The Bad Break

by Jill Orr

  He was going to rat me out to my boss? Frustration, like a roaring river, coursed through my veins. “Now you’re threatening me too, Carl? Nice.”

  “I’m just trying to keep you safe,” he said, his voice softer now. “And if you won’t stay away to save your life, I figure just maybe you’ll stay away to save your job.”

  CHAPTER 34

  I had never been the kind of girl who punched walls, but that’s exactly what I felt like doing after Carl Haight left my house. Not only did he cut me off from working with him, but now if I looked into the case any further, he’d tell Kay, who would almost certainly fire me. It was an unfair dirty trick and of course Carl knew that.

  But there was no way I was going to stop. There was too much at stake and I was too close. I’d just have to be smarter about it. It was Friday morning, which meant that I could still use writing the obit as my cover for a little while longer. I’d met my other deadlines for the week, but that only meant I’d soon be getting new assignments. My time was running out on the Davenport story. I knew I’d have to make the next twenty-four hours count.

  After formulating a loose plan of what I wanted to get accomplished that day, I texted Ryan to see if he could take Coltrane with him to work. Of course, he came right over.

  “Drop him off about six tonight?” Ryan asked after he loaded a very excited Coltrane into the back of his pickup.

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Thanks again. I’ve got a long day ahead and I think he’ll have more fun with you than here all alone.” And he will be safe, I thought. I couldn’t tell Ryan about the note for fear of getting yet another lecture from yet another man trying to “keep me safe.”

  “He can chase squirrels while I inventory the hay bales,” he said, and then gave me an appraising look. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Because you know. . .”—he dug his hands into the pockets of his shorts—“even though, we’re not, you know . . . anymore, you can still talk to me. I’ll always be here for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Given the events of the past twenty-four hours, he couldn’t know how much his words meant to me. And I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.

  He took a step toward me and then stopped himself, like he just remembered he wasn’t allowed to do that anymore. Platonic friendship was uncharted territory for Ryan and me, and neither of us knew quite what it was supposed to look like. He reached out and grabbed my hand. “You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?”

  “I do.” I squeezed back.

  We stood like that for a few moments like that, a strange current between us made up of one part shared history and one part pure chemistry. Thankfully, before either of us moved a muscle, Coltrane let out an impatient bark.

  Ryan laughed. “Okay, guess the boss says it’s time to go.”

  “Thanks again, Ryan,” I said, and waved goodbye as they pulled out of the driveway.

  The mayor’s shop, Inviting Praise, was just two doors down from Rosalee’s Tavern, and since I still had about a half an hour until my meeting with the mayor, I ducked into Rosalee’s for a quick bite. The café was crowded, as it always was in the mornings, but I spied a small table over by the window.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” Rosalee greeted me as I stepped inside. Rosalee was French, and her accent made everything she said sound sophisticated and sexy.

  Tuttle isn’t known for being overly accepting of newcomers, but for some reason when Rosalee moved down here from DC and opened her now-eponymous restaurant, the town immediately adopted her as its token exotic foreigner. Everyone ate at Rosalee’s, and I suspected it was as much for the café’s charming owner as the food. “Bon app,” she trilled as she escorted me to my table and dropped a menu into my hands.

  I looked over the menu even though I always got the same thing for breakfast. My eyes were skimming the des patisseries section when a nearby voice said, “Let me guess—an almond croissant?”

  It was Jay. My stomach flipped over and I felt an immediate flush to my face. “Hi,” I managed to say without throwing up. Which was quite an accomplishment given how freaked out I was.

  “I hoped you’d be here,” he said. “Can I sit?”

  I nodded and he slid into the chair across from me. I hadn’t entirely decided what I was going to say to him about the status of our relationship. I was pretty sure I wasn’t interested in a relationship in which we both could date other people—but I was also pretty sure I didn’t want to give him an ultimatum.

  “Listen, Jay—” I started to say.

  “Wait, can I just say something first?” He scooted forward in his chair and lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Riley. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have second-guessed you. That was out of line and I apologize. I haven’t been myself lately . . .”

  “Thank you,” I said, “But—”

  “Can you forgive me?” His dark eyes were full of hope. He had no idea that what I was upset about was much bigger than our tiff the night before.

  I wasn’t ready to have this conversation, but I knew that now was the time whether I was ready or not. “I came by your apartment last night”—I paused for a millisecond, and in that instant Jay must have put the pieces together because at first he looked surprised, then guilty as I finished the thought—“and a woman answered the door. She thought I was the pizza delivery guy.”

  He didn’t deny it, and what was left of my hope crumbled into dust. I think up until that moment, I thought that maybe I’d been wrong, that it hadn’t been what it looked like. But his face was dripping with pity and I knew there had been no misunderstanding.

  “It’s fine,” I said, sitting up straighter. “I mean, whatever. I was just, um, surprised that’s all.”

  “Riley . . .”

  “It’s fine. I mean, it’s fine for some people . . . but as much as I’d like to pretend that I’m laid back enough to have an open relationship, I’m just not, Jay. I know that’s kind of ‘in’ right now, what with the new stuff on Netflix and that three-way couple on Say Yes to the Dress and all, but I guess I’m just a little more traditional—”

  And then he had the nerve to start laughing at me.

  I felt my face flush in an instant. “I won’t sit here and be made fun of,” I said and stood up and grabbed my purse off the back of the chair. “See you around.”

  “Riley, last night . . . that woman, the one you saw at my apartment—”

  But before Jay could finish his sentence I heard the squealing of tires and then a second later something came hurtling through the plate-glass window where I had been sitting just seconds before. I had barely processed what had happened when Jay jumped across the table and threw me to the side, shielding me with his body.

  “Stay down,” he ordered, now sounding every bit the DEA agent he was. Glass pebbles scattered everywhere while people screamed and ducked for cover.

  I felt dizzy with panic as I snuck a glance out from under Jay’s arm. There was a hammer lying on the tile floor surrounded by puddles of beaded glass. It had a massive iron head and a long wooden handle, almost more like an axe than a hammer. I immediately pictured what would have happened had I still been sitting when that thing came flying in, and for a second I felt like I might throw up.

  “Everybody stay down,” Jay announced, and he stood up slowly and drew a gun that I didn’t even know he had been carrying. “I’m DEA. I need you all to remain calm and stay put.”

  Mrs. Swanson and Betsy Norbitt huddled under the overhang of the counter, looking terrified. And Jonathan Gradin clung to the bottom of the cherry-printed café curtains that hung down against the wall, his fleshy face red and sweaty. A calm, grim-faced Rosalee had come out of the kitchen when the commotion began and was now on the phone, presumably to 911. Jay ran outside but the car from which the hammer had been thrown was long gone. I sat crouched under the table, shaking, confused—and wondering if that hammer had been meant for me.

  CHAPTER 35

&nb
sp; Everyone at Rosalee’s was ordered to stay onsite until someone from the sheriff’s office took our statements. Jay called in help from his office, and within minutes of the attack there were at least four uniformed law enforcement officers and several other “official” people milling around, snapping photographs, tagging evidence, and taking statements. At one point, Jay checked on me to make sure I was okay, but it was little more than a question-asked/question-answered exchange before he was pulled away.

  There are basically two ways one can react to almost being cleaved in half like Newton’s apple: frenzied hysteria or complete and utter denial. I opted for the latter. I don’t remember making the conscious choice not to panic, but in the aftermath of the attack I found myself surrounded by eyewitnesses who wanted to do nothing more than tell their story. So when I suddenly remembered that I was a reporter, I took out my notebook and got busy doing my job. It not only made good sense, but it made for an excellent distraction from thoughts of What if?

  I interviewed several people, one of whom was Jonathan Gradin, who gave me an animated account of how he bent backward on his stool—Matrix-like—to avoid flying glass and certain death. It didn’t exactly square with my memory of him clutching the curtains like a scared cat, but who was I to question his hero’s account? I was wrapping up with him when the mayor and Toby walked up to the café.

  I extracted myself from Mr. Gradin, who seemed disappointed to be cut short, and ran out to the sidewalk. Upon seeing me, Shaylene Lancett threw her arms around me and pulled me into a tight embrace.

  “Oh, Riley! Are you okay, sugar?” She sounded positively distressed at the thought that I might be hurt. “I’ve just been worried sick about you—about all y’all—in there.” She pushed me back to arm’s length, still holding me by the shoulders. “Were you hurt?”

  “No, not really. Just a little spooked,” I said, taking a step backward. “Sorry I missed our meeting.”

  She waved me away. “Nonsense. You and I can have our little chat any old time. In fact, let me just finish up with Carl here and then we can talk. Can you sit tight a few minutes and wait for me?”

  You’d think that given that someone had just thrown a hammer through the window of one of Tuttle’s most iconic businesses, the mayor would have bigger fish to fry than being quoted in an obituary, but apparently not.

  She turned to Carl, who was standing nearby talking to one of his deputies. “Carl, you don’t mind if I steal Riley for a quick few minutes, do you?”

  He made sure that I had given my statement and then said I was free to go. “By the way, Lindsey Davis is going to drop the charges against Thad Davenport.”

  It was the first bit of good news I had heard in a while, and I was deeply relieved.

  Toby did not feel the same way. “But that man is guilty as sin!”

  Carl ignored Toby and addressed himself to the mayor only. “She said we don’t have enough to convict.”

  That made sense to me. All the evidence that had pointed to Thad was circumstantial, but in light of the attack on David and the threatening note left for me—both of which happened when Thad had an irrefutable alibi—a lawyer could easily make a case for reasonable doubt. It wasn’t a resounding declaration of his innocence, but it was good enough to at least kick the can down the road.

  Mayor Lancett said nothing, acknowledging Carl’s news with a terse nod. She then turned to her nephew, “Would you please take Riley over to the shop? I’ll be along in just a few minutes.”

  Toby turned to me and said a weary, “C’mon.”

  As we started down the sidewalk I got a view of his always-ironic bib and tucker: a blue long-sleeved T-shirt with the words Licensed to Thrill, gray man-joggers, which gave his legs the silhouette of a satyr, and the same white high-tops he had on the other day. However, they no longer looked brand new—the left one had a big blue splotch on the toe.

  “Spill something on your new shoes?” I asked as we took the short walk over to Inviting Praise.

  He looked down. “Oh, yeah. Shame too, these are brand new. I have a collection, did you know?”

  I wanted to ask Why the hell would I know you collect shoes? but what I said was, “Really?”

  “Thirty-two pairs. All Nikes.” He said this proudly, then looked down again and frowned. “Me and Aunt Shaylene were out touring Roy G. Biv’s manufacturing facility and some clumsy hayseed spilled dye on me.”

  Roy G. Biv? That was the elementary school mnemonic for the colors of the spectrum. The thought that somebody named their kid that made me laugh.

  “It’s not funny, these shoes cost more than you make in a week.”

  “I wasn’t laughing at you,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I was laughing because who would name their son Roy G. Biv?”

  “It’s not a person, Riley, it’s a company.” Toby’s voice dripped with condescension. “A textile dye shop in West Virginia.”

  We arrived at Inviting Praise and Toby took out his keys, unlocked the door, and let me inside. It was still before shop hours, so Toby locked the door behind us and led me through the darkened store to Mayor Lancett’s office in the back. He flicked on the lights and motioned for me to have a seat in one of the two chairs that sat opposite the mayor’s desk. He then settled himself in his aunt’s chair, which I got the distinct feeling was against the rules.

  He sat behind the large white desk and just looked at me. He hadn’t offered me any tea or water and we sat in awkward silence, both of us with nothing to say. After a couple of uncomfortable moments I said, “So, what were you guys doing over in West Virginia?”

  “Roy G. Biv is looking to move their manufacturing plant, and they’re considering Tuttle County. We went to go check it out.”

  “Really?” I asked, the reporter in me perking up. Presumably the company’s move would create jobs, generate tax revenue, boost local businesses, and augment the housing market. This could mean big things for our small town—and would be a huge win for the mayor.

  “What do they manufacture?”

  “Duh, they’re a dye factory. They make dye—you know, for fabrics and such.”

  I didn’t think this information was such common knowledge that I deserved to be duh’d, but I ignored that. Toby had piqued my curiosity.

  “So cat’s out of the bag, I see.” Mayor Lancett appeared in the doorway, scowling at her nephew. Her voice was soft and feathery, even in allegation.

  Toby’s face went pale. “Oh, hey, I didn’t—”

  She held up her hand and he immediately stopped talking. “It’s fine. I was planning on announcing it soon anyhow.”

  As if he suddenly realized where he was sitting, Toby stood up in a hurry and knocked his knee on the edge of the desk. “Goddammit!”

  “Toby, language!”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Shaylene,” Toby said, sounding like an eleven-year-old kid.

  “Please give Riley and me a minute alone.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Toby scuttled out of the room as Shaylene walked around her desk and took a minute to straighten the Muppets figurines that lined the edge before she sat down. Then she pulled open the top drawer, took out one of those little antibacterial wipes in the small square envelopes, ripped it open, and wiped off the surface of her desk and the armrests of her chair.

  “Now then.” She looked at me the way one might look at a wounded bird that had landed on their doorstep. “How are you doing, Riley? Really.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, a little uneasily. “Really.”

  “That must have been terrifying,” she said, shaking her head. “I just can’t understand what is going on in this town lately.”

  “I’m sure Sheriff Haight will get to the bottom of things,” I said.

  “I certainly hope so.” And then she straightened herself up and clasped her hands in front of her on the desk. “Now then, you wanted a quote for Arthur Davenport’s obituary.”

  “Well, actually . . .” I wanted to say It was you who wanted to be
quoted, but I didn’t want to start off the conversation in such an adversarial way. So instead I said, “I’ve heard from a couple of sources that you and Arthur had been close, but then something happened.”

  Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

  I prodded. “I was wondering if you could tell me more about that.”

  “Sometimes this town is just too small.” She said this almost under her breath, but I was certain she’d meant for me to hear. And then she said louder, “You’ll probably find out sooner or later, so I might as well get it over with.”

  It turned out that once again, part of what I knew was true. I just didn’t have the whole story. Shaylene Lancett and Arthur Davenport had been high school sweethearts. They dated for two years in high school but broke things off when Arthur left for college (he was a year ahead of her). She said the breakup had been both mutual and amicable. While at school in North Carolina, Arthur met and married Maribelle, Thad and David’s mother, and brought her back to live in Tuttle once he finished medical school. Shaylene said that after that, they remained friendly, but didn’t socialize.

  “I married much later in life, as you know, and I don’t think Maribelle liked the idea of her husband spending time with an unmarried ex-girlfriend—understandably. But after she passed away, Arthur leaned on me for support.”

  I wonder what she meant by leaned. “So did you and Arthur ever rekindle the old flame, you know, after Maribelle passed away?”

  A deep blush colored her cheeks. “Arthur was one of my oldest friends,” she said. “He was funny and charming and brilliant and irreverent, and we had a terribly strong bond.” She paused, and a sad ghost of a smile crossed her face. “At one point, I think I’d hoped that we’d reconnect, but as the years passed it became clear that he didn’t think of me that way.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to something like that so I said nothing, and waited for her to continue. Eventually she did.