The Double Cross

by Clare O'Donohue

  “I don’t know if he’s up for this kind of thing. Solving a homicide,” I said. “He seems every bit the small-town cop.”

  Jesse smiled. “That’s what I am too.”

  “You were a police officer in New York City before you came back to Archers Rest.”

  Eleanor once told me that Jesse had worked in New York City for several years before his wife, Lizzy, was diagnosed with cancer. He and Lizzy returned to Archers Rest, their hometown, so their families could be nearby to help with their daughter during Lizzy’s illness and, eventually, after she died. Jesse didn’t often talk about his days in the big city, and I always wondered if he missed them.

  “Detective,” Jesse said. “I was a detective in vice.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  He shrugged. “Never came up. Not a lot of vice in Archers Rest.”

  “Isn’t that a shame?” I smiled.

  He blushed.

  “Maybe you could help McIntyre,” I said. “I have the feeling he thinks Bernie is involved.”

  “I think Bernie is involved. And so do you.”

  I wondered if we were talking about the same thing. “I think,” I said carefully, “that she may be involved in a way, but I am sure she didn’t kill him and I don’t want to see her railroaded for something she didn’t do.”

  “Then tell me what you know.”

  I took a breath. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to share anything I say with McIntyre. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea.”

  “I won’t say a word. Mostly because I trust your instincts.”

  That made me smile. “And the other reason?”

  “I agree with you.”

  Jesse leaned against a fence and looked up at the sky before turning his gaze to me. His voice was quiet, and his expression had the same earnest seriousness I’d seen the night we first met, but there was a strength to his face and a kindness in his eyes that I’d only recently come to see. Standing there, I realized how much I liked that face.

  “Bernie wouldn’t kill anyone,” Jesse continued. “I’ve known her for years. She plays cards with my mom every week and babysits for Allie when my mom can’t. I wouldn’t trust her with my daughter if I thought for a moment she had an ounce of violence in her.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  “If we’re going to find out who the killer is, then you have to.”

  I smiled. “We?”

  He nodded. “We.”

  So I told him about seeing Bernie and George in the kitchen. Even as I spoke, I knew how it would sound. The picnic, the kitchen, and George’s comments about Bernie marrying a millionaire—it added up to a pretty good motive. A lonely woman reconnects with her lost love only to find out his sole interest is her back account. Angry and hurt, she shoots him. A lazy or inexperienced cop would have her arrested in the time it takes for a batch of scones to come out of the oven.

  I could tell by the expression on Jesse’s face that he thought the motive was pretty compelling, but instead of saying so he shrugged his shoulders. “It’s going to be fine,” he said quietly.

  I smiled. I was glad, for once, to be on the same side of an investigation as Jesse. I’d gotten used to getting help from the other members of the quilt club, and I knew they would be willing to do anything, but knowing Jesse was there as well almost made me confident that we would find the killer. Almost, because I had the odd and uncomfortable feeling that I had lost a normally reliable ally in Bernie. From the moment George’s name was brought up back in Archers Rest, she had become unusually secretive, and without her telling the whole truth, I wasn’t sure there was anything we could do to help.

  We ate dinner in silence. Once McIntyre had finished with Bernie, she sat at a table by herself, nursing a glass of wine. Any attempt to comfort her was brushed off, and after we all had failed, we gave her the space she seemed to want. I watched her for any hint of, I don’t know, guilt, remorse—anything that would tag her as the killer—but all I saw was the blank expression of shock. As we ate, Rita walked downstairs but went straight into the kitchen with McIntyre, without even looking toward us. There was no guilt on her face either. Just tiredness and tears.

  Halfway through dinner the silence turned from awkward to unbearable, but none of us seemed to be able to figure out what to say. Susanne started to say something about the class, and then stopped. The only words my grandmother spoke were to Barney, who sat at her feet. Jesse and I watched the kitchen door for any sign of Chief McIntyre.

  As soon as I finished eating, I used my dirty dish as an excuse to interrupt. Not that there was much to walk in on. Rita stood by the sink, drinking a glass of lemonade, while the police chief sat at the small table on the other side of the room.

  “I hope it’s okay to come in here,” I said as I placed my dish on the counter. I waited for a moment to see if their conversation, whatever it had been, would continue, but neither Rita nor McIntyre spoke.

  “I’m so sorry, Rita. We all are,” I eventually said. “If there’s anything we can do.” I looked for a reaction, but she wouldn’t look at me. “Maybe it would be best if we cleared out. Since the rest of the week is canceled . . .”

  “Why?” Rita’s head swiveled and her eyes met mine.

  I was taken aback. “Because you must want to be with your friends and with your daughter. You can’t want strangers in your house.”

  “My daughter won’t come,” she said.

  Even though I didn’t like Rita, I found it hard to imagine what she could have done that would keep her daughter away at a time like this. But this wasn’t the moment to ask.

  “I’m sure you don’t want us here,” I said, even though I didn’t want to leave the inn. More than anything I wanted to stay and find out who had killed George, but I needed to get Bernie away from this mess.

  “I don’t care if you stay.” Rita’s face was blank. She raised one of her perfectly manicured hands to her face and wound a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “In fact, I see no reason why the class shouldn’t continue. People signed up to take it, and you have driven all this way. I really would prefer it if it went forward.”

  “If I have a vote, and I hope I do, I’d rather none of you ladies left,” McIntyre said. “I’d like to keep everyone here until I get full statements, and that may take a day or two.”

  “None of us knows a thing about why this happened,” I said firmly. “We barely knew him.”

  “That isn’t true for all of you,” he countered.

  “Bernie hasn’t seen him since high school,” I shot back. “She hadn’t a reason in the world to want George dead.” I was proud of just how certain I sounded, even though I knew it wasn’t entirely true.

  “He was her sweetheart at one point. Broken heart, I believe.”

  I rolled my eyes to emphasize the ridiculousness of this motive. “Forty-five years ago. I imagine she’s over it by now.” My voice dripped with sarcasm, but McIntyre seemed unfazed. I tried a new tactic. “Even if she was still upset, and that’s ridiculous, Bernie doesn’t have a gun.”

  “A gun is missing from above the fireplace. A hunting rifle, which is probably what killed George.”

  “That would mean someone had to take the rifle, hide it from others, probably load it,” I said, “then follow George into the woods and shoot him.”

  “Unless George brought the gun with him,” McIntyre suggested. “Some hunters like to carry their guns with them, just in case.”

  I shrugged off each of his ideas. “In any case,” I said, “a high school romance is hardly enough motive to do all that. You need to look closer to home.”

  At that Rita broke down in sobs, hysterical, uncontrollable sobs. In my attempt to deflect suspicion from Bernie, I’d laid George’s murder at the feet of his widow, and right in front of her. Tact was clearly not my strong point. Thankfully, it brought Jesse and Eleanor into the kitchen to find out what was the matter.

>   “Why don’t you call it a night, Mrs. Olnhausen,” McIntyre said in a casual manner, but one that implied it wasn’t a suggestion. “I’m going to talk to these good folks for a while, and in the morning we’ll call someone to come over and sit with you.”

  That stopped her crying. “I don’t need a sitter,” she snapped, and left the room.

  Eleanor watched her leave, then turned to the rest of us. “Interesting woman.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “I think you have a pretty good suspect in Rita,” I said to McIntyre.

  “Maybe.”

  “They seemed to have some money problems.”

  “How can you tell?” McIntyre leaned back in his char.

  “Look around you,” I said. “The place is falling apart.”

  McIntyre nodded. “Could be. Lot of people have money problems and live to tell about it though.”

  “He might have had life insurance,” Jesse jumped in. “Money problems and life insurance make a pretty strong recipe for murder.”

  McIntyre nodded. “Something to check on, for sure.”

  “And Rita had access to the gun and knew the woods better than any of us,” I added. “She could have found him easily.”

  “Your friend Bernadette didn’t need to find George. She was with him,” McIntyre pointed out.

  “What better reason to kill your husband than finding him with an old girlfriend?” Jesse said.

  “And there’s something else,” I said, and then told him about what I’d seen in the window of the third floor earlier in the day.

  “You weren’t close enough to really know what was going on,” he pointed out.

  “I know they weren’t having a good time. Whatever was going on up there, they wanted to keep me from seeing it.”

  “Well, it was none of your business,” McIntyre said as he got up from the table. “I appreciate the ideas. It’s certainly nice to have an opportunity to throw around a few ideas with good people like you. It’s nice when we’re all working together. Much more interesting conversation than my usual partner, my dog Russ.”

  He smiled cheerfully at me and I smiled back, but I suspect my face showed more concern than friendliness. Not that McIntyre seemed to care. He shook Jesse’s hand and said something about being glad that a police chief from a “big town” would be around for the investigation, murders being so scarce in Winston.

  Then McIntyre nodded to the rest of us and wished us a good night’s sleep. “You folks will all be here in the morning. Maybe we can hash out the case then. Sometimes it helps to let the brain work on a problem. Maybe we’ll get lucky and some idea will come to one of us tonight.” He turned to Eleanor. “If you make coffee, I’ll bring something from the bakery. Maria bakes up some pretty tasty muffins. I think you’ll really enjoy them.” Then he walked out of the kitchen, leaving us all standing there trying to decide whether to laugh or be alarmed.

  “He seems to think the whole thing is just an excuse to get together for brunch.” Eleanor said, once McIntyre had left the room.

  “It’s like he’s made up his mind it’s Bernie,” I said.

  “He’s talking it out, that’s all,” Jesse offered. “And even if he has made up his mind, he needs proof. And since Bernie is innocent, he won’t be able to get it.”

  Eleanor smiled at Jesse, but when she turned to me, I could see she was worried. She wasn’t the only one. If Bernie had lied to McIntyre the way she’d lied to me, he would have more reason than motive to suspect her.

  After I helped Jesse settle into a room across from the one Eleanor and I were in, I took Barney out for one last walk. I knew Eleanor and Susanne were waiting upstairs to talk about everything that had happened, but I needed a moment to think. Barney seemed to have had enough adventure for one day though. I could barely get him off the porch, so I sat on the steps while he sniffed at some nearby flowers.

  As I stood up, I saw a strange light going on and off in the woods. It must have been the same light Susanne saw the first night. I waited for movement, but there was none. In case it was a signal, I walked around the entire house, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. The ghosts or deer or whatever had scared Susanne seemed to be lying low for the night. Just as I returned to the front porch where Barney had remained, I heard a noise behind me.

  I turned to see a car pulling up and watched as Helen and Frank got out.

  “We heard there were police at the inn,” Frank said. “We got worried after what went on this afternoon. Everything okay in there?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. There was a . . .” I struggled for the right word. “There’s some sad news.”

  Even in the moonlight, Frank seemed pale. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “What happened?” Helen stepped forward.

  “George was found in the woods. Jesse, Pete, and I found him in the woods. He’d been shot.”

  Helen gasped. “He’s dead?”

  “Are you sure?” Frank didn’t wait for my answer. He ran up the steps to the house and went inside.

  “Why don’t I get you some water?” I said to the shaken Helen.

  She nodded, and we went inside to the kitchen. Frank wasn’t on the first floor, so I assumed he must have gone up to Rita’s room.

  “I don’t understand why,” Helen kept saying.

  “I know it’s a great shock.”

  “He didn’t have to . . .” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I never imagined this would happen.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “It will be a great comfort to Rita that she has such good friends here right now. I feel a bit like an intruder, but she’s asked us not to leave. She wants the class to continue.”

  “That can’t happen,” Helen said firmly. “It would be completely inappropriate.”

  “She’s right,” Eleanor said twenty minutes later, when I sat on my bed and related the story to her and Susanne.

  Helen and I had sat in the kitchen with very little to say since there was very little information. Even if there had been, after her initial outburst Helen seemed unwilling to talk. She just stared at the glass of water I’d gotten for her. Once Frank returned I’d grabbed Barney and headed toward my room, leaving them to see themselves out. Frank didn’t tell me if he’d spoken to Rita, but I assumed he had because I couldn’t think of where else he would have disappeared to.

  “Rita is the one who wants the class to continue,” I said to my grandmother.

  “That’s another odd thing about that woman.” Eleanor shook her finger at me. “Her husband is dead. Even if she didn’t like the man, shouldn’t she close down her business until she’s put him in the ground?”

  “Maybe she can’t,” I offered. “They wanted us up here. It obviously wasn’t to teach a quilting retreat.”

  Susanne had been pacing the floor, but she stopped and said quietly, “I’ve been wondering what he was doing under the quilt. Don’t you sit on top of a quilt when you go on a picnic?”

  “If he was lying under it, maybe the killer didn’t intend to kill George,” I said. “Maybe the killer didn’t even see who he was shooting.”

  “Who would they want to kill?” Susanne asked.

  We all stopped for a moment. The answer just hung there, but no one seemed willing to say it.

  Finally Eleanor spoke up. “No one would want to kill Bernie,” she said.

  “Except maybe Rita,” I offered.

  “But if Rita killed George, thinking it was Bernie, what would Bernie have been doing under the blanket?” Susanne asked.

  “She might have been under it with George,” I suggested. “They might have been—”

  “We know what they might have been doing,” Eleanor interrupted, “and it’s ridiculous.”

  “The ground is cold and damp,” I agreed. “Whatever they might have been doing, they would have done it on the quilt, not under it.”

  “Okay, so why was George lying under the quilt?” Eleanor asked. “If he and Bernie were having their picn
ic and sitting on the quilt, someone must have come upon them and shot him.”

  “And then what?” Susanne took up the thought. “Maybe Bernie ran once George was shot. Maybe she knows the killer.”

  “Then she would have told McIntyre,” I pointed out. “And I don’t remember seeing any picnic items there. If the killer caught them together, then there would have been food or wine. I don’t think Bernie would have grabbed the picnic supplies as she ran from a killer.”

  “What did it look like when you and Jesse found George’s body?” Susanne asked.

  I searched my memory for the crime scene as I first saw it. Something stood out. “I don’t think there was a hole in the quilt,” I said. “George must not have been lying under it when he was shot. The person who killed him might have covered him with it.”

  “Why?” Eleanor seemed suddenly confused. “It would hardly make him less noticeable. The quilt was red and white. You could see it a mile away.”

  “Maybe she panicked,” Susanne said.

  We all looked at her. A long stretch of silence followed as the word hung in the air.

  “She?” Eleanor finally said.

  We turned to Susanne. “We can’t ignore the facts,” Susanne said. “She did it.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “How can you say that?” Eleanor seemed ready to burst. “I know Hyou two have been at odds lately, but that hardly . . .”

  Susanne turned bright red. “Rita. I think it was Rita. Good heavens, Eleanor, I wouldn’t for a minute suspect Bernie.”

  We all took a relieved breath.

  “Susanne is right. It had to be Rita. How can we prove she did it?” Eleanor looked at me. “We need to find out her motive, right?”

  “Just because a person has a motive doesn’t mean they will kill someone, and people are killed with no logical motive at all,” I said, as if I were an expert on the subject. But it seemed to me that finding motive wouldn’t get us very far until we had first sorted out a few other things.