Framed!

by Robin Caroll

“No. I haven’t driven my car since. After the sheriff questioned me, I came home and checked, and the medallion isn’t there.” He shook his head. “And neither is the chain. But I know I saw it in the console.”

  “So, from what you told me, the medallion could’ve fallen off when you put the chain in your locker, or when you were at the front desk, or even on the way to your car. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Someone could’ve found it and picked it up. It has my name on it, so it’s pretty obvious whose it was.”

  “Right.”

  “And that someone could’ve actually meant to give it to me, but forgot. Or they don’t know me.”

  “Or were scared to approach you.”

  She shot him an inquiring look.

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying your name alone can intimidate some people.”

  “Whatever.” She flipped her shiny hair over her shoulder. He could almost remember the satiny feel against his hand. “So weeks pass and they find the medallion again or remember. If they’re intimidated by me, or don’t know me, maybe they know Dylan. From the golf course or something.”

  “I’m following you.”

  “They give it to him, telling him they found it and thinks it belongs to me.”

  “Okay. So far it’s logical.”

  “He recognizes the quality because our family’s used the same jeweler for years. He sees my name, figures it’s mine and slips it into his pocket to give me at home. No one trying to set you up.”

  “Don’t you find it a bit coincidental they happen to return it the exact day he’s shot?”

  Her pretty features twisted. “Hang on a minute. I’m trying to remember something.”

  She was so cute when trying to concentrate. Her eyebrows bunched up and her nose wrinkled. Her fingers toyed with the neck of her shirt.

  She slammed her hands to the table, eyes wide and face paling by the second.

  His heart felt like a knife had just sliced through it. “What?”

  “Max, you were right. Someone is trying to set you up.”

  Heart pounding, he reached across the table and took her hands in his. “After all the over-explaining you just did? Why do you say that?”

  “Because the inventory sheet says the medallion was found in Dylan’s front pants pocket.”

  Where was she going with this? “So?”

  “His left front pocket. Dylan was right-handed. And besides, ever since he had carpal tunnel surgery on his left hand a couple of years ago, it was weakened. Dylan never put anything in his left front pocket. Ever. If someone gave him the medallion, he’d have automatically put it in his right front pocket, not his left.” The color had totally vanished from her face. “Someone either saw you drop it or took it from your car and put it in Dylan’s pocket to frame you.”

  ELEVEN

  Now, beyond any doubt, Ava knew her heart had been right about Max. The relief and reassurance warmed her all the way to her toes.

  “Now we have to figure out who and why.”

  She nodded, realizing he still held her hands. No wonder her thoughts were so jumbled. “I’d say the killer.”

  “Definitely, because they had to put the medallion on him after shooting him.”

  She shivered. Someone would be so cold to shoot her brother and then plant evidence to incriminate Max. Who would be so bold, so hateful? Slowly, she pulled her hands into her lap. She wouldn’t be able to think clearly while he touched her.

  “Do you think that means all of this was premeditated?”

  Ava pondered the possibilities. “I’d think it’d have to be. I mean, they had to get Dylan to the property, have a gun on them or within easy access, and have the medallion with them to plant it.”

  “I think so, too.” Max let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand over his dark waves.

  She remembered how soft they were to her touch and shook her head. She needed to concentrate, not waltz down Memory Lane.

  “So we’re back to square one—who murdered Dylan?”

  Max rubbed his hand over his chin. “You know, maybe Dylan told us who shot him. Maybe it was ‘Sarah’s father.’”

  “What? Earl was already dead. How could he have shot Dylan?”

  “Talk around town is that Earl wasn’t Sarah’s father.”

  A vise tightened around her heart. “No, rumor is Dylan was.”

  “But what if neither man was Sarah’s father?”

  That jerked her head upright. “What do you mean?”

  “What if Dylan knew Sarah’s real father, and it wasn’t Earl or him? Maybe that’s what he was trying to tell the FBI.”

  She hadn’t considered that possibility. Hmm…“But who else could be Sarah’s father? We can’t exactly ask Leah.”

  “I think that’s the question we need to be asking. Obviously, it was vitally important to Dylan or he wouldn’t have wasted his dying breath trying to tell us.”

  “You’re saying if we find out who Sarah’s father is, we’ll likely find who killed my brother?”

  He nodded. “It’s the most logical place to start, wouldn’t you say?”

  But there was a chance Dylan was Sarah’s father. No denying the child resembled Charla and Ava herself.

  And Ava had the power to find out.

  Yet, she didn’t feel up to sharing all of this with Max just yet. It was too personal, too private. Plus, she needed to wait to hear what Mr. Fayard said where the law stood on the issue. The attorney’s words came back to her. “What about the evidence?”

  “What evidence? All they have is my medallion, which puts me at the top of their suspect list.”

  “The long red hairs found on Earl’s and Dylan’s clothes—they’re a match with each other and, from what I recently learned, come from a red wig. A wig that’s made from natural hair.”

  “Hairs?” Max’s brows lowered. “What hairs?”

  “You don’t know? How can you not know this?”

  “Tell me.”

  She filled him in on the particulars—red, not strawberry blond, long, and definitely from a human.

  He leaned back in his chair. “I’m not redheaded, so why am I such a prime suspect? And this links the murders together. This should clear me.” He shoved to his feet, pacing the confines of the kitchen like a tiger in a cage. “They didn’t even tell me.”

  Typical. She’d learned back when Dylan was a suspect in Angelina’s murder that law officials didn’t exactly play fair. “But it’s a wig. Maybe they thought you could’ve put one on.”

  He snorted and slammed the side of his fist against the kitchen island. “I didn’t even know about the hairs.” He shook his head. “Maybe that’s what they were looking for when they trashed my place. A stupid, red wig.”

  While she figured out what to do with the DNA test, they could work the wig angle. “Okay, why the red wig?”

  “Why a wig, period? What’s the tie-in?”

  “And let’s not forget about Sarah’s reaction to people with red hair.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  She let out a sigh. He truly was out of the loop. “Jocelyn worked with Sarah after Earl’s murder and Leah’s disappearance. They believe she saw something, and it had to be someone with red hair because of her reactions.”

  “You’re thinking all the murders are connected?”

  “It makes the most sense.”

  “But with a wig involved, it could be anybody.”

  Think, Ava, think outside the box. “Let’s back up a minute. Back to the first murder.”

  “Earl’s.” Max returned to his seat, peering at her intently.

  “Right. That’s what Jocelyn believes Sarah saw. Or at least something related to his murder.”

  “Okay. So Earl’s killer wore the red wig.”

  “Right.” But something else occurred to her. “Or maybe not.”

  He cocked his head. “I’m not following you.”

  “What if the per
son who killed Earl is really a redhead?”

  His forehead wrinkled. “But the wig…”

  She shook her head, her thoughts tumbling over one another. “We’re talking about someone who’s killed four people so far, and had to have at least some reason and planning, right?”

  “Okay. Still not seeing your point.”

  “I’m getting there. Bear with me.” She struggled to bring her jumbled thoughts into cohesiveness. It didn’t help that Max pierced her with his all-seeing eyes. “This redhaired person kills Earl. The police figure he set it up to look like a suicide. Why couldn’t the killer have planted the hairs from the wig to distract from him?”

  Max paused, squinting. “I can see that. But why a red wig? Wouldn’t he use another color so as not to be a suspect?”

  “That’s my point exactly! Wouldn’t it throw everyone off more if a redhead was planting evidence of a red wig?”

  His eyes widened. He got it. “Someone would have to be very crafty and slick to think of that.”

  “Any more than killing four people and getting away with it?” She was on to something—she felt it. Excitement stirred in her chest.

  “True.”

  “This person is clever. They’ve been able to stay a step ahead of the FBI, not just Sheriff Reed, so they’re crafty.”

  He nodded, that spark of enthusiasm flickering in his eyes.

  “Used it for distraction.” Her own veins were filled with exhilaration.

  “Right. So someone is a very smart planner.”

  Before she could respond, his phone rang. Loudly. He jumped up and grabbed the cordless from the counter. “Hello.”

  His eyes immediately clouded, and his expression went slack. Something wasn’t good.

  “I’m kind of in the middle of something right now. Can you ask them to come later?” He let out a sigh. “No, nothing like that. Sure. Thanks, Mom.” A beep sounded as he replaced the phone on its base.

  Lenore. Ava should’ve known. “Everything okay?”

  “She’s hired some housekeepers to come by and put my place back in order.” He didn’t sit back down.

  “When?”

  “They’re on their way now.”

  Which ended their conversation. Ava stood. “I have some things to take care of anyway.” Like doing some more praying about the DNA test.

  He grabbed her hand. “We need to finish this discussion. We’re on the right track.” He smiled, and her insides melted.

  “Let’s keep thinking of redheaded people in town. Between the two of us, we should know everyone.”

  Laying a hand on her shoulder, Max drew her closer even as she made her way toward the foyer. “Right.”

  At the door, she turned to stare into his face. It was her undoing. Her tongue tied into a jillion knots. “I’ll, uh, call you, uh, later.”

  He brushed her hair behind her ear. So intimate, and so familiar. Her heart pounded as he lowered his head and grazed a kiss across her temple. “And once we figure all this out, you and I need to discuss some more personal issues.”

  Words escaped her. They always had when his lips touched her. She nodded, then rushed to the parking lot.

  What a fine mess she’d landed in now.

  Redheads, redheads—who knew Loomis had so many of them?

  Max sat at the dinette table, shoving down a quick lunch of a ham and cheese po’boy and making a list of all the people he knew who had red hair. His concentration kept being interrupted by the cleaning crew. He forced himself to review the names he’d jotted.

  First was Vera Peel. Even though she’d owned the boarding house in town for as long as Max could remember, the woman creeped him out. Snapped at people. His mother had never liked her, but what did that mean? Years ago, Vera’s husband had run off with another woman. Vera had stayed in Loomis, just getting more and more rude as time wore on. But Max couldn’t quite picture her running around killing people. She’d been angry for years—why start killing townsfolk now? And the victims were all young, with no apparent connection to Vera. Max kept her on the list but drew a line through her name.

  He next wrote down the name of Shelby Mason, Loomis librarian. She had long, red hair, but she was Leah’s best friend. What motive could she possibly have to kill Leah and Earl? Not to mention, Max didn’t think she had any connection to Angelina or Dylan. But she fit the profile he’d created in his mind.

  Angelina and Dylan had been rumored to be a steady couple despite everyone knowing Dylan enjoyed his playboy status. There was even a rumor that Angelina expected an engagement ring. Earl and Leah were married. Maybe he should consider the fact that two involved couples were murdered and see if he could find a link between the couples.

  Vera didn’t run with the young crowd. She didn’t even run with the older crowd. Now that Max thought about it, Vera didn’t really have any friends that he knew of. He’d have to ask his mother. But just because no one liked her didn’t mean she was a killer.

  Back to Shelby. Maybe she and Leah had a falling out. Maybe about Sarah’s paternity, which would involve Earl. Maybe she’d had a crush on Dylan no one knew about.

  Max shook his head. He was grasping at straws, desperate for something solid. Anything to go on.

  “Mr. Pershing?” One of the cleaning crew, a twenty-something blond girl, stood in the kitchen entryway.

  “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am this happened to you.”

  Max squinted and stared. Did he know her? She didn’t look very familiar to him. “Thank you.”

  She nodded, but didn’t move from the doorway. “I’m praying for you.”

  What? Who was this girl? “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

  “Not really. I work for Reverend Harmon. I clean the church.”

  Well, that explained her praying for him statement. “I see.”

  She still didn’t go away. Only cocked her head to the side and continued to stare. Strange girl. Not wanting to continue this conversation, Max went back to his list and noticed something he’d unconsciously done.

  He’d been listing the women with red hair first. Because Ava had told him the hairs found had been long, indicative of a female. But now that they knew the hair came from a wig, the killer could be a man with short hair. Didn’t that go along with Ava’s profile of the killer being crafty and trying to throw the police off even more by wearing a woman’s wig?

  Felt like a distinct possibility.

  Chuck Peters had red hair. Max swallowed the chuckle. The man was a drunk—always had been, always would be. No way he could have had anything to do with any of the murders, much less participated and not gotten caught. Max drew a line through his name.

  That left Bartholomew Hansen. He had red hair. Max didn’t know much about him but could probably find out scads from his mother. And Earl had fought with Bartholomew Hansen at the Christmas tree lighting in Loomis Park. Hmm. That could be a connection. Max had helped break up the fight, which had made Earl madder than a coon dog retired from hunting.

  That only left one redhead. Georgia Duffy.

  Max glanced up and froze. The blond girl still stood in the doorway, just staring at him as if in a trance. The way she stared…it unnerved him. He cleared his throat. “Was there something else?”

  She focused on him. “Mr. Pershing, please don’t think me rude or nosy, but I just remember my mother telling me how active you once were in the church. I can’t help but wonder what happened.”

  He really didn’t want to have this conversation, period. Especially not now with this girl he didn’t know. “Let’s just say God and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms these days.”

  “Because you feel like He let you down?”

  Little pinpricks of apprehension trailed their way down his back. “Something like that.”

  She nodded, as if he’d given the answer she expected. “You know, Mr. Pershing, Proverbs 3 says, ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own
understanding.’ For some reason, I just felt led to share that with you.” With another smile, she was gone.

  He stared at the empty space she’d just occupied. Who was she to quote Scripture to him? Didn’t he know so many verses from heart, having them drilled into him at Sunday school and summer Bible camp? For years he’d read his Bible at least twice a day, drawing strength from God’s promises. But there’d been no follow-through on those promises.

  Max had cried out to God to bring Ava back to him, yet his prayers had fallen on deaf ears.

  Or had they? She was back in his life now. Could his prayers have been more than ten years in the answering?

  TWELVE

  The opening bars of “Louisiana Saturday Night” filled the car’s cabin.

  Ava jumped at the chirping tune, pressing her foot harder on the accelerator. The car’s tires spun on the loose gravel at the end of the driveway. Her bag of fast-food lunch slid to the floorboard.

  The second stanza began to come from the cell’s speaker.

  Muttering at herself for downloading the song for her ringtone, she dug in her purse for the cell phone.

  Where was the silly thing?

  Pulling off to the side of the driveway, she located the phone in the side pocket of her purse and flipped it open without even looking at the caller ID. “Hello.”

  “Ava? This is Paul Fayard, returning your call.”

  She put a smile into her voice. “Oh. There was no rush. You could’ve waited until Monday to call back.”

  “Not a problem. What can I help you with?”

  Ava put the car in Park and turned off the ignition. This could take a while, and she didn’t want to have the conversation at home where Bosworth or Bea could overhear and report back to her mother. That’d do nothing but start a whole new battle.

  “I have a legal question I wanted to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Regarding the conclusiveness and legalities of a DNA test.”

  A long pause ensued.

  She tapped her nails against the leather steering wheel cover and stared at her home. The weeping willow in the front yard needed to be trimmed. Spring would sneak up on Loomis soon. Already the breeze carried a hint of budding blooms.