay eight thousand directly to you.
What the hell?
Layla didn’t immediately respond. She was still thinking it over when Mary Jo called again. She answered on a sigh. “I saw your text.”
“This sale is moving fast,” Mary Jo said in a rush. “It’s all cash. The house is empty. The builder’s eager to sell, and we’ve got a closing date next week, if you can believe that! And my buyer wants your painting!” Mary Jo cried in an orgasmic shriek.
Layla opened her mouth to tell her once and for all that she didn’t want to sell, but she stopped herself. Why did she care? She was lucky, damn lucky, that a painting she’d offered up to charity had come back to her and now she had a chance to reap the profits. And she had no intention of splitting with Jerome Wolfe. He could come after her for his half, and good luck with that.
“Let me think about it,” Layla said, compromising. It was sounding like a better and better plan, if indeed this buyer was for real. Sometimes, she’d learned, they just talked.
“Okay, great. Think fast. She wants to meet you at the house. She’ll write you a check for the painting right then!”
“She can just mail it to me,” Layla declared.
“Layla, for God’s sake, she wants to meet you. This all happened because you’re in the news. She’s like a . . . star fucker. If you were a man, she’d sleep with you.”
“Now I’m really not selling it.”
“Oh, just meet her. I’m joking. She’s very personable.”
“This isn’t funny, Mary Jo.”
“Nobody believes you did anything wrong, not really,” she hurriedly assured her. “Really, Layla. It’s just all the hype on TV.” A brief hesitation, then, “How about tomorrow? Sometime in the afternoon?”
Talk about a dog with a bone. �
��Fine,” Layla buckled, and Mary Jo quickly got off the phone to call her very personable buyer.
The conversation left her feeling worse, however. What if the truth didn’t come out? What if the police arrested her for Neil’s death? What about Eddie? Could she lose him? What would happen to him?
She called Naomi in a fit of panic. She hadn’t given the transfer of money to her account enough serious thought, she realized. It was a mistake, and she expected it to be handled. And she’d treated the reporters outside her door more like a nuisance than a true threat. But now she felt physically ill.
Naomi picked up on the third ring, and before she could say anything, Layla suddenly burst into racking sobs, blubbering that she was innocent, that she was sorry Neil was gone, that it wasn’t her fault, that all she wanted was Eddie and she would be a good mother, the best mother, and no one could take that away from her.
Naomi, bless her soul, was as calm as ever. “The police will figure out what happened to Neil. It’s so awful and scary, but you need to stay positive. This little guy’s coming. He’s going to need his mama.”
That sent her into another spate of tears. She thanked Naomi, asked her how she was feeling, could barely hear her answer she was so distraught, but understood enough to know that everything was going fine.
“A few more weeks,” Naomi said. “It’ll be okay.”
Layla thanked her again, and after a few more minutes, they both hung up, Naomi promising to call her if anything changed. Layla felt overwhelming gratitude that the surrogate Neil had picked was so incredibly sane. How, after choosing so well with Naomi, had Neil ever gotten involved with Courtney? A woman who was practically reveling in the attention Neil’s death had afforded her?
When Layla thought about Courtney possibly carrying her baby, it made her batshit crazy. The situation was out of control.
A creeping thought, one that had nagged her but she’d tried to keep at bay, wormed into her consciousness: Had Courtney had something to do with Neil’s death? Layla wouldn’t put it past her.
Layla next called the bank about the unexplained funds in her account but was put on hold. When she finally got through and laid out the problem, she was informed a manager would have to call her back. Was there a coolness to the banker’s tone, or was it her imagination? She hung up more worried than ever. So many things had happened, none of them good.
Who had deposited that money into her account? Neil . . . ? She wished she could trust that he hadn’t had a secret agenda that would suddenly blow up in her face, but it just didn’t make any sense.
And what about John’s death . . . was that just coincidence? Lucy had said it looked like Brianne Kilgore was possibly involved with the poison, maybe peripherally or maybe not. Whatever the case, it sounded like that mystery might be solved soon. Layla fervently wished the one surrounding Neil’s death would as well.
Her cell rang. She gazed at it with trepidation. Dallas Denton.
“Hello,” she answered cautiously.
“Layla, I’ve talked to the detective in charge of Neil Grassley’s homicide and he’d like you to come into the station for an interview. I’ll go with you. Does tomorrow morning at ten work for you?”
No! She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty. . . .”
* * *
Brianne Kilgore looked up at the darkening sky, smelling the scents of hay and manure, mixed with a bit of pine from the trees that rimmed the back paddock at the Happy Times Animal Shelter. She was working outside while Myra and Jennifer, who owned the place, got ready to go home. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and some Saturdays, Brianne was the one who kept the animals safe until eleven o’clock, and then Tommy O’Toole took over. He stayed in the bunkhouse, but he wasn’t as good as Brianne was. He liked the beer too much.
The two dogs, Scruffy, a terrier mix, and Delray the hound, followed Brianne as she went into the stables. They had two horses right now. They were too skinny when they came; Brianne had been able to count their ribs. It had taken a long, long time to see them not too skinny. They were in the stalls for the night. They stuck out their heads when they saw Brianne, and Corduroy whinnied. Brianne rubbed their noses and checked their hay. They were good.
One of the stable cats looked down from the top of a feedbox and hissed at Delray the hound. Delray didn’t care, but Scruffy started jumping and barking.
“You’re making a racket,” Brianne said. Scruffy stopped jumping, but he didn’t take his eyes off the cat, and his barks turned into a long, grumpy growl. The cats had no names. They wanted to be petted, but they didn’t want the dogs around. Brianne let the cats be and headed back outside.
Myra came to the back door of the office, stuck her head out, and said, “Jen and I are off, Brianne. Will you be okay?”
Myra always asked that.
“I will,” Brianne always answered back.
As the women left, she watched them both get in their cars. The cars were hybrids, saved on gas. Brianne drove an old truck that wasn’t a hybrid. She was a good driver, but she stayed only on the roads she knew. She could go to StopGo, but the road through the town of Glenn River was really crowded with cars and lots of people and Brianne knew better than to go there.
Brianne tugged on her ear. She didn’t feel right. That September person had told her to go see Martin Morant, but she didn’t want to. She had called him on the burner phone and told him what to do. She had then thrown that phone into the creek down behind the house.
Now, she went into the office, and Scruffy and Delray the hound joined her. They each had a crate and Myra and Jen were very strict about them going in their crates if they stayed inside the office. Brianne would let them stay outside if they wanted, but they liked their crates, so it was okay.
Brianne had a sandwich, and Scruffy and Delray the hound went into their crates, hoping she would give them some food. She gave them each a bite, then went to the refrigerator and got a bottle for the baby deer in the pen outside because those hunters had killed her mama. Brianne shut the doors to the crates and banged out the back door with the bottle. The dogs scared the baby deer.
She went into the small barn where the deer was and smiled as the animal tugged on the nipple. Sad little guy. No mama . . .
She thought of her own mama, who was dying. Mama didn’t like Jerome Wolfe, but Brianne loved him and he loved her. Mama said he didn’t. She said he only wanted the house. Brianne would give him the house. Mama said Brianne “wasn’t thinking with her head” and that she should “plan for the future before he takes everything and leaves you.” Brianne had pointed out that Mama was leaving, too, and Mama had gotten sad and said, “I wish I could stay and take care of you.”
That September person had worried about Jerome, too. They didn’t know him.
The rooster suddenly fluttered into the barn, flapping and hopping and crowing so loudly that Brianne said, “You’re making a racket!”
Distantly, from the office, Delray the hound started baying, Scruffy yipping furiously.
The baby deer released the nipple and backed into the corner of the stall.
Brianne looked up, heard, “Good-bye,” and something hard slammed into her chest. All around was animal noise. Roaring in her ears. All kinds.
She fell backward on the ground.
She felt pain. Big pain.
She saw the face. Saw the gun. Saw her own blood.
Saw dust specks.
She should have listened to that September person.
Chapter Thirty-Two
September pulled up to the Kilgore home. Neither Brianne’s truck nor Jerome Wolfe’s Mercedes was parked in front. She’d called the Kilgore home on the way, but there had been no answer, which had concerned her more. Maybe she was overreacting. Wolfe wasn’t going to do anything to Brianne. He needed her to sign the papers. But Brianne knew something about somebody and the angel of death mushroom, and Deputy Morant was worried, too.
She climbed out
of the Outback and stretched. Whether Brianne would actually listen to September was debatable, but it was worth a shot.
At the door, she knocked and heard the slow thumping coming her way. When Mona answered the door, Duke nosed past her to give September another doggy sniff. He then let out a keening wail that raised the hair on her arms.
“He’s been doing that for about a half hour,” Mona said, worried. “Can you go check on Brianne? She’s at the shelter.”
“Where is it?” September demanded shortly.
“Not far. Head toward Glenn River, but you turn off before that. . . .” She quickly gave September the particulars while Duke kept wailing and moaning.
In the car again, September slammed the Outback into reverse, whipped around and headed back the way she’d come. Now she berated herself for not listening to her internal radar sooner. Maybe nothing was wrong, but she didn’t think so. Duke knew something about his mistress.
She found the shelter fifteen minutes later. A light on a tall pole illuminated the main yard, revealing several outbuildings. A dog was baying, a deep sound, and another was barking furiously. They sounded muffled, as if they were inside the first building, an office, it appeared. HAPPY TIMES SHELTER was painted on an arcing sign above the door. September threw the Outback into Park, made sure her phone was in her pocket, and ran toward the office. She pushed through the door, which was unlocked, and was deafened by a couple of madly barking dogs barricaded in crates. They increased their furor, if that was possible, and September, without a weapon, thought about it for half a heartbeat, then opened their cages.
The two animals tore toward the back of the office, scratching, practically flinging themselves at the rear door. She unlatched the lock and they barreled through, across the grounds to a small barnlike structure. Everywhere there was noise, a cacophony of animal sounds, grunts, squawks, and yips building in the night.
She ran after the dogs, only slowing as she neared the open door of the shadowed building. “Brianne?” she called, looking around the darkening yard.
