by Gin Jones
"I tried all my usual tricks, and they didn't work. And then I just told him straight out to leave me alone, and that didn't work." Cristal's head popped up just enough that she could look over the back of the driver's seat toward Ryan and then drop down out of sight again. "I get a bad vibe from him. He totally fits the profile for the men who've gotten mad when an actress turned them down, so they went out and got a gun and killed the woman. And Ryan could do something like that, easy. He's got access to guns. Lots of guns."
"You mean because he works at a sporting goods store that sells guns?" I said. "Or does he collect them too?"
"I don't know if he owns any guns himself or just sells them," Bree said. "Either way, it's worrisome. Especially since he lives in an apartment above the store. Have you ever been there? You can't quite see it from here, but it's next to the pier, on the other side from where we are now."
"That's just down the road from us," Cristal said. "It's like living next door to an armory or something. And it's being run by a psycho."
"Is he really that dangerous?"
Before Cristal could answer, she was distracted by a group of teens coming over to check out the car with their phones raised to take pictures. She glanced toward the guild's float and Ryan, who still hadn't noticed her, and popped back up to pose on the top of the seat back. She shrugged and gave me a look that clearly said she couldn't disappoint her fans, even if the price was unwanted attention from creeps.
Bree answered for her friend. "It's hard to tell if Ryan's actually dangerous. He's clearly not a people person. Everyone says that working in retail is an odd choice for him since he's got no patience with people. Customers, anyway." She nodded at his son. "Ryan's a single father, and from what I've seen and heard, he's great with Nevin. In a funny way, I think maybe that's why he's so curt with people at work. He uses up all his patience while dealing with his son, so he doesn't have any left to deal with other people."
Cristal had finished with her fans and slid back down to lie on the seat, where she was less visible. "I wish Ryan would be curt with me. He showed up at the B&B one night a few weeks ago and started reading Shakespearean sonnets at me. Loudly, and with the emphasis on all the wrong syllables. It was painful to listen to. I tried everything to get him to leave, and he wouldn't. I started out being nice, but then I told him he was killing the poems, and he thought I meant it in the positive sense, like he was nailing the performance rather than that he would have been hooked off the stage if he was that bad in an audition. He threatened to keep up the recitations all night until I agreed to go out with him."
"It was bad," Bree agreed. "One of our guests complained almost the whole time Ryan was on the porch. The noise was interfering with the rest and relaxation she'd been anticipating for months. I think she would have checked out and demanded a refund if it hadn't been for the bribe of extra muffins from the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery the next morning. And Cristal did get rid of him while I was trying to calm the guest down."
I wondered if Cristal had resorted to a restraining order like Brooke had done. "How'd you convince him to leave?"
"Not by agreeing to go on a date with him, that's for sure," Cristal said. "I convinced him that I loathed Shakespeare, so much so that I was deathly allergic to his words, so I couldn't possibly have anything to do with anyone who admired the bard. It was one of my better bits of acting, if you ask me, and it's just a pity there wasn't a camera available to record it."
"Ryan would have left eventually if we'd just ignored him," Bree said, less upset than she might have been by the potential damage to the B&B's reputation to customers seeking peace and quiet. Perhaps Bree was used to this sort of thing and accepted it as the price of having a friend who looked as stunning as Cristal. "Of course, he might not have left until the next morning, when he had to get his son ready for school, and by then the guest really would have checked out and probably bad-mouthed the B&B."
"I had to get tough with him, telling him exactly how I felt about him," Cristal said. "Otherwise, even if he'd left in the morning to deal with his son, he wouldn't have stayed away for long. Even after I told him how much he repulsed me, he still pestered me again a few days later. Not at the B&B, but at the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery. It might have gotten really bad, but Fred Fields came in a few minutes later, and he was happy to convince Ryan to leave me alone. Otherwise, I don't know what would have happened. I've managed to avoid Ryan around town since then, but I'm pretty sure he hasn't forgotten me."
"From what I've heard, Ryan does tend to get an idea in his head and never let it go," Bree said. "Like blaming Brooke Donnelly for his son's failing math and being held back a grade. Sure, she gave him the F, but it's not like in English where the grades may be a bit subjective. With math, either an answer is right or wrong, so it's hard to see how Brooke could have been biased in her grading. Besides, everyone says she was an excellent teacher, and not just because it's impolite to speak ill of the dead. If the kid flunked, it definitely wasn't her fault."
I looked at Ryan again, trying to figure out whether he might have murdered his son's teacher. He had his back to me, so I couldn't tell if he looked as smug and creepy as Cristal said. All I could see was that he was short and slightly built. If Brooke had been killed in a manner that required physical strength, he wouldn't have been a likely suspect. But guns changed everything. Her killer hadn't needed to be bigger or stronger than she was.
His stalking behavior made him a suspect, one I'd like to see behind bars, but I wasn't sure he was the most likely prospect. Yes, he hated Brooke, and his anger with her went back to when she started her sampler quilt, but I couldn't see how killing her would have helped his son. It seemed more likely that he might have stolen the miniature quilts in order to hold them hostage until Brooke somehow made up for having flunked his son and held him back a year. After all, Brooke had been convinced she could get the little quilts back, so perhaps she'd gotten some sort of ransom demand. That would explain how she'd known who'd stolen them and why she'd been so certain she could get them back.
It wasn't a bad theory, but it didn't feel right. After all, Brooke had managed to recover the quilts before she was killed, so if Ryan had given them to her in return for fixing his son's record, then he no longer had a motive to kill her. Besides, if Ryan had wanted Brooke dead, why had he waited so long to act rather than attacking her when she'd first flunked his son?
I was still looking in Ryan's direction when he suddenly raised his voice to shout, "Forget that bitch!" He grabbed at a corner of the banner honoring Brooke's memory and gave it a sharp tug.
Apparently Ryan was still angry with Brooke, and he didn't have any problem speaking ill of the dead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The woman Ryan had been talking to before he grabbed at the banner screeched in outrage, and the driver of the truck—an extremely tall, bearded man in his fifties—jumped out of the truck and raced around to the back to put himself between Ryan and the banner, forcing the much smaller man out of the way without actually touching him. It took me a moment to recognize the driver as Carl Quincy, an ex-cop and once-closeted quilter who was now openly a member of the Danger Cove Quilt Guild.
He used his old beat-cop skills to calm Ryan down and then herd him and his son away from the float. They ended up over in the nearby parking lot of the small strip mall that held a small grocery store, Sunny's quilt shop, and an insurance agency.
Matt, who had impeccable journalistic instincts and timing, even if he sometimes wished he didn't stumble across non-art-related stories, had apparently finished unloading groceries at my house and arrived at the parade staging area just in time to notice the kerfuffle. I'd been trying to think of an excuse to go over and see if Ryan was as creepy as Cristal said he was, but it would be better if I left it to Matt. He could inveigle his way into the conversation in the parking lot without raising any suspicion. I trusted his judgment, and he already knew I considered Ryan a possible suspect in Brooke's death, so he wou
ld be sure to find me later and share what he learned.
Meanwhile, Dee had climbed down from her throne to lean precariously over the edge of the pickup bed and glare at a small man coming down the middle of Cliffside Drive to approach the passenger side of the truck. She was more frail than she would ever admit, and I was afraid she'd tumble onto the ground if the vehicle moved even slightly. She was safe enough for the moment though, since the driver wasn't anywhere near the gas pedal but was over in the parking lot, dealing with the last person who'd seemed determined to cause trouble for the guild.
The man currently in Dee's sights was Albert Hollister, the dissatisfied customer who'd made a scene at Lawrence's garage. I might not have recognized him from the brief glimpse I'd had of him the other day, but he was wearing a bomber jacket that was so covered with patches advertising automotive products that it looked like it belonged to a NASCAR driver. One of the largest patches, prominently displayed on the left side of his chest, was for his own body shop.
Hollister shouted something at Lawrence who was still seated in the back of the pickup truck, and while I couldn't make out the words, I could read Dee's angry reaction easily from fifty feet away. She wouldn't tolerate the abuse of anyone she considered part of the guild, which Lawrence was, at least for today.
Dee called down to one of the guild members preparing to walk in the parade. "May I borrow your sign for a minute?"
Her words were polite enough, but I had a bad feeling she didn't have some innocuous use for the sign or—more worrisome—for the length of solid wood that formed its handle. Either the guild member didn't stop to think about what Dee might want it for, or else the woman was okay with the idea of swatting Hollister with the sign, because she handed it over without the slightest hesitation.
Carl Quincy was still some distance away in the parking lot, and there weren't any on-duty officers in sight, so I raced over to intervene before Dee could do something that would get her arrested during what should have been a fun, family-friendly event. As I ran, Lawrence stood up to get between Dee and Hollister, and Emma was trying with less than her usual success to get Dee to release her grip on the wooden stake affixed to the sign.
When I arrived, Dee was bobbing and weaving around Lawrence so she could wave her sign at Hollister, warning him to go away before she taught him some manners. "This man is a friend of the guild," she shouted. "No one disrespects our friends. Least of all when they're in mourning."
Most people tended to back down when Dee confronted them, but not Hollister. He continued hurling insults at Lawrence, and Emma wasn't having any luck in extracting the sign from her friend's grip. I thought Emma might have been handicapped by the fear that if she were too forceful, Dee might get hurt. Dee might be small and fragile, but she was stubborn and didn't give up easily once she set her mind on something. She was obviously determined to get rid of Hollister, and as far as she was concerned, no one was going to stop her. She might, however, be willing to hand off to someone else the responsibility of removing him from the scene. Someone like me.
"It's okay, Dee." As I spoke, I caught sight of Officer Fred Fields waving at me from near the front of the parade as he started in our direction. I took that to mean that he'd seen that something was amiss and he was coming to help. It would take a while to push his way through the crowds, but at least I knew backup was on the way. I only had to keep the peace for a few more minutes. "Give Emma the sign, and I'll take care of Mr. Hollister. We don't want anyone going to jail today."
Dee snorted. "Wouldn't bother me if he went to jail. A little solitude to reflect on his behavior might do him some good."
Despite her combative words, Dee released her grip on the sign and went back to her velvet seat, pointedly looking toward the sidewalk, away from where Hollister stood in the middle of the street. Lawrence hesitated until I made a shooing motion, and then he went back to his assigned place beside her, turning his back on Hollister. Which of course made Hollister even angrier. He redoubled his accusations of mechanical incompetence, but he wasn't doing anything more worrisome than shouting, and no one else was close enough to do any physical harm to him. Perhaps he'd wear himself out and go away on his own before Fields arrived.
After a few seconds of being ignored, Hollister seemed to realize he wasn't getting the sort of reaction he was looking for. He went silent for a moment then huffed in irritation and spun around to stomp toward the front of the truck. Guessing that he planned to go around to the side that would place him in Dee's and Lawrence's lines of sight, I followed him to intervene. He stopped briefly to pound on the hood of the truck, and I caught up with him there.
I didn't think Hollister was prepared to listen to reason, but it couldn't hurt to try. "The parade is about to start," I said. "Perhaps we should move out of the way so we're not obstructing traffic, and we can talk about your issues with the quilt guild."
"I'm not going anywhere." He turned to face me, clenching his fists and spreading his feet apart in a stance that suggested he was putting down roots in front of the truck. "I've got rights. Freedom of speech. And freedom of assembly. Cliffside Drive is public property. I don't have to move if I don't want to."
I refrained from rolling my eyes. Just because something was public property didn't give individuals the right to use it to the exclusion of others. "If you're planning to hold the parade hostage, what are your ransom demands?"
"Huh?"
"If you won't move, you'll ruin the day for everyone else," I said. "I don't think you want that, and I certainly don't. So what would it take for you to change your mind about raining on the parade?"
Hollister frowned. "Everyone knows what I want. I want my car back the way it was before Lawrence ruined it."
"From what I understand, that's not possible. Certainly not in the next few minutes before the parade starts."
"Then the parade isn't going anywhere." Hollister crossed his spindly arms over his patch-covered chest and nodded triumphantly. "And if anyone asks, you can tell them it's Lawrence's fault. If he'd done right by me, none of this would have happened."
"I'm pretty sure that the only thing people are going to notice is that you're blocking the parade, while Lawrence is sitting quietly out of the way. They won't care that you think he started it."
He bent forward to squint at me suspiciously. "Hey, I know you. I saw you at Lawrence's shop yesterday. Are you supposed to be his bodyguard or something?"
"Nothing like that," I said. "I'm just a friend of the quilt guild. The name is Keely Fairchild, and all I'm doing is trying to keep things peaceful so everyone can enjoy their holiday."
"Not until I get what Lawrence owes me."
I took a deep, relaxing breath, more to keep myself from snapping at him than because I was feeling stressed. I wasn't experiencing anything more than mild annoyance, as evidenced by the lack of nausea or any other warning signs that I might pass out. Which was fortunate. Now definitely wouldn't be a good time for a syncope event, not that my nervous system was ever willing to wait for the right moment. I glanced past Hollister to the parking lot where Matt stood with his back to me, talking to Ryan. Matt might be the only person in town who might not see me fall if I did faint. The sidewalks in the staging area were filled to capacity with volunteers and people who wanted to get an early look at the floats, so there were as many witnesses now as there would be later on when the parade hit its stride.
With another deep breath, I assured myself that I wasn't going to do anything today that was worth witnessing and eagerly sharing on the rumor mill. All I was going to do was to keep distracting Hollister until Officer Fields could get here. It wouldn't be long now.
"I used to be a trial lawyer," I said, "and one thing I know is that making unreasonable demands won't get you anything. Lawrence isn't going to negotiate with you today about the problems with your car, and you're not going to be allowed to hold up the parade and ruin the day for everyone in town."
"Oh, yeah?" Hollister said
. "Who's going to make me move?"
I turned to my right, where Officer Fred Fields was almost even with us, and pointed at him. "He is."
* * *
Fields was in his middle thirties, of average height, not quite fat, but with an ever expanding waist. He seemed a little goofy at times, like Fred Flintstone in a uniform, but he was brilliant at community policing. I hadn't thought that Hollister would calm down for anything short of a morphine drip, but Fields moved him away from the front of the truck in seconds, without using any obvious means of coercion. A minute or two later, Hollister was laughing at a silly joke and didn't seem to notice the warning filtered back from the front of the line that the parade had officially begun and the first floats had headed out along the planned route.
I was supposed to be walking beside the float, handing out flyers for the Danger Cove Historical Museum's exhibit of the miniature quilts, but first I wanted to see what Fields knew about Hollister and his feud with Lawrence. I waited until Fields patted Hollister on the back and sent him across the street in the direction of the beach parking lot. Hollister wouldn't be able to leave while the road was closed for the parade, but at least he was no longer in a position to keep harassing Lawrence and getting Dee riled up.
"Morning, Fred," I said. "How's it going?"
"Could be better." He glanced toward where Matt was still talking to Ryan Murchison. They'd been abandoned by Carl Quincy, who was jogging toward the cab of the truck that was hitched to the guild's float. "Parades are supposed to be fun, and kids don't need to see adults behaving badly. Nothing too serious today though, so that's good."
"You aren't worried about Ryan Murchison?" I asked. "He tried to pull Brooke's banner off the guild's float a few minutes ago."
"Ryan's got a big mouth," Fields said, "and he does some stupid things, but he isn't likely to get too far out of control while his son is around. He can be a problem when he's on his own, but he at least tries to control himself when Nevin might be watching. I'd have had a chat with Ryan after he went after the banner, but I was too far away to intervene right away, and I could see that Carl had it under control. My joining in wouldn't have helped."
