Wrong Side of the Paw

by Laurie Cass

  Her cheeks were starting to turn pink and I looked at her with a new interest. The two of us had met a small handful of times, but they’d mostly been chance encounters, and I now realized I’d never talked to her one-on-one. “You didn’t care for him, did you?”

  “Certainly not for his business practices,” she said. “But there’s a lot of overlap between how you conduct your business and how you conduct yourself. I mean, if a guy owns a company that regularly builds houses with leaky roofs because he can’t be bothered to lay down the subroofing properly, it’s easy to believe he’s not going to visit his mother after she’s admitted to a nursing home.”

  “He really didn’t visit his mom?”

  She grinned. “No idea. But I wouldn’t have put it past him. I got so tired of problems with his houses that these days I stay away from listing or selling them.”

  “He was married before,” I said. “To Leese’s mother.”

  “Sure.” Bianca nodded. “I know Bev. She still says she divorced Dale because the windows in the house he built for her parents leaked whenever there was a strong west wind.”

  I frowned. “The winds around here are almost always westerly.”

  “Exactly.”

  As Bianca continued with story after horrific story about the houses that Dale built, I started getting the feeling that the suspect pool for Dale’s murder was a lot larger than I had imagined.

  • • •

  Just before sunrise the next morning, I looked at the bicycle Ash had pulled out of the back of his SUV. “So this is why they call them fat tires,” I said.

  “Hard to call them anything else.” He held the bike upright and nodded at it. “I already put the seat to your height. Go ahead, get on.”

  I looked at the thing askance. “Why am I suddenly reminded of the first bike I had that wasn’t a tricycle?”

  Ash grinned. “Because you’re a kid at heart. Get on.”

  He’d just come off his night shift and I was still amazed that he had the energy to go biking. “We can do this some other day,” I said. “You must be tired. And I have to be at the library in a couple of hours, so we don’t have much time.”

  “Keep talking like that and I’ll think you’re chicken.” He made rooster noises.

  “Peer pressure?” I asked, taking the odd-looking bike out of his hands. “That’s what you think is going to get me on this thing?”

  “Whatever works.” He pulled a second fat tire bike from his vehicle. “I borrowed these bikes from . . . well, let’s just say I borrowed them.”

  I gave him a sidelong look because I had a good idea where the bikes had come from. For various reasons, every year the garage of the sheriff’s office ended up with a tremendous number of items, things ranging from power saws to filing cabinets to sporting goods. “Ash . . .”

  “Don’t be such a worry wart,” he said. “I talked to the sheriff, told her that I wanted to try out these bikes. We might want to keep a couple of them for off-season access to some of the trails around here.”

  I’d never heard of fat tire biking until late last spring, when I’d started noticing them on the bike racks of visiting vehicles. I’d been standing on the sidewalk, giving one a quizzical look, when the owner noticed my expression. He’d immediately launched into an enthusiastic explanation, telling me that the four-inch-wide tires were ideal for spring, fall, and even winter bike riding, that the ultra-wide tires gave great traction in mud and snow, and that riding one was more fun than humans should be allowed to have.

  I might have believed him if he hadn’t been wearing white socks with his sandals, which to me indicated a complete lack of judgment. After all, if he felt free to wear that in public, could I really trust his opinion on bicycling? On anything?

  “We can go up the hill to the cemetery,” Ash now said. “Then take the trail that heads to the state forest. We’ll be back in forty-five minutes if you get moving.”

  “That hill is so steep I can barely walk up it.”

  “I’ve told you a million times to stop exaggerating. Honest, it’ll be easy on these things.”

  “Trust,” I mused, climbing onto the bike. “So hard to win, so easy to lose.”

  “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “Not yet,” I said darkly. “But there’s always a first time.”

  “Not today.” He climbed astride his bike and put a foot on one of the pedals. “So are you coming or—hey!”

  I whirled past him. “Last one to the corner pays for the next breakfast,” I called over my shoulder.

  “Cheater!” he yelled, but I didn’t consider it cheating; I thought of it more as evening the odds. After all, he was bigger, stronger, and fitter than I was. Any physical race that we started at the same time would be won by Ash unless the contest was evened up a little.

  We reached the corner, me winning by the slightest hair, and we headed up the hill.

  “This isn’t so bad,” I panted when we were halfway up.

  “Told you,” he said, not out of breath at all.

  “I hate it—when you—do that,” I managed to get out.

  “Do what?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to expend any unnecessary breath on talking. There would be time to abuse him when we got to the cemetery and I got my wind back.

  But by the time we reached the cemetery, we’d begun talking about the college courses he was taking that semester and then we stopped at Alonzo Tillotson’s headstone, the place I’d first met Eddie, for a view of Janay Lake and beyond to Lake Michigan.

  “Nice,” Ash said, leaning on his handlebars.

  “Sure is.”

  We stood there, side by side, drinking in the scene. The sun had just pulled itself up over the horizon and was bathing the waters with the bright golden-red of morning. It could have been a romantic scene, maybe even should have been, but it . . . just wasn’t. I didn’t feel a spark of anything resembling passion for the man standing next to me. Didn’t feel any sense of overwhelming love. Didn’t feel anything except a sense of friendly companionship and the well-being that came from exercise.

  Then, without a warning, Ash leaped onto his bike and sped off. “First one to the trailhead gets to pick the next breakfast place!” he called over his shoulder.

  “Cheater!” I shouted, fumbling for my pedals.

  “Takes one to know one!”

  And so, laughing, we raced into the day, but I was coming to think that our days as a couple were numbered.

  • • •

  A few hours later, I picked up my cell phone and called Leese.

  “Hey,” I said. “Are you okay? How’s your sister?”

  “It’s a long story.” She gusted out a sigh. “And I don’t think there’s a short version.”

  None of that sounded good. “When I told you I was a good listener, I meant it, so if you want to talk, just say the word. I can stop by tonight even.”

  “Do you mean it?” Her voice cracked.

  “Of course. Even if you don’t cook anything.”

  She managed a laugh. “You give the worst hints of anyone I’ve ever met. How do you feel about jambalaya?”

  “I’ll bring salad,” I said promptly, and pulled into her driveway at six o’ clock straight up. I grabbed the container of salad bar salad I’d assembled in the grocery store’s deli section, knocked on her back door, and went in.

  “There’s nothing worse than a guest who’s on time.” Leese glowered at me as I came up the steps.

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m a friend with refrigerator privileges and not a guest, isn’t it?” I smiled at her brightly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I opened the door of her fridge, put in the salad stuff, grabbed a pitcher of what I assumed was water, and shut the door. “Like this, see?” I held up the pitcher. “Havi
ng friends with refrigerator privileges means it’s okay that they take stuff out of the fridge without asking because you know they’re considerate enough not to take the last diet soda.”

  “Gotcha.” She nodded. “I’m sorry for being so crabby. It’s just . . .” She shifted her gaze, looking away from me but not at anything in particular, unless the blank wall held some special meaning for her.

  “We’ll talk later,” I said. “After we eat, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Very okay. I’d love to talk about something normal.”

  Normal, of course, was a moving target, but after she’d shown me around her house and I’d expressed jealousy over the handmade quilt she’d put up as a wall hanging in her office (“My grandmother’s work,” she’d said proudly), we’d sat down to eat and were discussing our all-time favorite movies when we heard car doors shut. Three of them.

  Leese half stood to look out the window, then dropped back into her chair. “I am so sorry,” she said heavily. “I had no idea they’d stop without calling.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  The back door banged open. “Leese!” a high-pitched woman’s voice called as multiple sets of feet tromped up the stairs. “We need you to talk some sense into your sister.”

  “My stepmother,” Leese said, sighing. “Carmen. And Brad and Mia. Carmen’s . . . okay, just a little . . . intense.”

  Interested, I got to my feet as the trio made it to the top of the stairs. Carmen, brassy-haired and exceedingly thin, was holding the young woman I’d seen at the sheriff’s office by the arm. Behind them trailed Brad, who, in spite of being a big, bearded guy, looked a lot like his stepsister. He also looked as if he’d rather be anywhere rather than where he was.

  “Hello,” I said pleasantly and introduced myself.

  Carmen’s gaze raked over me and went to latch itself on to Leese. “I can’t believe you invited a stranger over for dinner on a night when your family needed you.”

  “Oh, Momma, leave her alone.” Brad Lacombe stuck out his hand. “I’m Brad. Nice to meet you.”

  “Minnie?” The waiflike Mia stared at me. “You were the one with Leese last week when . . . when . . .” Large tears started to drip down her face.

  “That’s right.” I turned my chair toward her. “Do you want to sit?”

  “We’re interrupting your dinner,” Mia murmured. “We should leave.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Leese handed her a napkin. “Dry your face and all of you sit down. I made jambalaya and there’s enough to feed half an army.”

  In short order, she’d spooned out healthy servings of the rice-based dish and set the mounded bowls in front of us. I used my refrigerator privileges to add a few Leese-owned ingredients to make the salad stretch to five, and our hostess forbade discussion of anything serious until the food was gone.

  Mia did more playing with her food than eating, so it took some time, but the five of us were drinking decaf coffee and digging into small bowls of ice cream as the sun started to slide down below the tree line.

  “Okay,” Leese pronounced as she watched a final spoonful go down Mia’s throat. “Now.”

  The three of them all started talking at once and Leese held up her hands to silence them. “Let me summarize,” she said. “Minnie came over to hear about the last twenty-four hours and I hadn’t even begun when you three showed up.”

  At this, Mia looked at her lap, Brad grinned, and Carmen, between sips of her coffee, said, “Family doesn’t need to call ahead.”

  Leese shot me a glance—which I interpreted as, See what I ended up with in the family lottery?—and didn’t reply to her stepmother’s comment. “Here’s what I know,” she said. “Mia, you went to the sheriff’s office yesterday and confessed to killing Dad. No, let me finish, Carmen. I want Minnie to hear the order in which this all happened.”

  Her stepmother sighed dramatically, but otherwise kept quiet.

  “Thank you,” Leese said. “After Mia made her statement, she was arrested. Somewhere in there she was read her rights and I showed up to represent her, at least for the time being.”

  She stopped and this time the ticking of the refrigerator was the noisiest sound in the room.

  “Right.” Leese looked at Mia. “Today, you were released from jail because it didn’t take the detective very long to determine that you were at an IT conference in Florida last week and that dozens of people could give you an alibi. Time-wise, it was impossible for you to fly home, kill Dad, and fly back to Florida.”

  “I know,” Mia whispered.

  “Then why did you confess?” her mother shouted, crashing her mug down on the table. I cringed, but no one else so much as blinked. “Why on earth did you do that?” Carmen demanded. “How could you be so—”

  “Let her answer,” Leese cut in firmly.

  Brad stood, went around to the back of Mia’s chair, and started kneading her shoulders. “Talk to us, Mee. It’ll be okay, okay? Just tell us why.”

  Though Leese’s napkin had stanched the earlier tears, it was not going to be able to handle the flood I could feel coming.

  “It was my fault,” Mia said so softly the words barely got past her teeth. “It was me, it was my fault.”

  “We heard you the first hundred times,” her mother said. “It’s bad enough that your father is dead without this little problem. You said you’d explain when we got to Leese’s house. Well, we’re here, so tell us.”

  Mia looked at Leese, who nodded. The younger woman bent her head. “Dad and I,” she told the table, “had this big fight when he drove me to the airport. A huge fight.”

  This fact didn’t seem to faze the other three at the table. I couldn’t recall the last time my mild-mannered engineer father and I had argued about anything other than the importance of fiction in the universe. In spite of his ridiculous opinion that reading fiction was a waste of time if there was nonfiction at hand, I couldn’t imagine having a knock-down drag-out with him. Clearly, this wasn’t the case with the deceased Dale Lacombe and his offspring.

  “What was it this time?” Brad was still working on her shoulders. “Your hair or your tattoos?”

  His younger sister reached up and pulled at a loose strand of jet-black hair. “He kept saying over and over again that I was wasting my life, that if I ever wanted to meet a man who might actually want to marry me, I had to quit working a man’s job.”

  I sucked in a quick breath, not quite believing what I’d heard. But once again, no one else at the table seemed surprised.

  “Nothing new there.” Brad very gently bumped the top of his sister’s head with one of his fists.

  “But this time I said he was wrong.” Mia’s shoulders rounded. “This time I told him that I was a grown woman, that I thanked him for his concern but my career decisions were mine and mine alone.”

  Brad and Leese exchanged surprised glances and Carmen stared at her daughter. None of them said a word.

  Mia either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “He said he was my father and that he’d always have a say in what I did.” She looked up and now the tears were flowing fast. “I told him he didn’t have a say. I told him I’d been living on my own since college, that if I wanted his advice, I’d ask for it, but that I didn’t see it happening. Ever again.”

  Though it sounded as if it had been past time for Mia to stick up for herself, the timing was unfortunate.

  “Don’t you see,” she said wildly. “It’s my fault he’s dead. He must have been so mad at me, so upset, that he wasn’t being careful on some building site and he . . . he fell. It’s my fault.”

  That didn’t make a lot of sense, since he clearly hadn’t fallen straight into Leese’s pickup, but I kept quiet. And how, exactly, had she known he’d fallen to his death? But even as the question popped into my brain, I answered it. Detective Inwood must have said something abo
ut it when he’d been interviewing her.

  Leese hitched her chair around so she could sit next to Mia. “Sweetie, it’s not your fault. There’s no way it’s your fault. Someone put him into the truck, so that same someone probably pushed him. We don’t know what happened, but the one thing we do know is you didn’t have anything to do with it.” She wrapped her arm around Mia’s slender shoulders and sent Carmen and Brad a look full of meaning.

  “That’s right,” Brad said. “He died days after you left for Florida. How could there be any connection?”

  Leese then looked pointedly at Carmen, who rolled her eyes and said, “Mia, stop being so dramatic. It wasn’t your fault. I don’t know why you have to—”

  “Mia, have you talked to Corinne?” Leese cut in.

  When Mia shook her head, her brother said, “Talking to Corinne is a great idea. If you want, I can call and make an appointment for you. Around lunchtime?”

  “I don’t want to,” Mia said quietly.

  “Of course you don’t,” Carmen almost snapped, “but it’s what you need.”

  It suddenly dawned on me that they were talking about Corinne Napier, a psychologist with an outstanding reputation who practiced in Chilson.

  Mia shrugged, but didn’t say a word.

  “Then it’s settled,” her mother said. “Brad, you call Corinne first thing tomorrow and let us know what time the appointment is. Mia, you know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Momma,” she said almost mechanically. “I have to be there ten minutes ahead of time and I have to ask Corinne to sign a note that I sat through the whole hour.”

  Seriously? I glanced around, but as before, no one else seemed to think this was unusual.

  “Good,” Carmen said and I watched the tension drain out of her face. She smiled and patted her daughter’s hand. “Now, how about another bowl of ice cream?”

  “Coming right up,” Leese said, jumping to her feet.

  “I’ll help,” Brad said, collecting the bowls from the table.

  I got up and wielded the can of whipped cream and the talk turned to guessing what was going to be the peak fall color weekend, but though I played along with the conversation, I kept wondering about all the things this family hadn’t said.