by Debby Mayne
A couple of uniformed officers had a man restrained in a metal folding chair, while Jim hovered over him. I stepped closer and saw that it was Bert. His eyes widened as he recognized me.
Chapter 4
"Wh-what's she doing here?"
Jim turned to me. "Do you want to answer, or do you want me to?"
I didn’t have a chance to respond before Bert jumped in. "That woman takes forever in the bathroom." As Bert spoke, his voice got softer, and that weird smile slowly returned.
"They all do," Jim mumbled.
I glared at him. "What did you just say?"
"Never mind." Jim rubbed the back of his neck. "What's going on, Bert?"
"Why don't you ask one of these guys?"
Jim glanced up at one of the officers. "Well?"
"We got a call that he was trying to break into the Birchfield house," one of the officer said. "When we got there, he'd left, but we finally caught him in town."
Bert looked hurt. "I left something there, and I wanted to go pick it up."
Jim looked at me and then back at Bert. "Would you care to tell me what it is you left?"
"None of your beeswax," Bert said.
I stepped forward. "You really need to answer him, Bert. Did Mrs. Birchfield have something of yours?" I was thinking about the knife, but his expression didn't look the least bit murderous.
"Ah, the lovely Lola Birchfield. I'm afraid I disappointed her. She's such a kind woman who deserves much better than me." Bert's voice took on an unnatural sweetness that almost made me gag. He squirmed around for a moment. "My nose itches. Can someone scratch it for me?"
"You didn't answer her," Jim said.
"I will as soon as I can scratch my nose." He squirmed around for a few seconds.
Jim glanced at one of the officers who looked perplexed. "Is he under arrest?"
"Um, no, not yet. He just came in here and started yelling and threatening—"
Jim tilted his head toward Bert. "Then you better take those handcuffs off."
One of the officers who'd apprehended Bert looked at Jim and leaned over to unlock the handcuffs. "Is there someone you can call?"
Bert gave me a sheepish look and then glanced down at the floor as he shook his hands to the side and then rubbed them. His demeanor was certainly odd as he'd obviously calmed down quite a bit. "I suppose I should call Lola. After all, I left her feeling so terrible when I said I was moving on so she could find a man who deserved a woman like her."
"So you don't know?" Jim asked. He crossed the room and said something to the two officers who backed away but didn't leave the room. I suspected he commented on how they shouldn't have handcuffed him, even though he could have been considered dangerous since he'd been on a rant when he got to the station.
"All I know is I hurt the woman."
"I'd say she's more than hurt." Jim sighed as he looked at me. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but—"
I didn't think the timing was right for Jim to spill the beans about Mrs. Birchfield's demise, so I interrupted. "I don't appreciate how rude you were when you interrupted me in the bathroom. Couldn't you have waited one more minute?"
Jim's head shot around as he gave me a curious look. But it didn't take him long to figure out what I was doing. "She's right, Bert. You should know that women have to do all that girly stuff in the bathroom."
"Lola did tell me I was impatient." The look of contrition appeared very real, but I'd encountered some great actors in the past, so I didn't give his expression much credence.
"Did you stay at Mrs. Birchfield … er, Lola's boarding house long?" I asked.
Bert's face turned a bright shade of pink. "Yes, I did, but I promise you I didn't do anything to compromise her integrity. I might be a little odd …" He broke into that strange smile again. "But I'm a gentleman … well, except when someone takes too long in the bathroom. When ya gotta go, ya gotta—"
I lifted my hands. "Okay, we've already established that you needed the bathroom more than I did. What I'm wondering now is why you left Mrs. Birchfield's boarding house and moved to Mavis Anderson's place."
Bert hung his head again. "Lola and I had a little tiff. When I told Zach about it, he said it would be an excellent time to move out."
"Zach?" I tilted my head, cut a quick glance over to Jim, and turned back to Bert. "Who's Zach?"
"My son." Bert puffed his chest. "My boy is very important, ya know."
Jim chuckled under his breath. "I'm sure he is."
Now wasn't the time to get sarcastic, now that we had Bert talking. I took another step closer. "What does Zach do?"
Bert flapped his arms about, putting the other officers on alert. The younger of the two appeared coiled and ready to spring to action. "He's a very successful wheeler-dealer. Buys and sells stuff for a profit. That boy can take a quarter and turn it into a dollar in five minutes flat."
Zach sounded like a crook to me. "Why would he want you to move out of Mrs. Birchfield's place? Did you tell him you didn't like it there?"
"Oh no, quite the contrary. He knows it's my favorite place to stay … well, except his place of course. But that's not an option since he's looking after a young woman and her three kids. He's out of room at his place, and I'm not exactly crazy about noisy children."
Jim couldn't hold back any longer. "Let me see if I have this right. You and … Lola had a tiff, and you told your son Zach who turns small change into mountains of money. Zach has some woman and kids living at his house, but he tells his elderly father he can't stay there."
Bert nodded. "That's about right."
"How do you like the Anderson place?"
"It's okay, I guess. The bed is a little too soft, and the food isn't as good. Put Lola and Connie in the same kitchen, and you'll have the meal of a lifetime."
Whose lifetime? I wondered. We still hadn't told Bert about Mrs. Birchfield's death, and he still hadn't let on that he knew anything. At first, I suspected him, but now, I wasn't sure. He still talked as though he didn't know, and we'd given him plenty of opportunities to slip up. If I'd had to place a bet on it, I would have had to toss a coin first. And now the waters had been muddied by mention of his son. Even though I'd never met Zach, based on what his dad was telling me, I didn't like him. That totally wasn't like me.
"I'm pretty tired," Bert said as he stretched. "Can one of you nice gentleman bring me home?"
"How did you get here?" Jim asked.
Bert pointed to the two officers who remained standing silent. "They dragged me halfway down the block all the way here."
"Sergeant Lupton, sir, he started out causing a ruckus down at the bakery. They called us to come take care of things."
Bert rolled his eyes. "They wouldn't let me have a banana nut muffin. I almost had enough money, but they said it wasn't enough. I was just a few pennies short."
Jim sighed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of bills that he handed to one of the officers. "On your way to the boarding house, stop off and get him a muffin. While you're at it, pick up something for yourself."
After the officers left with Bert, Jim turned toward me. "So what do you make of all that?"
"I have to admit it's one of the strangest things I've ever witnessed. Bert is obviously a very troubled … and strange man."
"Do you think he killed Mrs. Birchfield?" Jim asked.
I shrugged. "Maybe. Or perhaps it was his son."
Jim frowned. "I was thinking the same thing." He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "Do you think Bert realized he may have implicated his son?"
"How could he realize that if he didn't know about Mrs. Birchfield's murder?"
"Good point."
"Seriously, who knows about anything regarding that odd little man?" A snort escaped my throat. "He might have been yanking our chains to throw us off course."
Jim pulled away from the desk he'd been leaning against. "Yep, you're a seasoned detective."
"And a weary one. I had
no intention of getting back into this, but somehow these things find me."
"So what were you saying about the mistletoe back at Mrs. Birchfield's place?"
"Instead of talk about it, why don't we go check it out?" I paused, tilted my head, and gave him a long look. "Unless you'd prefer I only stick around to answer questions and keep my nose out of everything else. If that's the case, I understand."
He grimaced. "If you're asking if my ego can handle your input, it can …" His face broke into a smile. "But I have to admit, it's hard for me to let go of control."
I lifted my hands. "I'm not asking for control. I'm done with that. It's just this one thing I'd like to check out. You know what I'm talking about. No stone unturned."
"Oh yeah, I get it." He gestured toward the door. "Let's go check out this mistletoe. By the way, don't get any ideas about catching me under it. I never kiss on the job."
I nearly choked. When I tried to think of a sarcastic retort, nothing came to me, so I tightened my jaw and went ahead of Jim toward the parking lot.
Yellow tape still surrounded Mrs. Birchfield's place, and a uniformed officer stood guard by the front door. He tipped his head toward Jim, glanced at me with narrowed eyes, and then looked back at Jim for reassurance.
"We're just checking on something she saw," Jim said.
As we entered the front room, my heart thudded. No matter how many times I walked in on murder scenes, I never got used to the mind-boggling thought of someone being alive and vibrant one minute and dead the next. From what I remembered, Mrs. Birchfield was a lively, friendly woman who greeted all her guests as though she'd been waiting just for them.
The tape outline still remained on the floor. I forced myself not to remain fixated on the outline and forced myself to look up where I'd seen the mistletoe. The only thing that remained was a sliver of tape.
"It's missing," I said as I pointed. "The mistletoe is gone."
"I see that." He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. I listened as he asked about the mistletoe that had been hanging in the doorway. He paused as he listened for the response before giving an order to send someone from forensics back to the scene. After he hung up, he met my gaze and slowly shook his head.
"What?" I asked.
"They didn't get any mistletoe." He pointed to the tape. "And that's all the more reason we need to have that tape checked out."
I walked up under it, being very careful not to step on the place where Mrs. Birchfield took her last breath. I squinted and focused on the tape.
"Look. I think there's some hair in the tape."
Jim pulled some glasses from his pocket and joined me. "Yup. I think so too. At least I don't have to tell you not to touch it. We need to stay right here and wait for forensics."
Some gnawing sensation in my gut compelled me to look around and see if any of the other mistletoe I'd seen was missing. I wandered over toward the staircase.
"Are you looking for something in particular?" Jim asked as he joined me.
"The rest of the mistletoe is still here." I pointed. "See?"
Jim frowned as he looked back and forth between the doorway with the missing mistletoe and the greenery that still hung on both sides of the stairs. My hunch was right. There was something about the mistletoe over the kitchen door that we needed to pay attention to.
After the forensic team arrived, I wandered around the downstairs as Jim chatted with the guys. It didn't take them long to gather what they needed to add to what I hoped was a growing amount of evidence. It really bugged me to be as involved as I was but not have the inside scoop that only members of the official police force could know.
"Did you see anything interesting?" he asked. "I was hoping you'd find another clue that might lead us right to the murderer."
"Who do you think I am?" I lifted my head, squared my shoulders, and took on the haughtiest look I could manage. "Superwoman?"
"Something like that." He planted a fist on his hip and leaned against one of the walls. "According to your reputation, Superwoman would be jealous of you and your track record."
"You need to stop calling people."
"I only made two calls ... maybe three." Jim gave me a closed-mouth grin. "And now folks are calling us. Your former boss in Nashville said that if you ever want your old job—"
"Stop."
He held up both hands. "No problem. I didn't realize you were so sensitive about being a cop."
"I'm not sensitive."
Jim rolled his eyes. "Whatever you are, I'll try to keep quiet about your past."
"You don't have to do that. It's just that …" He was right. I totally didn't need the temptation of going back into police work. It was hard enough to stay away after a string of the most boring jobs imaginable. I just needed to find something interesting … something I could be passionate about … something that didn't make me dread getting out of bed every morning.
So far, the only job in my entire adult life that did that for me had been police work, but I was tired of being spit on, kicked, and feeling like a target had been planted squarely on my back. Even now, after more than a year of being away, people knew me. Some of the people I'd managed to put behind bars were now starting to get out of jail, and I had to admit, that was cause for concern. Vendettas have a way of growing when all you have to look at is the inside of a prison cell and reflect on what got you there.
"Did you see everything you need to see?" he asked.
I took another sweeping glance around the room. "I don't know why I feel like I'm missing something."
"Yeah," he agreed. "I get the same feeling. Sort of like it's right in front of us, but we're looking right past it." He gestured toward the door. "We can come back in the morning. I'll let Bruiser know to be even more vigilent."
"Bruiser?"
Jim laughed. "That's his nickname. He is about the scrappiest cop we have on the force. No one messes with Bruiser." He paused. "But don't you call him that. It's a name reserved for other cops." He tilted his head forward and challenged me with a look.
I quickly glanced away. "Okay, so what's his real name?"
"Jean-Pierre." A smile twitched the corners of his lips. "Officer Bergeron to you."
"Bruiser Bergeron, huh?" I grinned. "Has a nice ring to it."
One of the forensic guys approached. "I need to get some samples of hair …" He glanced at me. "If you don't mind."
"Oh, yes, of course." I'd been the one who happened to find the body, so I should have expected this.
I literally pulled a hank of hair from my head and handed it to him. He took it with gloved hands and carefully dropped it into a plastic bag.
On the way out, Jim stopped and said a few words to Bruiser, while I went straight to his car. This had been such an exhausting day, and I was ready to get some rest. Then it dawned on me that I hadn't called my parents yet. Man, that was one conversation I dreaded. Mom and Mrs. Birchfield had a strong mutual admiration, and I knew my mother would take it hard.
After several minutes, Jim slid into the driver's seat. "In the mood for some coffee and pie?"
"What?" I feigned shock. "No doughnuts?"
"Not for this guy. I'm a pie kind of guy. So how about it?"
"I really need to get back to the B&B. It's been a long day."
"I understand." His voice was laced with disappointment, but I was glad he didn't try to talk me into joining him. "Want me to pick you up in the morning?"
This relationship was becoming to cozy and comfy for me, so I shook my head. "I'll drive to the police station. What time will you be there?"
"Early."
"Define early."
He shrugged as he pulled into the B&B parking lot and stopped. "If you get there at seven, there's a good chance I'll be there."
I opened the car door. "I'll see you a little after eight." After I got out, I leaned over and met his gaze. "See you in the morning. Early." With a smile, I shut the door, turned, and jogged up the steps.
After I walked in, I turned and waved before closing the massive French door to the old home.
Mavis was sitting in the large parlor off to the left, a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn in her lap. But she wasn't using them. Instead, she sat, her gaze transfixed on the wall across from her.
"Is everything okay?" I asked.
She slowly looked up at me and nodded. "This has been quite a day, hasn't it?"
"It sure has." I hesitated before turning toward the stairs. "See you in the morning."
"Summer?" I spun around to face her. "I'm sorry we got off to a rocky start. I'm not a mean person."
"Don't worry about it. We all have bad days."
"I didn't do it."
"Do what?" I asked.
"Kill Lola."
"I never said you did." I stared at her for a moment. The strange look on her face concerned me. "Have you been waiting here for me?"
"I … um, no, I just thought I'd do a little knitting to relax before bedtime."
I glanced at the needles and yarn that hadn't been formed into anything yet. "Looks like you didn't get much done."
The look in her eyes concerned me. "I said something to Lola that I'll always regret."
"What did you say?" I stepped a little closer and stopped when I saw that she was getting agitated.
"I told her I wished she'd just go away." Mavis looked me in the eye and then dropped her gaze as though ashamed. "I said I didn't care where she went, as long as was gone. That was the last thing I ever said to her."
As pitiful as this woman appeared, I didn't feel all that sorry for her. She'd let professional jealousy get the best of her. If she'd done a better job of running her B&B, she wouldn't have lost so much business to Mrs. Birchfield. I took a small step closer to her but stopped again when she appeared to stiffen.
"I'm sure she understood," I said because that was all I could think of.
She opened her mouth but quickly shut it and nodded. The silence between us was palpable, and I wasn't sure what to say or do … or if I needed to do anything.
Finally, she put her needles and yarn on the table beside her and stood. "I best be gettin' to bed. Tomorrow comes mighty early, and I have a passel of hungry folks to feed." She gave me an odd look. "Funny but you don't look like a cop."
