by Liliana Hart
Vaughn’s antique store was in an old Victorian that had been restored about a decade ago, and he’d bought it for a song when the owners had gone bankrupt and had to foreclose. It was three full stories, complete with a widow’s walk, and painted a pale yellow. The porch spindles were olive green and the decorative trim was a dark rose. The house took up half the block, and there was a very tasteful sign in bronze and cherry wood that sat on the small patch of grass between the street and the sidewalk. It read Raines’ Antiques and Vitamin Shoppe in slanted script.
“I hate coming here,” I said as Jack pulled into the small back parking lot. “I always see something I want.”
“Maybe it could be a wedding present,” Jack said.
“For who?”
“For us, dummy.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, and I stuck my head between my knees.
“Too soon?” Jack asked. “I know we’ve just met and all.”
I was incapable of speech, so I didn’t bother to respond to the sarcasm.
“You could be right,” he said. “We’ll take it slow and live together for a while first.”
Jack was out of the car before I could get my thoughts together, and I narrowed my eyes as he left me alone and headed to the door.
“Wait just a minute,” I said, though he couldn’t hear me since I was still sitting in the car like a dummy. I pushed open the door, and then jerked against the seatbelt when I tried to get out without taking it off first. I released myself and then tripped over the curb as I got out. “I said wait a minute.”
Jack turned and raised his brows in question, but I could see the humor he was trying to contain. I wasn’t laughing. This was my life, dammit.
“What was that, J.J.? I couldn’t hear you.”
“Wait just a damned minute,” I said for the third time. “You can’t just go around dropping bombs like that. I haven’t agreed to anything. Just because I slept with you doesn’t mean you get to be in charge of my life.”
I saw the anger flash in his eyes for a brief second before he put it away.
“You can’t tell me after this morning that what we had between us wasn’t a commitment.”
“Since when are you so pro-commitment? What happened to sowing your wild oats?”
“They’ve been sowed. I have a lovely patchwork quilt to show for it.” He moved in closer, and I could see the storm raging behind the black of his eyes. I wasn’t sure if he was holding back because he was afraid I couldn’t handle it or if he just hadn’t reached the breaking point yet. “Sometimes you just know,” he said softly. “There’s no one else for me.”
I tried to swallow, but it felt like something was caught in my throat. Possibly my heart. “I don’t know how I feel about marriage,” I said. “I can’t imagine I’d be any good at it.”
“Marriage is a natural progression when two people love each other. Though you have yet to say the words to my face. You’re not ready to get married? That’s fine. But there’s no reason you can’t move in with me while you’re warming up your cold feet. I’ve waited a long time for you. And I’m tired of being patient. It’s my turn to get what I want for once.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know you were waiting for me?” I asked, the exasperation in my voice obvious.
“You have eyes. Look back over the years and think about it a minute. And I’ve got my pride. I believe things happen in their own time, and this is the time. Now stop being so stubborn.” He kissed me hard once, and then opened the door and went into the store.
I followed behind him, not sure what I should say next, but knowing I had a right to be irritated. The old floors creaked beneath our footsteps, and the inside had that musty smell that came with items of a certain age.
“I’m back in the storeroom,” Vaughn called out. “Meet me in the office. I’ve got some fresh coffee made.”
I passed a beautiful porcelain vase that was so thin and finely crafted I could see my hand through the opposite side. But I walked past it without checking the discrete price tag I knew Vaughn had placed on the underside because all I could think of was receiving it as a wedding gift. My palms went sweaty, and I wiped them on my jeans. I needed coffee.
Jack handed me a mug as soon as I walked into Vaughn’s office, and I scowled at him for being a damned mind reader on top of everything else. Did he have to be so perfect all the time?
“Jesus,” Vaughn said as he came through the door. “It must’ve been amazing sex if you’re already fighting. Dickie owes me fifty dollars.”
“Always glad to help lighten Dickie’s pockets,” Jack said, taking a seat in one of the Queen Anne chairs against the wall.
I decided the best course of action was to sit down and drink my coffee instead of knocking their heads together like I wanted, so I took the chair on the opposite side and decided to ignore them both.
“Have you found out anything new?” Vaughn asked, sitting on the loveseat that faced us. He was dressed in old jeans and a black t-shirt, and there were smudges of dust here and there that came with the territory when moving old pieces of furniture around a storeroom. Hardly anyone ever got to see Vaughn dressed any way but perfection.
“Nothing new. I just wanted to follow up with a couple of questions,” Jack said. “Tell me about any habits Daniel had. His routine.”
Vaughn smiled. “Daniel was definitely one for his routines. He woke up at six every morning, seven days a week, and started the day with a three-mile jog. It didn’t matter if it was raining, sleeting, hailing or snowing. And that road that looped around his house could be treacherous if the weather turned bad. But he had to have his run, or he said he couldn’t function the rest of the day.”
“What about his knee?” I asked.
“He tore a ligament a few years ago, but surgery and rehab fixed him up enough that he could start running again. It would sometimes give him trouble at the end of the day, but he’d ice it down and be back running the next morning.”
“What’d he do after his run?” Jack asked.
“He’d go back and shower and get dressed for the day. He usually went straight to the hospital from the house instead of going to the church. He liked being with the people more than he liked being behind a desk.”
Vaughn tapped his finger against his knee, and it was the only sign I could see that he was upset. I knew this was hard on him.
“On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays he visited the nursing home after his hospital rounds, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays he spent time at the youth rec center. He’d stop back by his house and grab some lunch and then he’d head to the church to work in his office in the afternoon. You could practically set your watch by the man. That’s probably what killed him.”
I could tell by the look on Jack’s face that he agreed. “Did Daniel ever have any run-ins with George Murphy?” Jack asked.
“Not that I know of. George wasn’t one for regular church attendance, and I know for a fact Daniel took his car over to The Happy Mechanic just down the road.”
“Do you have a .38?”
The tension in the room skyrocketed as Vaughn understood where Jack was going with his line of questioning. I hadn’t been prepared either, and I’d picked the wrong moment to take a drink, because I started choking as soon as the words left Jack’s mouth. Vaughn pounded me on the back, and Jack just sighed and shook his head.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said. “It just went down the wrong hole.”
“If I had a nickel—” Vaughn said, making Jack and I both snort out a surprised laugh, breaking the tension a little.
Vaughn sighed, looking a little sad, and stood up. “Yeah, I’ve got a .38. It’s upstairs.”
“I’m going to have to take it with me,” Jack said.
“I figured as much. Let’s get this done. I’m not in much of a mood for unpacking crates of furniture. It seems like a good time to open that bottle of whiskey you got me for Christmas last year and have a Murder She Wrote maratho
n.”
Jack squeezed the back of my neck before I could make a smartass comment, and we followed Vaughn up three flights of stairs to his living quarters. The top floor was bigger than most people’s houses, and Vaughn led us in through the spacious living room, down a narrow hall, and into the smallest bedroom where he kept his office. Everything was neat and organized, and I wondered if I surrounded myself with people who had that quality because I lacked it myself.
“I keep all my guns in the safe,” he said, moving several books off the third shelf of the built-in bookcases against the wall. “I’ve got a .38 and a .22 in here. And I’ve got a rifle in the top of my closet.”
“Sometimes it terrifies me how much of this county is armed,” Jack said. “Half the people in my jurisdiction have conceal to carry permits.”
“I overheard Hilda Martin at the grocery store telling someone she got hers to prepare for the zombie invasion,” Vaughn said. “I’m almost positive she wasn’t kidding.”
A metal door appeared and Vaughn typed in a quick code before I heard the soft snick of a lock opening. I knew as soon as I saw the inside that we were going to have a problem.
“I don’t understand,” Vaughn said as we all looked inside the empty box. “I had this open not a week ago and everything was here.”
“Anything else missing besides the guns?” Jack asked.
“A couple thousand in cash. That’s it.”
Jack sighed. “I’m going to send someone over to take fingerprints, and I’ll need you to fill out a statement. Anyone else have the combination to the safe.”
“Just—Daniel,” Vaughn said, obviously shaken. “But he wouldn’t have taken anything without telling me.”
Jack didn’t have to say what he was thinking aloud. I’d been thinking the same thing. Whoever had killed Daniel Oglesby had tortured the information out of him.
“You need to get in touch with your attorney,” Jack said. “If the gun we found with George’s body comes back with your name on it, we’re going to have a problem on our hands.”
Vaughn blew out a breath, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Good thing I can count on you to find the killers before it comes to that.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jack and I rode in silence to Reverend Oglesby’s house. A case like this one could really get to you, not only because it affected people you cared about, but because we’d reached that point where it didn’t seem like the good guys were going to win after all. I watched as the Reverend’s house passed us by, and I turned to Jack.
“Where are we going?”
“This is the direction he ran every morning,” Jack said, slowing the cruiser as the road turned into one lane. The curves were treacherous at high speeds, and it was the type of road that flooded easily. “The worse the road gets, the less traffic and neighbors there are. No one out here owns a white Cadillac. We did a thorough check. But according to Vaughn, there was one out here at six in the morning when Daniel Oglesby went running Saturday, so the person in the car was either visiting someone and just leaving or they were up to no good.”
“A secluded area like this,” I said, “It’s prime space for kids looking to party, but I can’t see any of them driving daddy’s Cadillac out here for that. And we would’ve gotten reports of more traffic in the area.”
“Yeah,” Jack agreed.
We drove past three different houses that showed no sign of anyone being home. Most people were still at church, and wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours yet.
Jack turned off the road into a rutted driveway overgrown with weeds, and I saw a neat little box of a house, almost identical to Reverend Oglesby’s. Only this one was painted the color of watermelon and trimmed in vibrant green. Hanging baskets of clashing flowers hung from the tiny porch, and there was an old, rust red pickup truck in the driveway that looked like it wouldn’t make it down the block, much less start.
“Sweet mother of God,” I said. “My eyes.”
“Martinez got to interview the lady who lives here,” Jack said. “He said the inside was worse, but she was sharp as a tack and entertaining as hell. Martinez asked her about the afternoon Oglesby went missing—she wasn’t able to tell us anything because she was at her daughter’s for lunch, but Martinez didn’t know to ask her about the Saturday morning before he went missing.”
I got out of the cruiser and followed Jack up to the porch. He rang the bell, and I stifled a laugh as I heard a woman yell, “Fuck off,” from inside.
“It’s the police, ma’am,” Jack said, his lips twitching. “I need to speak with you for a minute.”
“Hold your damned horses,” she said. “Can’t an old lady watch her shows in private? It’s Sunday morning for Christ’s sake.”
I saw a shadow pass over the peephole, and then what sounded like a dozen industrial grade deadbolts being unlocked. The door creaked open and I looked down into the face of what had to be the oldest human being I’d ever seen in my entire life. She barely came up to my waist, and her thick white hair was piled on top of her head to give her a few extra inches in height. I’d never seen a person with as many wrinkles as she had, and all I could think was that I’d have to use a hell of a lot of putty and plumping agent when she finally passed on.
“I’m Sheriff Lawson,” Jack said, showing her his badge. “And this is Doctor Graves. She’s the coroner for King George County.”
“I know who she is,” the woman said. “Runs the funeral home. Are you here looking for business, girlie? I’m not dead yet.”
“No, ma’am. I’m here in an official capacity to assist Sheriff Lawson.”
She gave us both a shrewd look. “Looks like you’ve been assisting him in unofficial capacities as well. I miss sex,” she said with a sigh. “It’s one of the many things that sucks about getting old.”
I felt the heat rush to my face, but Jack was as calm as ever. “Can we come in, Mrs.—”
“It’s Miss,” she said. “Miss Pilcher. I never got married. Men are a pain in the ass, and the ones of my generation more so. I figured I’d rather be single than have to ask a man’s permission to wipe my ass.”
She stood back and opened the door wider, and I followed Jack inside. I had to imagine that living to the century mark would give you plenty of time to amass a collection of useless things and keepsakes, but I hadn’t been expecting wall-to-wall cuckoo clocks. They ticked in a frantic rhythm, each trying to outdo the other, and I hoped to God we made it out before the hour struck. Where there weren’t clocks, there were photos. Hundreds of them.
And then I remembered what Jack had said about Miss Pilcher having a daughter. I must have had a confused look on my face because she turned and pointed out a photograph to me.
“You’re wondering about my daughter,” she said, smiling. Her false teeth were large and blindingly white. “She was an accident of course. Birth control in my day wasn’t as reliable as it is now. I’m pretty sure her father was a travelling salesman. Or maybe one of the Rockefellers. I could never be sure. I was an outcast, being unwed and pregnant, but I’d rather be an outcast than a hypocrite.”
Jack nudged me as we followed her down the hall, and I peeped into a little sitting room with a giant screen TV and Playstation 3. My eyes got wider as I saw what we’d been interrupting on Miss Pilcher’s Sunday morning. Miss Pilcher had exotic taste in porn. I could only be thankful she had it muted. I looked over at Jack and he waggled his eyebrows at me, and I shook my head no at the unspoken question. I wasn’t ready to add dirty movies into our repertoire just yet.
She led us into a tiny kitchen with bright yellow countertops and clean white appliances. The cabinets were painted lime green and there were parrots painted into a jungle of leaves on the wall by her kitchen table.
“I’ve got fresh coffee if you’d like some,” she said. “I can’t drink it because it makes my teeth fall out, but I’m so damned cold all the time I just carry a cup around to warm my hands. Getting old sucks.”
> Jack and I both declined the coffee and sat in the tiny wooden chairs at the table. Miss Pilcher had to boost herself into hers.
“I knew your parents,” she said, looking at me. “Not well, of course. I went to buy a plot and a burial plan about twenty years back. Thought I’d have to use it by now, but I’m still here, so it turns out I made a good investment. Inflation and all that. They were assholes, if you don’t mind me saying. Are you an asshole too?”
I blinked slowly and felt my lips twitch. “No, ma’am.”
“Well, you don’t look like one, but you never know. Sometimes assholes can be deceiving. I’ll let you do my funeral then. I’m sure it’ll be any time now. Are you going to ask me questions, Sheriff, or are you just going to sit there and think about how you’re going to get into Doctor Graves’ pants?”
“I can do both, Miss Pilcher,” Jack said with a smile.
“I like you,” she said, cackling. “I’m assuming this is about that poor Reverend Oglesby. I talked to the police about him Friday. I told the officer I was off visiting my daughter, so I didn’t see the Reverend that day. It’s terrible that something like that can happen so close to home. I knew as soon as he moved here he’d have a hard road ahead of him. Being gay in these parts is difficult enough, but being a preacher on top of it would never have ended well.”
“You knew Reverend Oglesby was gay?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. I have a keen eye and I’m very observant. I also like to sit at my front window and watch the neighbors with my binoculars. Sometimes I get tired of watching porn. They don’t make the storylines as good as they used to.”
“Hmmm,” I said.
“And sometimes I’d see that man that has the antique shop visiting,” she said. “He was real sneaky about it, but I’m sneakier. I’ve got long-range binoculars.”
“I want to ask you about the morning before Reverend Oglesby went missing,” Jack said, getting things back on track before she told us more than we wanted to hear about Vaughn. “Did he make his usual run that morning?”
