by Tegan Maher
So nope, no magicking the stalls clean. We do spell the broom to sweep the aisle sometimes, though. Okay, more than sometimes. Which made it even stranger that she didn't finish sweeping.
The simple explanation was that the kids had done the chores then left before they were finished, which made no sense, but there you have it. There was surely a reason.
Still ... I shivered and decided the aisle was just fine and headed back to the house. As soon as I was inside, I called for Addy. When she popped in, I explained what had just happened.
She crinkled her brow. "I've been napping, so I didn't see a thing. I was out when the kids left this morning." Napping was what we called her in-between place where she went when she wasn’t on our plane, for lack of a better term. She can’t really describe where it is, except that it isn’t here.
Gentle snoring coming from the direction of the living room told me Max was still sleeping, so it looked like the mystery wasn't getting solved any time soon. Not that I’d suspect him of doing it even if he had thumbs. The witch really did know what she was doing when she chose an ass as his form.
I guess in the scheme of things, if I had to have something weird happen in the barn, having it come up clean was the least horrible scenario.
I'd just made some toast and texted Shelby to thank her when Hunter called.
"Hey sweetie! How's the hottest sheriff in town?" Eww, as soon as I said it, the sappiness of it about made me gag.
I wasn't used to this whole relationship thing and was honestly more accustomed to making fun of Raeann, who had the worst luck with men but still always seemed to have one. She was currently on a hiatus from dating though, since the last one had tried to murder us.
Personally, I was sort of glad she was taking her time getting back on the horse after all that. She was just so eager to find Mr. Right that she kept mistaking him for his devious older brothers, the Mr. Right Nows.
"Hey, yourself!" he said. See, he wasn't nearly as grossly mushy as I was, which made me even more disgusted with myself. "How's everything going?"
"I'm sitting inside enjoying a cup of coffee and waking up. Shelby fed and cleaned the stalls for me before she left."
"Really? I mean, I know she's been going out of her way to be nice, especially since she wants that Mustang, but she fed and cleaned?"
"Yup."
My phone buzzed with an incoming text.
"Hang on just a sec,” I said as I pulled the phone away from my ear and put it on speaker. “Shelby's texting me."
S: As much as I'd luv to take credit, I have no idea what you're talking about.
I frowned. That made no sense, but the only other option was the serial killer thing, and we've already discussed how irrational that would have been. Had it been later or on a weekend morning, I may have thought that one of the boarders did it. Every once in a while, a couple of them would get together and do something like that so that we could all go for a ride together, but not on a weekday.
N: OK. Weird. Have a good day and be careful.
I put the phone back to my ear. "Wanna hear something freaky? Shelby didn't clean the barn this morning."
He was quiet for a long moment. "Then who did?"
"I have no idea, but it's the strangest thing I've heard in a while. Wonder if they did the laundry too," I mused. A girl could always hope.
Chapter Thirteen
I HAD NOTHING ELSE to do that day, so I decided to do some checking around just in case the family decided to close down Wheeler Construction. With the horses and the boarders, I couldn’t just leave it like that indefinitely, and besides, I wanted my pool and deck area. We’d all been looking forward to having it, and by then it should have been within a few weeks of being done.
I’d only gotten bids from two other local companies, so I started with the nearest one: Bailey Builders. Jeff Bailey came from farm stock. His grandfather John, otherwise known to many of us as Old Man Bailey, owned the farm where Shelby, Cody, and Will were working that day.
Jeff’s place wasn’t too far from mine so I finished my coffee, got dressed, and climbed in the truck. I felt like a traitor when I climbed into the relative luxury of my newer truck and appreciated the cool air that blew almost immediately from the vents, especially when I looked out the windshield and saw Bessie sitting beside the barn, a fine layer of dust covering her faded blue hood. She’d served me well, but the feeling of nostalgia only lasted a second—just long enough for me not to burn my legs on the butter-smooth, cream leather seats. Bessie’s AC had been broken for several months and I was pretty sure I had the pattern of the cracked black seat burned permanently into the backs of my thighs.
While I drove, I thought. Even taking the long way to Bailey’s gave me plenty of time to mull over what all we’d learned so far. To be truthful, it wasn’t much. A ghost with a Swiss-cheese memory, a handful of guys with possible motives, and a scrap of flannel on a nail.
Bailey Builders’ office looked much like Max’s—a big garage-like structure with the double bays, and the office at the front. I wondered idly if the aluminum-building people had a contractor’s model in their line-up. There were a few guys bustling around, loading lumber and drywall into a couple box trailers. When I asked if Jeff was around, they motioned toward the front of the building.
The inside was blessedly cool as I stood for a minute, letting my eyes adjust to the relative darkness. I made out the silhouette of a man coming toward me before they did.
“Noelle! It’s great to see you again! How are things?” Jeff Baily had been a couple of years ahead of me in school, but we’d all hung out and swum in their pond, which happened to be situated conveniently in one of the best peach orchards in the county. Happy days.
“Hey Jeff! What’s goin’ on? Things are good, except I have a huge mud pit in my back yard. I went with Wheeler for my pool.”
“Ah,” he said. “I’d wondered what was going to happen to his clients. I figured Emily and Scott would pick it up and run with it.”
“Scott?”
“Yeah, their son. Actually, I guess there are two of them. They raised their nephew, Darren, too. He’s never shown much interest in the business though. It seems like every time I talk to him, he’s starting some new venture. For that matter, now that I think about it, Scott hasn’t shown any interest in the company either. He’s some sort of suit.”
I didn’t know anything about either of them, so I just shrugged.
“Anyway, what brings you out today?”
“I’m a little worried about the way the winds are gonna blow on Wheeler Construction and I want to have my ducks in a row if they can’t finish it. You gave me a competitive estimate, so I was wondering when you could start and finish, if the bid still stands.”
He blew out a breath and took a couple steps back toward the desk he’d been sitting at. He leaned forward and glanced at his computer screen, then bent closer and scrolled through something. “I’m definitely willing to help, but I’m booked for the next two months, almost. Should I pencil you in?”
Dang. Two months? I didn’t want to wait that long, but it was starting to look like I may have no choice. “Let me give it a couple of days to see what Emily decides to do, then I’ll know something for sure and will call you.”
“No problem,” he said, taking his seat behind the desk again. “Just let me know. Are they close to making an arrest yet?”
I pulled my gaze away from the pictures on his walls of all of us growing up, though I didn’t see myself in any of them. Many of them were taken at the pond, though. “Not yet. They’re working hard at it, but no luck yet.” He was watching me intently, which was a little weird.
“What,” I asked, resisting the urge to run my hand over my nose for a booger-check.
He smiled. “Nothing. I just haven’t seen you for a few years, and was honestly just thinking how great you look.”
His tone had zero creep factor, but for some reason it made me uncomfortable, like I was some
how cheating on Hunter. “Thank you. How’s your dad?” Dads are always safe ground, right?
“He’s good. Still running the farm.”
“Yeah, Shelby’s actually out there today helping with shots. It’s what made me think to come here.” I noticed a picture of him with a blonde woman and a dark-haired boy that looked just like him. “That’s gotta be your son.”
He grinned and pride shone from his face. “Yep. That’s Jeff Junior, and the woman’s his mama, my wife Patti.”
That awkward silence that falls when people run out of things to talk about descended, and I stood to leave.
“Just out of curiosity, am I the only other bid you got?”
“Nah, I got one from you, one from Max, and one from a guy named Bo Jackson, too. Well, from his company.” The guy who’d shown up for the estimate had been condescending, and I didn’t want to go with them unless I absolutely had to.
“Ah, yeah, Bo’s a character.”
The way he said it implied he wasn’t impressed.
“I didn’t meet him, but if his foreman was anything to judge by, I’m guessing he’s a tool.” I’m a lot of things, but a mincer of words, I ain’t.
He laughed. “And you’d be guessing right. He can’t stand Max. He’s convinced Max was undercutting all the bids, but truth be told, I think he was losing business to us both because he’s so abrasive and his work’s shoddy. He made a real jerk of himself at the town hall meeting last month because he lost the bid for the veterans’ memorial.” He became thoughtful. “As a matter of fact, he threatened Max. Told him he was gonna get what was coming to him.”
“Is that so?” I asked, intrigued. “Do you think he’d follow through?”
Jeff lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. He’s a hothead, that’s for sure. But to kill him with a toilet tank lid?”
“Somebody did,” I said.
“True, and I reckon he’s as likely as anybody, now that you put it like that.”
Well great. Another suspect, but not a lick of proof to lay it at his feet. I made my goodbyes and left, telling him I’d call him if Emily decided to close up shop. It didn’t occur to me until after I’d left that he stood to benefit from Max’s death, too.
Chapter Fourteen
On my way back to town, I called Hunter to tell him what I’d learned and then turned the truck toward town to meet Anna Mae for lunch.
I met her at a little hole in the wall on the other side of town called Fancy’s. Despite its name, it was more of a local dive bar than anything else but they had the best wings in the county. She was waiting for me when I got there, playing the Ms. Pacman console game that had been there since before I was born.
She must have been on her final life, because I hadn’t even settled in at the bar before she joined me. An older woman wearing a spaghetti-strap tank top that showed off the Harley tattoo on her collarbone greeted us.
“What can I get you ladies,” she asked, smiling.
“Hey Marybeth,” Anna Mae said. “I’ll have a Bud Light bottle.”
“Make it two,” I said. We exchanged pleasantries as she pulled our beers out of a watering trough filled with ice, then we ordered lunch.
“I’ve been thinking about something and want to run it past you.” She took a long pull off her beer and seemed to be gathering the courage to say something.
“Well out with it then.” Her eyes were sparkling, and she looked like a kid who was about to get a new toy. “I used to sew my own clothes when I was younger. We didn’t have much money, so I either had to make my own or wear hand-me-downs from two sisters who were way bigger than me.”
“Okay,” I said. “How does that play into what you’re thinking about?”
“I’m thinking about opening up a used clothing shop. I sure wish we’da had one way back when I was young, seein’ as how even somebody else’s second-hand clothes would have seemed brand new to me if I hadn’t seen my sisters wearin’ them for two years each before I got ’em.” She took a deep breath and watched me for a minute. “So what do you think?”
I thought about it for a minute. “That suits you, I think.” I could see her behind the counter of a little consignment store, making adjustments so that somebody else could feel good about themselves. She was that type of person. “I like it.”
She smiled. “Good. I was afraid you’d think I’d lost my mind. I was ready to just scratch the idea and see what you and I could come up with.”
“Nah, you need to do whatever makes you happy, Anna Mae.” Strictly speaking, she didn’t have to do anything. When Hank kicked the bucket, he left her a wealthy woman, but she didn’t have it in her to sit idle.
“Now if we can just come up with an idea for me.”
“What have you been thinking about? Anything in particular?”
I took a drink of my beer and considered the question.
“I’ve been thinking about a few things. First I thought maybe I should open a bakery, but I love baking. I don’t want to have to do it.”
“Then nix the bakery idea,” she said. “Next.”
“That’s the problem. There really aren’t any nexts, or at least nothing stable. I can’t think of anything that really appeals to me that I’d want to do on a full-time basis.”
A movement over her shoulder caught my attention and distracted me from what I was saying. There was a rumpled man sitting in the corner of the bar by himself, his elbows on the table and his eyes downcast. He was absently picking at his coaster and looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Who’s that?” I asked Marybeth as she slid our wings in front of us.
“That’s Max Wheeler’s boy. Well, technically his nephew. He’s been in here every day since it happened, doin’ exactly what he’s doin’ now.” She shook her head. I feel bad for the guy. He’s really taking it hard.”
My heart twinged a little before the vinegary, spicy scent of the wings overcame me. Anna Mae and I enjoyed the rest of our lunch, then parted ways, happy that we’d made some decisions, even if all it really amounted to was solidifying what we were already thinking.
By the time we were done, it was almost three. Hunter was meeting me at the farm and we were going for an evening ride at four-thirty, so we went our separate ways.
It didn’t occur to me until I went to bed that night that I hadn’t seen Max all day. He must have been tormenting Hunter instead.
Chapter Fifteen
The good thing for me about baking is that it gives me plenty of time to think. The soothing, familiar rhythm of kneading and rolling out the dough almost puts me in a trance. My magic flows through my body and into the dough, and my brain is free to wander.
That's what I did the next morning. I couldn't sleep with all the puzzles rolling around in my head, and the picture of Darren Wheeler looking so lost was haunting me a little bit. Since I was already up, I decided to make a few batches of pastries. When I'm in a hurry or just not in the mood, I'll use one of my machines to knead the dough, but when I need to relax, I do it all by hand.
So, I pulled out the flour, butter, eggs, and all the other goodies and got to work.
There were a lot of rocks to turn over in this situation. It seemed more like we had to prove who didn't do it rather than who did do it.
The DNA wasn't back on the flannel yet, so until that critical piece of evidence came through, there wasn't much to do with it. The problem for me was that there was too much evidence to show that too many people were guilty.
Hunter would follow every lead, at least until he was sure that it was one of them in particular. At that point, the man who drew the short straw was toast, guilty or not. Small-town pack mentality would have them convicted and fried before the trial even started, and I'm not sure Hunter fully grasped that yet.
I had to make sure that the forward momentum continued before the focus turned too far toward any one person, at least until we'd looked under each of those rocks.
To that end, I fi
nished up the pastries and texted Hunter to see if he wanted to have a late breakfast with me at the diner. I was craving biscuits and gravy and everybody knew that if you wanted the best breakfast in town, you went out to Ray and Jeanie's diner to get it.
He said he'd meet me there in an hour. I jumped into the shower and got dressed, then packed up the pastries.
I'd made extra even though the fishing tournament was winding down a little. Most tournaments last a day, but not ours. We go whole-hog.
We have a singles bass tournament on Saturday, A team bass tournament on Sunday, A singles trout tournament on Monday, and then the kid's equivalents on Tuesday and Wednesday. Then lots of folks end up staying for a couple of days to do some informal grudge matches, which aren't official tournaments but serve more as a means to talk smack and drink beer.
Up until a few years ago, there wasn't much of a rule about drinking during the tournament. Common sense pretty much ruled the day, but then Jerry Lee Akins ran his boat into the dock right behind the Channel 5 news lady, then fell overboard, a dozen crushed Natty Lite cans spilling out behind him.
She was doing a live segment on how fishing was a great way to teach family values and instill a sense of social and environmental responsibility. Sweet irony.
Jerry knocked his front tooth out, and the tournament lost the advantage of live coverage, which—let's be honest—probably wasn't such a bad thing considering the circumstances.
During a fishing tournament, it doesn't matter what a guy's social status is in the real world; during that time, he's a beer-swilling redneck, and that just doesn't go far toward promoting Keyhole as the family-friendly place we need people to believe it is.
Locals were the bread and butter of the businesses in town, but you can't pay your electric bill with carbs and fat. We need some extra meat on the bone, which was what tourism provided.
