The Sweetheart Mystery

by Cheryl Ann Smith

  “Hey!” she called and rushed after him. “Where are you going? Noah!”

  He paused and looked back. “Your defeatist attitude is grating on my nerves. I hate whiners.” Her eyes widened with the verbal slap. Good. “Call me when you’re prepared to fight.”

  * * * *

  Outrage burned her belly. How dare he talk to her that way? She had a right to feel down, didn’t she?

  He jerked open the truck door when she got clarity.

  Damn. He was right, even if she wanted to punch him in the nose. Whining wouldn’t help. Whimpering in the corner with her thumb in her mouth wouldn’t help either. She had to put on her big girl skivvies and kick butt.

  “Wait!” she said in her best authoritative voice. He stopped with one foot inside the truck. “Okay. I’m done whining.” He looked skeptical. “Really. Come back. Please.”

  Noah seemed torn, scanned her face, and dropped his foot. With a door slam, he walked back over and pocketed his keys.

  Instead of a scowl, a smile tugged his mouth. His Jedi mind game had worked. “That’s my girl.”

  She wanted to remind him that she wasn’t a girl, or his for that matter, but let it go. If the big sexy hunk of a man helped save her from prison, he could call her whatever he wanted, within reason, of course. Anything said in a baby talk voice was out. That was just creepy.

  “Thank you.” She smiled back. “Where do we start?”

  Noah gave her a breakdown of the plan for the day. “Since Covington had so many enemies, I thought we should start with his family. They knew him before he was a world class ass.”

  “I suspect he came out of the chute an ass,” she joked. “I’m surprised his mother didn’t switch him at the hospital with a nice baby. I would have.”

  “Try not to go off track please.”

  She sobered. “Right. Sorry. You are correct.” Time to behave. “Many murders are perpetrated by family members,” she offered. “Even if his parents didn’t kill him, they may have an idea of who would.”

  “I agree.” Their investigation was off to a good start. At least they weren’t arguing and she wasn’t imagining him naked.

  Shoot. She just imagined him naked.

  Focus! What were the steps to solving a case? She’d watched enough murder shows that she should be able to break it down.

  Harper also loved playing Clue as a kid. However, Colonel Mustard rarely bashed the victim to death with the candlestick in real life. Nor were the clues on cards.

  “Gerald didn’t die in a conservatory, but the killer did use the knife.” She didn’t realize she’d said that aloud until he spoke.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Her face went warm. “Starting with his parents is an excellent plan. Do you have the address to the Covington farm?”

  Staring at her like she was an unsolvable riddle, he nodded. “I do.”

  “Then let’s go.” Harper heard him groan as she walked over and climbed into her rental. If nothing else, seeing Noah folded into the junker was enough to bring some satisfaction to the hurt teenage girl still lingering in Harper. It took a notch out of her desire for retribution for his past evil deeds.

  Revenge was best served in a junky, messed-up rental.

  The farm was about a half hour from Ann Arbor and tucked back on the property, but not far enough that the large yellow house couldn’t be seen from the road. From a distance, the house was cute. Gerald had told everyone his family came from the rich and fictitious New York Covingtons. Up close, it needed a new layer of paint and the shutters replaced. It wasn’t as if his family was living under a tarp over a manhole. The farm was quite nice.

  “It’s a big spread,” Noah said as he looked out over several hundred acres of corn. Harper checked out the big red barn at the end of the driveway, just behind the house. She rarely saw barns like that anymore, still in good condition.

  Most fell to ruin, replaced by metal monstrosities.

  A flash of movement in front of the car caught the corner of her eye. She cried out and jammed the brakes. Noah jerked like a crash test dummy against his seat belt.

  “What the hell?” he said once his teeth stopped clattering.

  “Something ran in front of the car.” She unsnapped her seatbelt and hurried out. Lying on the driveway about a foot from her bumper was a plump black and white goat. Its skinny legs stood straight up in the air and its eyes were closed.

  Her heart stopped. “Oh, no.”

  Noah rounded the car and looked down. He tugged on one of its hooves. The animal didn’t move. “I think you killed him.” He leaned closer. “Her.”

  The goat did look dead. Harper had once accidently taken out a rabbit that ran in front of her car and she had cried for an hour. This was much worse.

  “Noah, I swear I didn’t hit her.” She swallowed a lump. “Wouldn’t we have felt the bump?”

  “I don’t think she died of heart failure.” He shook his head sadly. “First Gerald, then his goat. When will your misdeeds against this family end?”

  The comment took a second to process. “You are a horrible, horrible man. This isn’t funny.”

  Just what she needed—the blood of dead goat on her hands. Willard’s lawyer would probably use it against her in court to show a pattern of bad behavior.

  “Can you check for a pulse?” she said and rubbed her bare arms. She had to keep hope alive.

  “Do I look like a vet?” He bent for a better look. He poked its round belly. She didn’t move. “Nope, it’s dead.”

  Harper shuddered and glanced at the house. There was no sign of life. Thank God. Running down their goat was not the best way to start contact with Gerald’s parents. Maybe they could put it in the hatchback before anyone noticed.

  “You have to do something.”

  “Me?” He frowned. She was somewhat certain she saw a hint of amusement that he quickly hid. “You ran it over. Why don’t you try CPR?”

  “I’m not doing CPR on a goat.” She glanced at the car and bent down. The poor thing. “You do it.”

  Before Noah could respond, the noise of a screen door slammed shut brought them upright. A tall, rawboned, elderly woman in a baggy denim shirt, loose brown workpants, and grimy rubber boots stepped to the edge of the porch.

  “Knock it off, Harriet!” she yelled and stomped a foot. The goat twitched, flailed her hooves, and rolled to her feet. She baa’d and raced off for the barn at a rapid clip.

  Harper gaped. “I told you I didn’t hit her,” she stated with a flood of relief. Thankfully, goat CPR was off the table.

  Noah chuckled. Suspicion welled.

  “You butt-face!” she exclaimed and socked him in the arm. “You knew she wasn’t dead.”

  He snorted and rubbed the spot. “Butt-face? You haven’t called me that since elementary school.”

  She spun away from him. “And you deserved it. You called my shoes ugly.” The only time he’d talked to her before senior year was that one time in the hallway outside of Mrs. Stanley’s math class. He’d earned the insult.

  “They were ugly shoes.”

  “They were not.” She gritted her teeth. “Don’t we have a case to investigate?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  How had she ever fallen for such an annoying man?

  Harriet ran by, chasing a butterfly.

  “Most of those goats only faint for a couple seconds,” the woman called after she’d waited patiently for them to stop squabbling. “Harriet is a drama queen.”

  A dramatic goat? Harper blinked. Day one of the investigation and she’d dropped into the Twilight Zone.

  Recovering from the near fatal goat collision, she led the way to the white-washed porch. The woman frowned down at them, but her eyes locked on Harper. She was closer to Irving’s age than Harper first thou
ght. Well into her eighties.

  She stepped forward. “Do I know you?”

  “We’re PI’s investigating the Gerald Covington case,” Noah interjected. “Are you Fanny Covington, Gerald’s mother?”

  Pale gray eyes went steely-hard. “That’s where I know you. From the news.” She ignored the question and pointed an arthritic finger at Harper as if casting an ancient curse upon Harper’s head. “You murdered my grandson.”

  Chapter 8

  “I didn’t—” Harper stopped in mid-sentence as the woman glowered down at her from her lofty perch. She couldn’t bring herself to argue with a grieving relative, even if the older woman was wrong. Plus she looked ready to kick Harper’s behind. In a matchup, Harper wasn’t confident she’d win.

  Worse, that crooked finger was up to something. She felt a twitch in her lower extremities. Had her ovaries shriveled up? Would she wake up tomorrow with hideous boils all over her body?

  Didn’t ancient curses usually involve infertility or children born bearing a pronounced cave-dweller-type forehead and a hairy back hump? If this woman had some sort of mystical power, Harper was in serious trouble.

  Noah stepped up and the finger dropped. Her ovaries stopped twitching. Thank goodness.

  “I’m Noah Slade.” He reached up a hand. The still unnamed woman stared a few beats at his handsome mug. Her heavily lined face softened slightly. Noah clearly had a knee-wobbling effect on women of all ages. “And you must be Gerald’s grandmother, Estelle.”

  “I am.” She took his hand. That explained the large gap in ages between Gerald and Estelle.

  When Noah said he did research, it must have included extra branches of the family tree.

  “Are Gerald’s parents around?” he said.

  “They moved to Ibiza last year to join a cult of chanting toga wearers.” She shook his hand. “What do you want Mr. Slade?”

  “As I said, I’m investigating the murder and am trying to find out what I can about your grandson. I’ll welcome anything that’ll help me find his killer.”

  “Other than her?” Leveling a withering scowl at Harper, Estelle shifted and walked to a long bench on the porch. She dropped onto it with a small grunt. Her knees popped with the effort. “With her arrested, the case is closed.”

  Harper bit her lip and remained silent.

  “All of the facts have not come out,” he said patiently. “I hope that you’ll be objective and go over all the evidence with an open mind before making a judgment.”

  Yes. He was good.

  The senior harrumphed and indicated a spot next to her. Noah sat, leaving a place on the end for Harper. She chose to stand and leaned against a porch post, out of the direct sight of the other woman. No sense inciting her temper. She couldn’t take the risk of another dose of finger curse.

  If Gerald’s grandmother was anything like him, who knew what could happen. Even if she wasn’t a witch, Estelle might push her off the porch. She looked mean.

  “I don’t know what evidence you need,” the woman said as she shifted to peer-scowl at Harper. “It sounds like the police have their suspect picked out.”

  Noah nodded. “I agree, she does look guilty, but there are issues with the case.” He ignored Harper’s frown. “Gerald was a big man and Harper is, what, a hundred and twenty-five pounds? It’s hard to imagine her getting the jump on your grandson.”

  “Have you seen the movie Carrie?” Estelle countered. “A bitty thing can do a lot of damage. And she has shifty eyes. Killers have those kinds of eyes.”

  Harper wanted to tell her that her eyes were not shifty, and furthermore, she did not have the psychic ability to move objects with her mind.

  The woman was obviously off her rocker.

  Noah flicked a quick glance at Harper. “Yes, well, Carrie aside, as a former member of law enforcement, I like to line up the clues into a solid package before I commit to sending someone to prison for life.”

  Estelle’s eyes bore into him. The rusty cogs in her mind were grinding. She finally spoke, “Are you two having sex?”

  As if that’s the only reason anyone would be on Harper’s side! “No, we are not having sex.”

  “Are you sure?” the woman pressed.

  Harper lost it. “It may have been fifty years since you’ve seen a naked man, but I do know sex well enough to know that Noah and I are not having any.”

  For a minute, she thought Estelle was about to do the finger thing again. Instead a gleam filled her eyes. “You have a short temper, missy. No wonder you’re suspect numero uno.”

  A tug on her pant leg cut off a curt reply. Harper looked down to see the fainting goat munching on her jeans leg with her funky goat teeth.

  “Shoo!” she commanded and shook her leg. The goat held tight. She jerked harder. “Let go!”

  The goat didn’t budge. She had the fabric frayed on the hem. Harper sucked in a big breath and shouted, “Bad goat!”

  The beast stiffened, fell sideways, and pitched off the porch,

  “Oh, no!” Harper ran to the edge, sure the goat had suffered a deadly concussion in the fall. Instead, the goat was feet up inside of a pom-pom bush, twitching her last bit of life before going to her maker.

  Harper put her hand on her hip. “Don’t go there, Harriet,” she snapped. “I know you’re faking.” As if the goat understood English. “Get. Up.”

  Noah and Estelle hurried over. The latter leaned down for a closer look. “I think you killed her this time.”

  “She isn’t dead.” Harper pointed. She wasn’t about to fall for that crap again. “She’s breathing.”

  The goat opened one eye, then the other, then pulled the closest leaf into her mouth and masticated it into a pulp. Once she finished, she struggled out of the bush and ran around the porch and up the stairs.

  Harper darted behind Noah. “Keep that thing away from me.”

  It wasn’t that Harper didn’t like animals. She just liked the kind you could put on a leash and walk up and down on the sidewalk in a civilized manner. Or a cat that you tossed catnip toys to while sitting on a couch. Farm animals were not her thing.

  “She likes you,” Estelle said with disgust in her voice. “I always thought that goat needed therapy.”

  Noah managed to position himself between Harper and the jeans-eating goat. After a couple of minutes, the goat got bored and wandered off. The last they saw of her, she was chasing a squawking duck around the house.

  Noah took the opportunity to re-focus the investigation. He reclaimed his seat. Estelle remained standing.

  “Let’s put aside for a moment that Ms. Evans is the killer and talk about other suspects.” He pulled a small notebook and a pencil stub out of his shirt pocket. “The last time you saw Gerald, did he discuss any troubles he was having, or maybe threats against him? Did he have any enemies that were aggressive or potentially dangerous?”

  Estelle’s face clouded. “Two thousand and ten.”

  Both Harper and Noah stared. Then he said, “That’s how many enemies he had?”

  Harper knew he wasn’t well liked, but even she wouldn’t think Gerald could tick that many people off. He must have started collecting enemies shortly after his birth.

  “No,” Estelle said. “That’s the last time I saw him.”

  Now that was a revelation. Despite sometimes being exasperated by her small and quirky family, she couldn’t go a week without talking or texting to one or more of them. To not talk to her brother or aunt for six years was mind-boggling.

  For Gerald to blow off his family was disturbing, even if his grandmother was a dragon.

  “That’s really sad,” Harper blurted out.

  Estelle turned her direction. “His parents might not come back for the funeral, if that tells you anything.”

  For the first time, Harper got a glimpse behind the façade t
hat surrounded Gerald. She didn’t know if she should feel sorry for him, or his family. Yes, he was a scum bag, but it was hard to imagine not seeing your son buried after his murder.

  What kind of parents where they?

  Noah asked a couple of follow-up questions, but Estelle didn’t have anything current to share.

  As the pair walked back to the car, Harper turned pensive. She vowed to never let a week go by without telling her family that she loved them.

  * * * *

  Noah sensed her downturn in mood as soon as she crawled into the car and snapped on her seatbelt. The vehicle whined as it rolled over. The car had who-knew-how-many-years-of a teen boy driver behind the wheel. He was impressed that it ran at all. That was the only thing about the wreck that impressed him.

  Harper appeared defeated. He wasn’t sure if her mood came from the case or the fact that she had goat slobber on her jeans. She was hard to read.

  He chose the former. “Hey. This is just our first interview. Sometimes investigations take months.”

  “It isn’t the investigation that concerns me, although I don’t have months to flush out the killer.” She cupped her face with both hands. “Can you imagine dying and your family doesn’t care enough to return to Michigan and see you buried?”

  So that was it. She’d seen a crack in the carefully crafted veneer that the bastard Gerald Covington had built around himself, and it humanized him to her. She clearly didn’t like knowing his family may have screwed him up.

  “Didn’t you say Gerald was an awful person?”

  “He was. Still. How could his parents not go to his funeral? He’s their son. Who does that?”

  He reached and put his hands over hers. “HJ, I’ll make you a promise. If you croak, I’ll throw myself onto your casket and weep and wail. It’ll be one hell of a show.”

  Her big brown eyes looked up at him. Gone was the moping face and impatience reined. “Not funny.”

  He flashed a grin. “Then why are you smiling?”

  “I’m not smiling.”

  “You are.”

  One corner of her mouth twitched. He’d always had the ability to make her laugh. Clearly that hadn’t changed.