Roadkill (Double Barrel Mysteries Book 1)

by Barbara Ellen Brink

  “What kind of detective are you? Did you lose your curiosity when you gave up your badge? That man is as slippery as an eel and twice as slick. I wanted to see what he wasn’t showing us.”

  “Did you find a stash of marijuana under the mattress, or some illegally downloaded music on his computer?” He slanted her a teasing grin and climbed out of the truck.

  Shelby followed him to the door of the café looking every bit as ornery as the night he watched her play Katharina in the Taming of the Shrew. He was surprised she didn’t sit in the truck and state, “I’ll not budge an inch!” She put her hands on her slim hips and glared. “If you don’t want to know what I found, just say so.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Blake pulled her out of the way as the door opened and a customer stepped past them. He grabbed the door before it closed, gallantly holding it open for his angry wife. “After you.”

  She rolled her eyes and slipped under his arm and through the door. The place was nearly empty at this hour. Eight p.m. was family time in Port Scuttlebutt, kids getting ready for bed and parents watching television. Two young couples filled up the corner booth with a round of milkshakes and a basket of fries. One blonde and one red head with a couple of pimply faced jocks in letterman jackets.

  Luanne stepped out of the kitchen, and saw them slip into a booth. “Be with you in a minute. I’ve got a little emergency back here.”

  Five minutes later, she came out drying her hands on the front of her apron, then filled a couple of glasses with ice water and hurried over. She glanced at the table of giggly teenagers and shook her head before sliding into the booth beside Shelby. Passing her one of the glasses, she took a long drink from the other. “How are you, honey,” she asked, setting the half empty glass down with a satisfied sigh. “Didn’t know if I’d see my fill-in waitress again before you left for home.”

  “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” Shelby promised, giving her the smile she’d been withholding from Blake. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you, but this place is always so busy.”

  “It’s not now. What did you what to talk about?”

  “I get it,” Blake said. “You two are ignoring me. Men aren’t as dumb as you think, you know.”

  “Did you hear something?” Luanne cocked her ear as though listening hard.

  “Nope. Probably just a pesky fly buzzing around.”

  “Okay, I apologize. For anything and everything. Just please let me have some dinner,” he begged. “I’m starving.”

  Luanne finally turned to face him. “I’ve been on my feet all day. Why don’t you wait on us for a change?”

  Shelby gave a short skeptical laugh. “Blake? Cook?”

  “He knows what to do. He ought to. He worked here for two summers before he graduated high school.” Luanne leaned back in the booth and yawned.

  Moving as slowly as possible, he stretched his leg out from under the table and made a small groan before standing.

  “Really?” Shelby shook her head. “You’re actually going to play the handicapped card now?”

  “Fine.” He straightened and faced them. “What would you like?”

  The teenagers were watching them with amusement, whispering and giggling from across the café. Blake could just imagine the gossip flying around town tomorrow. It might even make the local rag. Injured policeman browbeaten by two women into cooking and serving them dinner. At the least, the old men sitting outside the post office would get a good laugh over it.

  “I’m sort of feeling like a nice ham and cheese omelet, with a buttered English muffin on the side, and one of those pieces of apple pie for dessert. A la mode.”

  “I’ll have what she’s having,” Shelby said.

  <<>>

  While Blake was in the kitchen cooking, Luanne shooed the kids out the door, and locked it behind them. She flipped the closed sign around, and came back to slide into the booth across from Shelby.

  “So,” she slanted a glance toward the kitchen, “what are you two arguing about?”

  “We’re not arguing.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Seriously. We’re not.”

  “Then why were you giving him the cold shoulder?”

  Shelby grinned. “It’s fun to rattle him once in a while. Besides, he deserved it. He doesn’t take me seriously. I know he has more experience solving murders, but I know human nature.”

  “You’ve confusing me.” Luanne placed her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands. “What murder are you solving?”

  “Clara’s of course. We were on Farley’s boat and…”

  “Clara was hit by a drunk driver,” she said, a slight question underlying her words. “Finding the person responsible would be wonderful, but it’s not exactly solvable. Drunks don’t have motives, they have impaired faculties and lack of judgment.”

  Shelby didn’t know how much Blake wanted Luanne to know, but she had already told him she was going to question her about that day. Now was as good a time as any. She leaned forward. “How well did you know Clara?”

  “Better than most. She was three years ahead of me in high school, but we became friends after graduation. I helped her run the boarding house before she got married.”

  “You’re the one? I heard the story from Alice. Sounds like the town gossips put an end to that.” Shelby slid sideways in the booth, so her head was against the wall and her feet sticking off the end of the bench seat.

  “And pushed Clara into marriage before she was ready,” Luanne confirmed. “Did you know she dated Farley before she dated Oliver?”

  “No.”

  “They were both too old for her, but at least Oliver didn’t think he was too good for her. Farley’s family, on the other hand, decided he needed to look further up the food chain.” She laughed but it sounded hollow and angry.

  Shelby glanced toward the kitchen doors. Blake was making an awful lot of racket back there. She hoped he managed to cook something edible in the process. She tried to keep her mind on the conversation at hand. “I thought Farley never married.”

  Luanne picked up her glass and drained the water in one gulp. She set it back down with a rattle of ice. “He didn’t. His momma must have thought it was a worse sin to marry a nobody than never to marry anybody.”

  “What about you? Did you ever marry?” She hadn’t seen a ring on her finger, but a kitchen was never a safe place to wear jewelry. Blake hadn’t mentioned a man in Luanne’s life, and seemed surprised and slightly protective when he noticed Ronnie Evans’ interest in her the other day.

  “I was married once. For about a minute. Love of my life.” She pressed her lips tightly together, her eyes awash with moisture. Shelby was suddenly unsure if she should have even asked. Maybe her husband had recently died or something.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up painful memories.”

  “It was a long time ago.” She took off her wire-rimmed glasses and positioned them on the top of her head. Her voice dead serious, she asked, “Do you really think Clara was murdered?”

  Blake pushed through the swinging kitchen door at that moment, carrying two platters over his head. “Foods up!” He plunked them down in front of them and stood back for their reaction.

  A fluffy light omelet, topped with a sprinkle of melted cheddar and chopped tomato, was the main attraction on each of their plates. Sides of crispy bacon and lightly toasted English muffins gave off a delicious aroma that made Shelby want to jump up and kiss the cook.

  “I know we didn’t ask for bacon, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” Shelby said, pressing a palm to her chest.

  He bowed deeply, a cocksure expression turning up his lips. “Like riding a bicycle. I’ve still got it.”

  Luanne took a bite of omelet. “Not bad. You stick around town, I might give you your old job back.”

  “I have to check my pasty and pull it out of the oven. I’ll bring out your pie and ice cream momentarily,” he promis
ed and hurried away, limping slightly.

  “We need a refill on water too!” Luanne called.

  Shelby picked up a slice of bacon and took a bite, savoring the salty, smoky goodness. “I can’t believe he has this talent and hasn’t volunteered to cook a meal since we got married.”

  Blake quickly joined them; a steaming hot pasty and three slices of pie on his tray. He set out the pie and slid into the booth beside Shelby. Poking holes in the top of the crust with his fork to release the heat and steam, he smirked. “Why so quiet, ladies? Are you struck dumb by my awesome culinary talents?”

  “Luanne and I were talking about Clara.”

  “Was that sweet woman really murdered?” Luanne’s lower lip trembled.

  Blake went still, meeting her eyes across the table. “I’m sorry. Jack said…”

  “You don’t think Jack had anything to do with it!”

  “No, no, of course not.” He quickly explained about the conversation Jack had overheard.

  “Why would somebody want Clara dead? She never had a bad word to say about a single person in this town. Not even Farley’s mother, and believe me, that woman has caused more trouble around here than a steamroller in a carpet store.”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

  “There you go again. Making promises.” She cocked her head to the side. “Did you ever find Jack?”

  “No. He obviously doesn’t want to be found right now. But I know where he went last night when he left the B&B.” He glanced around at the empty café before telling Shelby and Luanne everything that had happened earlier at the Jones’ residence.

  The rest of Luanne’s food grew cold and remained untouched while she listened, but Shelby didn’t waste any time cleaning her plate. She moved her piece of pie closer, and lifted a bite of ice cream on her spoon. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this earlier.”

  “Sorry, babe. I didn’t think I should talk about it in front of Alice and her father. Mrs. Jones wanted this whole thing to disappear. I want to know why.” He took another bite of pasty and chewed around his words. “She recognized Jack on the video immediately, but for some reason didn’t share the info with her son. Farley seems to have no idea who broke into their house.”

  “That’s bizarre,” Luanne said, frowning. “Jack is not a thief. He won’t even take money from me when I offer it. He works for whatever he needs. I can’t imagine what he needed inside that house.”

  “They insisted nothing was taken. Of course, they’re most certainly lying.” He put up a hand when Luanne looked ready to argue. “I know Jack wouldn’t take something that didn’t belong to him. For argument’s sake… let’s say it did belong to him.”

  Shelby pushed the rest of her pie aside. “I think Jack went there for another reason. Farley Jones deals in secrets and blackmail.”

  “Wait a minute,” Blake swallowed the last bite of his pasty. Excitement filled his eyes. “You really found something under Farley’s bed?”

  “I don’t think I want to know what you were doing in the vicinity of Farley’s bed,” Luanne’s face scrunched in feigned disgust.

  Shelby laughed, and then started coughing. She took a long drink of water to calm her throat. “Okay. Down in Farley’s little sleeping quarters on the Carolina, he had a box of photos. I know, right?” she said before either of them even twitched. “Most people have all their digital photos on their computer these days. But from what I could tell, Farley thinks of himself as a real artist. He must have a darkroom at the house where he processes his own film, because he had two old 35mm cameras down there – they were probably very expensive about thirty years ago – but no digital camera.”

  “What exactly does he take pictures of?” Luanne asked.

  “Mostly birds. He’s a bird watcher. He has a ton of scrapbooks filled with bird photographs.”

  “And how is this applicable?” Blake suddenly looking a little deflated. “Was he blackmailing Jack for getting too friendly with the seagulls?”

  “I don’t know what he had on Jack. All I know is he’s been blackmailing half this town for decades. It must be how he managed to become mayor.” She laid a hand on Blake’s folded arms. “Are you sure you want to move here?”

  “Just tell us what you found.”

  She reached into her jacket pocket. “This is only the tip of the iceberg,” she said, handing the photograph to Blake.

  “Is this who I think it is?”

  “Mrs. Davies. Flip it over, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  He turned the photograph to the other side, and read out loud what was written in bold black print. “October 6, 1984, Jan Davies and Mike Mitchell rocking the family camper while Seb Davies is away working at the mine.”

  “That explains a few things,” Luanne pulled her glasses over her nose so she could see the photo in Blake’s hand.

  “There are more of these?”

  Shelby nodded. “He threw a ton of bird pictures together in the same box to throw anyone off that happened to look in there, but I found at least a dozen blackmail photos in the short time I had to rifle through them.”

  “But nothing on Jack?” Luanne confirmed, eyeing her strangely.

  “No. I didn’t find anything. But I wasn’t down there that long. Most of the pictures I saw were taken in the eighties or nineties, so I’m assuming that his newer stuff is hidden somewhere else.”

  “Maybe he gave up his tacky habit of stalking people, and those old photos are for reminiscing.”

  Blake snorted a laugh. “Creeps like that don’t stop. He’s got them hidden somewhere. In fact, I saw him out with his camera the other day. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now…”

  “Yes.” Shelby slipped the photo out of Blake’s hand and back into her pocket. “Now if he were the one who’d been murdered, it would make a lot more sense.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  They stayed until ten, and helped Luanne clean up the kitchen before saying goodnight. She locked the door behind them, waved, and pulled the blinds closed. Shelby stood by the truck, gazing toward Lake Superior. The moon was so low it looked like it skimmed the water, shining a golden path across the surface.

  “Beautiful,” she murmured, pulling the zipper up on her jacket. “If it weren’t for the weird stuff going on underneath this placid, small town façade, I’d think Port Scuttlebutt was almost paradise.”

  Blake opened the door for her and she climbed in. “There’s weird stuff going on underneath every town’s placid facade. If I told you the things I saw on the streets of Minneapolis you might not sleep at night.”

  “Good point.”

  “Mind if we take a little detour,” he asked, once he was back behind the wheel. “I’d like to drive further up the shore, see if there is any sign of Jack.”

  “It’s awfully chilly tonight. Wouldn’t he be looking for shelter?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think he’d return to the boathouse so soon after his break-in last night. He probably thinks the police are looking for him.”

  They turned up the narrow, gravel road that followed the shore, winding through trees one minute, an open view of the lake the next. Further east, the shore became rockier and more inaccessible, and the road dipped back into the trees, losing sight of the lake for a few moments. When they broke out into the open again, they had bypassed a huge rock outcropping. Blake slowed the truck and pulled to the shoulder.

  The view was spectacular. A lighthouse, a couple miles further down the rocky coast, perched high above the great lake, flashing a warning to ships sailing near the dark, craggy waters. Blake cut the engine, shut off the headlights, and rolled down his window. The sounds of the night filled the cab. Waves steadily pounded the shore, and the wind whistled and whined through tree boughs and bent tall grasses low. They heard an owl hoot nearby, and then a flutter of wings as it took flight and was chasing some poor creature. The high whine of a motorbike or all-terrain vehicle, tearing through the wo
ods, broke the spell.

  “I don’t think Jack would be out this far, but if he were he’d need shelter. This wind is brutal.” He shook his head; regret edging his words. “Luanne was right. He’s too old to be out here on his own anymore. I should have never…”

  Shelby leaned close and stroked her fingers through his hair. “Jack needed our help. You didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I disagree with her whole assessment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Luanne thinks he ran off because we cleaned him up, and he refused to be changed from a cockney flower girl to a duchess overnight, but…”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “Your theatre education was sadly neglected as a child, wasn’t it? Haven’t you ever read Pygmalion or at least seen the movie, My Fair Lady?”

  “Doesn’t sound like an action flick.”

  “Anyway,” she said, sitting back into the corner of her seat and watching him through lowered lids. “I think Jack left the B&B – not because of anything we did – but because of something he remembered about that night at the boathouse. And for some reason, he went directly to the Jones’ residence and let himself in the back door.”

  “You think Farley was one of the men plotting to kill Clara?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully, running with the hypothesis. “That could be why nothing was taken. Jack wasn’t there to steal anything. He was there for another reason.”

  “To avenge his friend Clara and kill Farley.”

  “That’s a logical assumption.”

  “Then why isn’t Farley dead? He didn’t look any the worse for wear when we saw him earlier tonight.” She laughed when Blake groaned in irritation. “Sorry, I’m just playing the devil’s advocate, looking at all sides of this crazy trapezoid.”

  He straightened and turned the ignition. The truck roared to life, drowning out the sounds of the night. Blake turned the Bronco and they headed back toward town. “Tomorrow we can visit Jerri Roper at the library, and see if we can’t nail down a legitimate copy of that deed. I don’t know what it will tell us at this point, other than to prove Farley’s motive is invalid. If a judge already turned down his claim, I don’t see what he would gain from her death. We must be missing something.”