by Jeff Shelby
Planting Evidence
By Jeff Shelby
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Planting Evidence
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2017
Cover design by Alchemy Book Covers and Design
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.
Books by Jeff Shelby
The Joe Tyler Novels
THREAD OF HOPE
THREAD OF SUSPICION
THREAD OF BETRAYAL
THREAD OF INNOCENCE
THREAD OF FEAR
THREAD OF REVENGE
THREAD OF DANGER
The Noah Braddock Novels
KILLER SWELL
WICKED BREAK
LIQUID SMOKE
DRIFT AWAY
LOCKED IN
The Moose River Mysteries
THE MURDER PIT
LAST RESORT
ALIBI HIGH
FOUL PLAY
YOU'VE GOT BLACKMAIL
ASSISTED MURDER
DEATH AT THE DINER
The Deuce Winters Novels (Under the pseudonym Jeffrey Allen)
STAY AT HOME DEAD
POPPED OFF
FATHERS KNOWS DEATH
The Rainy Day Mysteries
BOUGHT THE FARM
WHEN THE ROOSTER KILLS
CRACK OF DEATH
PLANTING EVIDENCE
Novel for Young Adults
PLAYING THE GAME
Short Story Collections
OUT OF TIME
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ONE
Something was burning.
Thankfully, it wasn’t another building on my property.
Unfortunately, it was something in my oven. The same something I’d spent over an hour putting together.
I hurried into the kitchen, my sock-covered feet sliding a little on the floor as I skidded to a stop in front of the oven. With a grimace, I gripped the bar and pulled on the door.
The pie inside was singed brown on top; at least I thought it was, considering it was barely visible behind the plumes of smoke billowing into the kitchen. I grabbed a potholder and yanked the pan out, then set it on the stovetop.
The apples I’d painstakingly sliced. The crust I’d labored over, making the dough and rolling it out and pinching it into place. The brown sugar and butter topping crumbled on top.
All of it, ruined.
I stared at the pie and sighed. All my work, down the drain. Or, rather, up in smoke.
I tossed the potholder back on the counter and surveyed the kitchen. There was a stack of dishes still waiting in the sink, and a whole basket of apples needing to be turned into…something. I almost smiled as I stared at the dozens of red fruit nestled in the basket. Almost, because I was still ticked about all my hard work wasted. But still…I had apples. Apples I hadn’t known existed.
The apple tree I’d found had been a surprise. Unlike most of the other surprises I’d encountered during my time in Latney, the discovery of the tree had been a good one.
When I moved into the old farmhouse, I knew I was getting five acres of land, filled with pastures and a pond and an awful lot of trees. What I hadn’t anticipated was finding a fruit tree tucked away in the back corner of the property. I’d discovered it almost by chance one day while taking an early morning walk. I’d headed down toward the pond, past where the bungalow had stood before the fire burned it to the ground, and decided to follow the reedy shoreline to see the back part of the lot. There was a small, narrow trail, barely wide enough for a person to navigate, but I’d managed, and only picked up a few burrs along the way. Halfway around, I found the tree, an old gnarled apple tree loaded with tiny green apples. After discovering it, I made a point to check on it weekly, and my anticipation grew along with the apples. I was practically giddy when the time came to harvest the red, ripe fruit. And I was downright ecstatic when I first bit into one, savoring the tart sweetness. I knew they’d be perfect baking apples.
If I could manage to make something without burning it to a crisp.
I picked up my glass of water and brought it to my lips, still glowering at the smoking pie on the stove. I had discovered that the oven was one of the more…unpredictable things in the house. It didn’t always keep the right temperature, and it didn’t always heat thoroughly. It wasn’t the first time I’d had an issue with it. I’d made a mental note a few weeks ago that I would probably need to replace it sooner rather than later, and I was now thinking that the destruction of my apple pie was definitely going to propel me forward in the decision-making process.
There was a knock on the front door and I headed that way, grateful for the distraction from my culinary catastrophe.
Declan Murphy was on my doorstep, holding a large cardboard box. His face was barely visible behind it, but I could see his reddish brown hair just above it.
“Rainy?” The box muffled his voice.
I stepped aside and waved him in, even though he couldn’t see me. “Come on in,” I said.
He stumbled forward, almost dropping the box as he crossed the threshold. Carefully, he lowered it to the ground and then straightened.
I peered at the box. “What is all this?”
“Chickens,” he told me.
I raised my eyebrows. “Chickens?” The box was partially closed, but I didn’t hear any chirping or clucking.
He nodded, pushing at his hair. “My sister is making me redecorate.” He pulled one of the flaps open and I saw what was inside: chicken décor. The chicken décor from his kitchen.
“She’s what?” I asked.
“Redecorating,” he repeated. When I gave him a puzzled look, he held up his hand. “Don’t ask. I’ve learned it’s better to just let her do her thing and not ask questions.”
I bit back a smile.
“So,” he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “I figured I’d bring all this stuff by and see if you wanted it. I know you like chickens, and you seemed to like the decorations when you came over.”
“I did.”
There was a pause, and he must have mistaken my silence for hesitancy. “You don’t have to take it,” he said quickly. “I just thought you might like it, what with having real chickens and all. But I know you have your own stuff that you’re probably attached to. And I mean, who really wants hand-me-down kitchen stuff, anyway?” He stooped down to pick up the box. “I can just take this to the thrift store in Winslow. I’m sure they’ll take it off my hands.”
I reached out and touched his arm. “Declan, stop.” He froze. “I’d love to keep some of this.”
He turned to look at me. “You would?”
I nodded. “Yes. Absolutely. I’ll go through it and whatever I don’t end up keeping, I’ll take to the thrift store.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” he said slowly, his eyes darting from me to the box. His cheeks were a little pink, but not as red as I’d seen them in the past. He hadn’t gotten too flustered yet, and I wanted to keep it that way.
“I’m sure,” I said. I crouched down by the box and pulled the flaps completely open so the contents were visible. “Oh,” I said, pulling out the chicken clock that had hung on his kitchen wall. “I remember this. I lo
ve it!”
I dug around some more, pulling out kitchen towels that were almost new, and potholders that I was sure had never encountered a dirty dish.
“These are fantastic,” I said as I pulled out a pair of chicken salt and pepper shakers, one white and one yellow, both with beautiful red combs, and held them up for him to marvel at.
“Um, Rainy,” Declan said, chewing his lip. “Do you really want to be going through all of this right now?”
I looked up at him. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He pointed to the kitchen. “Because it smells like something might be burning.”
For one brief second, I flashed to the pie in the oven. And, just as quickly, I remembered I’d already pulled it out. Burnt.
I smiled ruefully. “Something was burning,” I told him.
“Not a building, I hope?”
My grin widened. “No, not a building.” My burned-out bungalow was clearly the first thing he’d thought about, too.
He smiled back, his blue eyes practically twinkling. “Good.” His hands were still in his pockets and he rocked back and forth on his heels. “So…it’s been a while since I’ve seen you…” His cheeks were definitely turning redder now.
“Yes, it has been a while,” I admitted.
I knew it had been a couple of weeks, if not longer. Ever since the Dorothy Days festival, I’d kept a low profile. I hadn’t been to church, and I’d only gone to town for groceries and a few quick burger fixes at the Wicked Wich. I hadn’t been trying to avoid Declan, per se, but I hadn’t sought him out as I had before.
And I knew why.
Gunnar.
I felt my own cheeks warm as my thoughts drifted to my sexy, handsome next-door neighbor.
“How are…things?” Declan asked.
I cleared my throat. “Things are good.” I didn’t know if he was asking in general, or if he was asking about me and Gunnar. Because even though I’d kept to myself, and even though Gunnar and I had kept our budding almost-relationship confined to our homes, I had a sneaking suspicion that people knew.
Because nothing stayed a secret in Latney for long.
Especially when it involved me.
Declan coughed. “And how is Gunnar?”
And there it was, just what I had suspected.
“Gunnar is fine,” I said, trying to keep my tone as neutral as possible.
He ran a hand through his hair before shoving it back into his pants pocket. “I…are you…?” His voice trailed off.
I knew what he wanted to ask: were we seeing each other?
I just didn’t know what I wanted to respond.
Gunnar and I had spent time together, but I wasn’t sure we were a couple. After our kiss at the Dorothy contest, we’d settled into a tentative sort of dance. We spent time together—the occasional dinner, the sporadic movie night—but we hadn’t moved much beyond holding hands and goodnight kisses. I felt a lot like a sixth grader going steady with the cute boy from homeroom. Nervous, bumbling, uncertain, awkward.
And I had no idea how Gunnar felt.
I looked at Declan. His cheeks were now redder than his hair, and he was looking around as if he’d rather be standing anywhere but there. I felt the same exact way. I didn’t know what to tell Declan. Actually, if I was being truthful, I didn’t know that I wanted to tell him anything.
I liked Declan. As a friend, of course, but there had been times where I was sure that I’d felt something…more. And now, being in a sort-of relationship with Gunnar, I didn’t know what to do about that.
A ringing from inside the living room saved me from having to answer him.
“Hang on,” I told Declan as I made a mad dash for the phone.
I recognized the number on the screen.
“Rainy?” Vivian Sumner’s voice sounded worried.
My thoughts immediately turned to Leslie, Vivian’s stepsister and the subject of one of my earlier “investigations.”
“Hi, Vivian.”
“Oh, thank goodness you picked up,” she breathed.
I immediately tensed. “What’s wrong?”
She hesitated.
“Vivian? Is Leslie okay?”
“Who?” she asked absently. “Oh, Leslie. Yes, yes, she’s fine, I think. I’m not calling about her, though.”
“No?” I paused. “What are you calling about, then?”
It was her turn to hesitate. “I don’t think we should discuss this over the phone,” she finally said.
I had learned one thing during my time in Latney. If someone didn’t think it was a good idea to talk about things over the phone, it probably wasn’t a good idea to talk about, ever.
“Rainy? Are you still there?”
I blinked, and stole a glance at Declan. He was watching me, curiosity etched into his features.
“I’m here,” I said faintly.
“Can you come over?” Vivian asked. “I really need to talk to you. I…I have some questions about a few things that I think you might be able to answer.”
I peeked at Declan again.
Two people had questions for me. One had questions that I was having a hard time answering. And the other had questions that I probably didn’t want to answer. Which was the lesser of two evils?
I glanced at Declan again. He was still standing there in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his face a little less red. The breeze blowing across the porch and into the house ruffled his hair, and the sunlight glinting on it made it look almost copper. He cocked his head, a questioning look on his face, and my heart did a little flip-flop.
“Please, Rainy,” Vivian said. “It’s important.”
I took a deep breath and made my decision.
“I’ll be right over.”
TWO
Vivian was waiting for me.
I pulled into her driveway and killed the engine, stealing a quick glance at her front door as I rummaged for my purse. She was standing in the open doorway, peering out at me.
A sense of dread washed over me and I was suddenly thinking it might have been better to stay home and answer Declan’s questions instead. He’d been very gracious when I told him I had to leave, and he hadn’t pressed for answers on any of the things he’d asked about, which made me feel even guiltier about running away from him rather than facing up to what was going on in my personal life.
I yanked the keys out of the ignition and dropped them in my purse. It was too late to think about that now. And it was too late to back out of Vivian’s driveway and pretend I’d gotten a flat tire or something on my way into town.
Because she was standing there staring at me, waiting for me to exit the car.
I sighed and said a silent prayer that this wouldn’t lead me down a path similar to the one I’d traveled when her stepsister, Leslie, had gone missing at the beginning of the summer.
“Rainy,” Vivian said, forcing a smile as I made my way toward her.
She was as put together as ever, which I tried to take as a good sign. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was brushed straight, the left side clipped back with a diamond-studded barrette. She wore dark-washed jeans and a soft, cream-colored cashmere sweater. A chunky bracelet comprised of orange gemstones encircled her wrist, and the gold necklace she wore sported a similar stone, oval in shape and nearly the size of my thumbnail.
“Hi, Vivian,” I said, following her as she stepped back into the house.
She led the way into her living room and took a seat on one of the floral couches, motioning for me to sit down.
I did, dropping my purse to the carpet. It landed with a soft thud.
I glanced around. The room hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d sat there. Same Queen Anne-style sofas, the same cherry coffee table and end tables, the same curios framing the picture window. But she’d added some fall-themed décor: a dried floral wreath beribboned with orange and yellow adorned one wall, a trio of hand-knit pumpkins, all various sizes, perched on the coffee table, and in the corner, a
friendly looking scarecrow, leaning confidently against the wall.
“Nice decorations,” I said, because she wasn’t talking and the silence was beginning to feel a little awkward.
She glanced around disinterestedly, almost as if she’d forgotten there was any décor in the room. Her eyes landed on the pumpkins. “I picked those up at Sophia’s store,” she said. “They were a steal. Only sixty dollars for all three.”
I swallowed and nodded, trying not to let the sticker shock show in my expression. “They’re very cute,” I said. And I meant it. They were cute. Just not sixty dollars cute.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she offered.
I immediately thought back to the luncheon I’d been invited to at her home, the one with cucumber sandwiches and mint tea.
I hated mint tea.
As if she could read my mind, she said, “I have some apple cider on the stove.”
I did not hate apple cider.
“That sounds great,” I said.
She stood back up and a couple of minutes later, returned with a pumpkin-shaped ceramic tray loaded with two steaming mugs of cider and what looked like a plate filled with shortbread cookies. They were pumpkin-shaped, and dusted with delicate orange sugar sprinkles.
She set the tray down on the coffee table, nudging the knit pumpkins out of the way, and handed me a mug of cider. I breathed in the scented steam, savoring the aroma of apples and cinnamon and clove, and hoped it would taste as good as it smelled.
I took a tentative sip.
It did.
I sipped once more, then set the mug down on the coaster Vivian had provided. Pumpkin-shaped, of course. “So,” I said, turning my attention to her, “What’s up?”
Vivian plucked a cookie off the plate and I noticed her hand was shaking. I frowned.
“Vivian?” I asked, my voice more tentative this time. “Is everything okay?”
Tears welled in her eyes and my stomach dropped.
Uh-oh.
She blinked away the tears and bit into the cookie, a dainty, lady-like bite that somehow managed to not create a single crumb. She swallowed it down with a sip of cider. “I don’t know where to start,” she admitted.
