by Lynn Cahoon
“Looks good.” He kissed my neck. “You must have gone shopping.”
“Actually Aunt Jackie brought some stuff over after she took Josh home from the hospital. She’s upset about his prognosis.” I waited for the water to boil, then added the pasta.
“Wait, is something really wrong with Josh?” Greg picked up the tray and held open the back door for me.
Following him out onto the deck, a pair of tongs in my hand, I opened the grill. “No. He’s fine. She was just scared, and when she’s scared, she shops.” I told him about my conversation with my aunt that afternoon as I let the grill heat.
Greg threw the ball for Emma, then stood watching her run. “Sometimes I just don’t get women.”
I put my arms around him and squeezed. “You’re not supposed to get us, just hold on for the ride.”
As I finished cooking dinner, I told him about my meeting with Darla and the Mission Society. “Apparently Michael is blaming the lack of communication on Sandra, and the society is supporting him. Honestly, I was surprised he was even at the meeting. I mean, there has to be stuff you need to do when your wife dies.”
“He’s been at the station for interviews several times. Jack wants me to arrest him, but I know there’s not enough evidence, not yet, at least.” Greg had stopped playing ball with Emma and now stood at the sink washing his hands. “I don’t like rushing, and I’ve told him that.”
“Sasha says Michael was drinking shots at the winery Friday night after Sandra left. Do you have a time of death? That could exclude him if he was still sitting at the bar then.” I mixed the pasta with chopped vegetables, a little olive oil, and some balsamic vinegar, tossing the mixture together into a warm salad.
Greg tasted the dish, then sprinkled some salt and pepper over the mix and stirred. He tasted again before he answered. “Thanks for the tip. I mean, as a trained investigator I would never have thought of checking time of death against the murder suspect’s alibi.”
“Fine, I get the point. Not my monkey.” I took the bowl and set it on the table and gave him a platter and tongs. “Go get the steak and let’s get this dinner started. I’m starving.”
He kissed me on the forehead and headed outside. I finished setting the table as I thought about the way Sandra had died. And what the discovery site really said about the murderer. I was sure Greg was right. The killer had wanted Sandra to be found. And not only that, he or she had wanted Sandra found during the race.
As we sat down to eat, Greg’s phone buzzed. I watched as he checked out the text message, typed out a quick response, and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
“Do you need to leave? Is it about the murder?” I could pack up his dinner into Tupperware containers and send it with him.
Greg shook his head. “Toby was just at The Train Station. Someone broke in last night and tore up one of the display models. He’s trying to handle it, but Harrold wants me on site to do the investigation.”
“So, you’re going to finish eating?” I took a bite of the grilled scallop—fresh, buttery, and just done. Exactly like I liked them.
“I’m not leaving a New York strip to cool while I deal with a vandalism charge. I do have priorities, you know.” He grinned. “I told Toby I’d be there in thirty minutes. Which gives me time to eat and help you with the dishes before I have to be there.”
“Glad to know I’m one of your priorities.” I paused and pointed my fork toward his steak. “Along with the meal, I mean.”
As we finished our dinner, the conversation turned to the race and how the event, minus the whole dead body thing, had gone. From a law enforcement perspective, it had been almost flawless. No angry losers, no fights on the beach, just a huge group of people and cars to deal with as they left the area after the race. “I don’t know, this type of event might just be worth having again.” Greg took a slice of the seven-grain bread and covered it with butter. “How’d business go at the coffee shack?”
I shrugged. I hadn’t even thought about the cash box sitting in my office waiting for me to do the paperwork for the deposit. “I’ll find out tomorrow morning. I kind of forgot about the bookkeeping.”
Greg took his plate to the sink and filled up one side with hot, soapy water. “That’s the mark of a true business professional. Do you even know where the cash box is?”
“Yes.” I grabbed my own plate and glass and set it on the counter. I paused, certain my answer was going to get me a lecture on the safety of keeping money around the house. He waited, so I caved. “Okay, it’s in my office. But I’ve got it locked in my file cabinet. And no one knows it’s here.”
“Except Toby, Jackie, Sasha, and probably Sadie and Nick. And now me. Oh, and anyone else in town who knows you.” He washed and rinsed the glassware. “Someday you’re going to have an issue, you know that, right? Especially with The Train Station messed with now twice in a week. I’m worried about you.”
“I promise I’ll do the deposit tomorrow. Aunt Jackie will be on my case if I don’t anyway.” I finished clearing the table, put away the leftovers in the fridge, and picked up a drying towel. As I dried and put away what Greg washed, I thought about the problems at The Train Station. “Doesn’t what’s happening to Harrold seem personal? I mean, he wasn’t robbed or anything.”
Greg took the dishrag and wiped down the table and counter before he responded. “That’s got me bothered, too. But seriously, who would have a problem with Harrold? He’s got to be the nicest guy in town. Didn’t he play Santa a few years ago?”
I thought about the rumor about Lille’s expansion plans. Could she be mean enough to torture the guy into selling? I decided that in addition to stopping by the bank tomorrow, I’d also make a stop at The Train Station. Just to see if I could help out in any way. I was the chamber liaison, after all. It was my duty.
Even the angel on my shoulder laughed at that logic.
CHAPTER 9
After getting the deposit ready, I slung a tote bag over my shoulder and headed into town. First stop, The Train Station. I’d purposely timed my visit for after ten so the shop would be open, in theory. After last night’s events, I wasn’t sure Harrold would have normal hours today, or even this week.
The door to the shop creaked open, and I stepped into the showroom. Harrold had made a miniature display of South Cove, with one important change. Running along Main Street, up to the winery, was a train trolley. The train even wound up a mini-mountain to include The Castle in the trip. The display was so well loved, I’d had customers ask when the real trolley was being built. Walking up to the miniature, I noticed The Train Station had been demolished. Not just the building removed—it looked like a real miniature bomb had taken out the station. Pieces of wood lay around the display and the trolley was on its side, the wheels crushed. No way was this random vandalism. Someone was sending a message to Harrold.
“A little creepy, don’t you think?” Harrold came out of the back room, a broom and empty box in his hands. “The little jerk purposely destroyed the station. Looks like someone doesn’t like me too much.”
I stepped away to let the elderly man step closer to the display. “This is crazy. Who would do such a thing?” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay? Were you here?”
“That’s the thing. I was back in the living quarters watching television. I can’t believe I didn’t hear the commotion, but I guess I keep the volume pretty loud.” He tapped the front of his ears. “My hearing’s not as sharp as it used to be. Too bad Tiny isn’t here anymore. That boy could hear a pin drop out in the middle of Main Street. Used to drive me crazy.”
Until last year, Tiny had been a mascot for the shop. The little Maltese had been Harrold’s wife’s dog until she passed. Then Tiny became Harrold’s protector. The dog had died in his sleep last winter. “Maybe you should think of getting another dog. I don’t know what I’d do without Emma.”
“That’s what Christopher’s been saying for the last few months. Honestly, I’m sure i
f I don’t get a dog soon, he’ll be dropping off a pit bull puppy for my safekeeping.” Harrold chuckled. “Like a dog is going to keep me safe.”
“I know I feel better with Emma, especially since I live alone. Bakerstown has a shelter. Maybe you should go check out what they have available. Or do you want another Maltese?”
Harrold snorted. “Tiny was Agnes’s dog. I’ve always been partial to German shepherds myself.” He picked up the biggest part of what was left of the station and put it in the box. “Maybe I will take a drive later. I was planning on rebuilding The Station today, but I probably need some materials anyway.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I glanced around the shop, thankful the damage had only been to the miniature South Cove. I touched the replica of Coffee, Books, and More, and smiled at the little tables and chairs Harrold had put on the street outside the shop, just like in real life. “You’ve done a great job with this. You should be proud.”
“I would be if people would just leave it alone.” Harrold stopped picking up the broken pieces and looked at me. He leaned on his broom and appraised me thoughtfully. “Hey, maybe you can help.”
“I’d be glad to, but I’m all thumbs when it comes to craft things.” I motioned with my hand around the tiny village. “No way would I be able to make something like this. Just ask my aunt. She’ll tell you I don’t have a creative bone in my body.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the miniatures.” He motioned to the chairs near a woodstove that I’d never seen lit. A small table with a chessboard sat between the chairs. “Come sit with me a minute. I’ve got a favor to ask.”
I followed him, wondering what type of favor he could want and hoping it had nothing to do with my relationship with Greg. Sometimes people thought I had more influence with Greg’s professional side than I actually did. We had an agreement. He didn’t tell me how to make a mocha latte supreme, and I didn’t tell him how to run his investigations.
Or at least I tried not to tell him. It wasn’t my fault that people liked to talk to me and that I was amazing at putting pieces of puzzles together. Snoopy, my boyfriend would say, but even he’d have to admit I did have skill.
I didn’t say anything to Harrold, just glanced around at the surroundings and waited for him to ask his favor. I didn’t have to wait long.
“You’re good at this investigating stuff.” He sat in the chair across from me, leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs. “Right?”
I shrugged, not sure I liked this turn of conversation at all. At least if he wanted me to ask Greg for something, it was one and done. Ferreting out a vandal, though, that would be a whole ’nother project. “I guess so.”
“No, you are. Darla says you should be some kind of PI or FBI gal, you’re that good.”
I felt my face heat. “I think Darla just likes telling good stories. She can overstate things sometimes.”
“Whatever.” He studied the chessboard and moved a knight into position. Then he returned his focus to me. “Can you find out who’s doing this crap to my shop? I don’t think your boyfriend has time to deal with real crime and find a two-bit vandal.”
“Greg’s very good at his job.” I paused. Harrold was right, even though he didn’t know why. Greg didn’t have the time or energy to treat Harrold’s issue as urgently as solving a murder. The investigation would have to take a secondary place in his schedule, that was just the way life went. I thought about Greg’s latest warning to stay out of his investigations. At least this way, I wouldn’t be helping him solve Sandra’s murder. He couldn’t be mad at me for looking out for a fellow shopkeeper. Besides, I mused, this kind of fell under the umbrella of the chamber liaison position if you thought about it.
I’d convinced myself. I pulled out my trusty purple notebook and opened to a clean page. “Tell me everything about the two events.”
An hour later, I had made the bank deposit and dropped the receipt off at the shop. Sasha was taking my shifts, and she cornered me about her book club order so I finished that, as well. As I was walking home, I let my mind wander to what Harrold had told me about the vandalism, and I stopped in front of Diamond Lille’s.
Maybe it was that simple.
I entered the restaurant and headed to my favorite booth. Since it was before noon, the place wasn’t jammed, and as I sat, I noticed Lille at the counter talking to a man in leathers. His vest told me he was part of the gang who had been rumored to be dealing drugs in the area last year. Of course, they’d lawyered up, thrown a few guilty soldiers under the bus, and had claimed their mission was more of a social club than the dangerous street gang law enforcement suspected.
Carrie stopped at my table, her hands filled with menus and her order book from the table next to me. She held out a menu. “You know what you want or do you need one of these?”
I took the menu, nodding toward the counter. “Who’s that with Lille?”
Carrie took a quick peek, then leaned closer to me. “Mick Evans, Ray’s replacement. I don’t know what draws her to the bad boys. You would have thought she’d learn after Ray went off to prison last year, but no. Same club even.”
“They’re dating?” I took in the broad shoulders and long, dark hair that he’d pulled back into a ponytail. The guy looked good in a motorcycle, bad-boy kind of way. He even had tattoos on each shoulder, which I could see since under the leather vest, Mick must have either worn a muscle shirt, or he’d cut the sleeves off the T-shirt underneath. Or maybe he was shirtless … My inner girl sighed. I could see the attraction—if he wasn’t also part of a group that didn’t think there should be any law but their own rules of life.
“I think dating is a little tame for what they’re doing, but yeah, you could say that.” Carrie shrugged. “He’s in here most mornings, and I see him pick her up when she leaves the diner at night. I’m pretty sure she’s staying with him. I’ll be back for your order in a couple of minutes.”
I opened the menu and noticed the flyer in the middle. A new salad, just for this week. Southern California mahimahi grilled and served over a mix of fresh greens, tomatoes, and peppers with a honey-mustard dressing. Lille’s cook was going all out for this summer salad challenge. With the lunch choice done, I pulled out my notebook and started making notes about Lille and her new beau. Could he be the one who was messing with Harrold? Wanting to help Lille get Harrold to sell?
Darn it, I’d forgotten to ask Harrold what he’d fought with Lille about. I put that on a list of questions I needed answered. When Carrie came back, I closed the notebook. No use broadcasting my new project. While I waited for my food, I watched Lille walk Mick out to his bike, which was parked—illegally—on the sidewalk. The window in my booth was positioned perfectly for me to watch the couple say their good-byes without them noticing my attention. Which was good since the kiss was more heated than you’d usually see on the streets of South Cove.
They broke apart as a group of teenagers in a pickup went by the couple, hooting and honking. I was pretty sure I heard one boy yell, “Get a room.” I didn’t hear Lille’s yelled response, but I heard Mick’s deep laughter at her words. He slapped her on the butt, then started up his Harley. And then he was gone, making a U-turn on Main and roaring out toward the highway.
My food came, and I got lost reading while I enjoyed the salad. A thin man in jeans and a Coastal Museum T-shirt paused at my table. When I looked up, he grinned. “Sorry. I’ve been thinking about reading that book. How do you like it?”
I closed the book to show the cover, holding my fingers inside to save my place. “I love his work. I’ve read everything he’s published, but this is over the top.” I dug a business card out of my tote. “If you’re really interested, stop by Coffee, Books, and More and give them this.”
He took the card and turned it over. “Owner’s discount—twenty percent off your first book purchase.” He turned the card back over. “So you’re Jill Gardner? You look too young to own a bookstore.”
“Flattery will get y
ou nowhere, buddy, I already gave you a discount.” I grinned and reopened the book, but the man didn’t leave the table. I closed the book again. “Something else?”
“Just wondering about the food here. I guess as a native, you must eat here a lot.” He nodded at my salad bowl, which was almost empty. “What do you recommend?”
Wow, this guy didn’t make a move without a recommendation. I guess he was the type of person the travel guides were made for—giving out specific instructions on how to be a good tourist. Eat here. Visit this site. Don’t forget your camera. I decided to throw Lille a bone and hope she did the same when my shop’s name came up in conversations. “I love everything. Well, not the chili, but that’s because I don’t eat beans. But I have friends who love that, too. So you can’t go wrong with whatever you order.”
The man nodded and turned. “Thanks for your honesty. I can be a pretty picky eater at times.”
He walked away, and Carrie appeared with my check and a pitcher of iced tea. As she filled up my glass, she watched the man sit in a booth a few feet away. “You know that guy?”
I shook my head. “I thought he was a tourist. He asked about the book I’m reading. Why?”
Carrie pursed her lips and shook her head. “No reason. I’ve seen him around here a few times the last week or so. Maybe he’s working on one of the construction projects down the highway.”
“He doesn’t look like a builder.” I snuck a glance at the clean jeans and upscale tennis shoes. “Maybe he’s a software geek from up north on a retreat. He really likes recommendations.”
She turned toward his booth and whispered before she left. “Whoever he is, he’s a good tipper, so I guess I’ll let him stay.”
When I got home, I had planned on starting the painting in the upstairs bedroom. Emma convinced me that a run was more important, so I didn’t get upstairs to start painting until after two. I’d just laid out the painter’s cloths to protect the floor when my phone rang.
