by Patti Larsen
“Where’s Walter?” Dad looked around.
“Dr. Aberstock is in Florida for his daughter’s wedding.” Olivia joined us like she had been standing there all along and was actually in charge of this particular conversation. “He was unable to change his plans.” That sounded like she tried hard to make him miss his own kid’s nuptials. That was our mayor. Class all the way. “You three.” She swallowed and squared herself. “I need you to get this sorted out.” For the first time since I’d met her Olivia looked harried. Out of control. Well, fair enough. Though murder hadn’t seemed to bother her when it was Pete Wilkins on my property and my watch. No fun when the tables were turned. “I will not have my event ruined by this inconvenience.”
Wow. She did not just call Mason Patterson’s death an inconvenience. Even she seemed shocked by her words. We all stared at each other a long moment of utter surprise before Olivia simply spun and marched away, joining the understandably agitated pair of Lucas Day and James Adler.
“At least her priorities are always clear,” Crew said. Dad chuckled then cleared his throat like this wasn’t a laughing matter and he knew it.
“What do you need, Crew?” Dad sounded sympathetic enough and Crew, after a second of squinting at the carbon copy of himself with three decades added on, nodded with a soft relenting of tension.
“Get those who we know aren’t remotely involved in Mason’s life back to their rooms in an orderly fashion.”
Dad nodded. “We can ask the staff to help,” he said, raising his eyebrows at me. “Fee, too?”
Crew met my gaze, his as close to pleading as I’d ever seen. “Yes, please. While I talk to the girlfriend.”
“Wait,” I said, putting two and two together and coming up with something unpleasant. “You think it’s murder? For all we know, he died of alcohol poisoning. Or he had an aneurism. Or a heart attack.” My fingers clenched around the little vial I’d found under Simone’s chair, catching Crew’s attention. He grasped my hand before I could stop him, pulling my wrist until I opened my hand and revealed the vial. An oily smear had formed on the napkin, the familiar scent of peanuts drifting up from it while Crew’s teeth made that grinding sound and the vein on his forehead appeared and pulsed like it had been waiting for me to do something he didn’t like.
Before he could say anything, I handed it to him. “I found it there,” I said, pointing. Knowing it didn’t look good. “Just now, as a matter of fact, so don’t be a bully about it.” Yeah, he loved that accusation. Then he shouldn’t be manhandling me, should he? “But it’s just peanut oil or something.”
Simone’s gasp behind me echoed from the handful of young people who stood around, watching the horror unfold. And I knew then that Crew’s instincts were right and that I was only trying to find alternatives to Mason’s passing because of my friend’s sister. And the fact it was very likely the murder weapon sat in the napkin in the sheriff’s hand.
“Mason,” Simone whispered. “He was allergic to peanuts.”
The young man from the fight outside the bathroom spoke up, eyes meeting mine, recognition flaring there before he nodded grimly. “Anaphylactic,” Noah said.
***
Chapter Seven
I instantly moved to protect Simone, knowing what came next out of experience. I’d been the focus of police attention not so long ago and my protective nature reacted before I could stop myself. Not that I would have, though. I caught the flash of anger in Crew’s eyes but ignored it because she was my friend’s little sister and no way was I going to tell Jasmine Alexander, Amazon queen of fiery tempers and dramatic orations—not to mention utter loyalty to the death—I let her baby sis be questioned for murder without doing my best to keep her safe.
Crew didn’t argue despite his attitude, allowing me to stand there and hold Simone’s hand with Mom still supporting her on the other side while he focused his attention on the still weeping young woman.
I have to say, however, the hideously frustrated and furious look on Vivian French’s watching face? Worth it. Even murder. Yes, I was that petty, knowing from how her face scrunched despite the work she’d had done just how Crew asking me for help had to be devouring her insides like a rabid squirrel. Thoughts like that kept me warm at night. Though it was likely a certain Sheriff Turner wasn’t in for so hot a reception when Vivian got him alone again.
Petty, Fee. And distracted. So much so I almost missed Crew’s initial volley at Simone.
“You knew he was allergic,” Crew said. Winced because dumb question, Sheriff. So he was far more rattled than I’d originally thought. He held stiff and still, purposely not looking at Dad who hid a grin behind one hand. “Obviously.”
Simone sniffed and nodded, too upset to notice or care. “We all did.” She waved her hand at the crowd of young people in their pretty dresses and identical hair and tuxedos. Cutout copies of Mason Patterson, one and all. His posse bobbed their heads like puppets cut free of his strings, a bit wobbly but in full agreement. While one of them might be the killer, I didn’t see a whole lot of light in their eyes or originality either, so part of me dismissed the lot of them. All, that was, but the girl Ava who stood to one side with her arms crossed over her chest, the tall Noah beside her, both hands in his pants pockets, scowling and not looking as sad as maybe he could have.
Distraction from my line of thought appeared in the person of Lucas Day. He pushed his way through the semicircle, his face blotchy and eyes bulging with what could only be grief, a smear of something on the lapel of his white jacket which he seemed ignorant of in the moment.
Chocolate, looked like.
“What happened?” I’d seen his kind of daze before, the blank overwhelm of sorrow and stunned confusion that took over when someone died. Dad had it a little when I arrived home after Grandmother Iris passed. And Mom when her own parents were killed in a car accident when I was a teenager. It looked as if someone struck him on the back of the head, though it was shock from the death rather than a blow of the physical kind that made his knees wobble and his hands shake. At least, that was my guess.
The cynic in me studied him more carefully than the empath. For all I knew he was drunk or stoned or something, though he didn’t give me that impression earlier, and I quickly shoved that side of me down deep and agreed to feel guilty about the whole dive into suspicion. At least for now.
While Lucas might have been sober and suffering, his partner, on the other hand, wove like a consummate alcoholic through the gathering, the telltale signs of frequent imbibing starting to show in the broken capillaries on his cheeks and the polished way James Adler carried himself despite the drink still clutched in one hand. And, unlike his partner, he seemed less than upset by what just happened. The booze, maybe? Or maybe not.
“He died,” James said, saluting Mason’s still prone body. So, not just the booze, then. Something else, something triggering the kind of heartless reaction that maybe drove a man like him to drink in the first place? Crew hadn’t even pulled Mason’s face out of the cake yet. I knew why, the necessity of preserving evidence, but it seemed rather heartless considering the look on Lucas’s face, the way Simone glanced at her dead boyfriend over and over again. Mind you, Mason wasn’t really a nice guy to begin with, so the irony of him dying in so much sweetness wasn’t lost on me.
I left Dad and pushed past the kid posse as Lucas spun on his partner, rage replacing shock. “Shut up, James,” he snapped before returning his attention to Crew. I shoved aside glasses and plates and a red rose centerpiece, freeing a section of tablecloth while Lucas’s voice carried to me despite the noise I made. “Tell me what happened. Mason was in perfect health. This was not death by natural causes.”
The sheriff held his ground and I had to admit I rather appreciated his total calm and cool composure in the face of the distraught father as I returned with my makeshift corpse covering. “We have no solid cause of death at this time,” he said, nodding to me when I held up the tablecloth and pointed at Maso
n. I slipped between him and Lucas and draped the sheet over the fallen young man when Crew continued. “Without the proper testing and forensic analysis, we can only guess.” I twitched the cloth one last time, tucking the corner over Mason’s hand before turning back to catch Crew scowling at Lucas who opened his mouth to interrupt. “I don’t guess, Mr. Day. Ever. Now, you’re the victim’s father?”
“Stepfather,” James interjected, a hint of humor in his voice, in the twist of his mouth. “Mason old chap there was Marie Patterson’s son from her first husband. He kicked the bucket out of sheer desperation to escape the old bitch, isn’t that right, Lucas? Then you went and married her and it was her turn to croak.” He laughed, a bitter bark that made me flinch and caught Crew’s attention. Though oddly Lucas didn’t defend himself. I let that go because he stood, eyes down, staring at the floor, hands shaking. Stepson or not, he’d lost his wife and now the young Mason. It had to be devastating no matter their obviously troubled relationship.
Still, people killed other people for really dumb reasons. And Mason was a jerk.
“John and Fee.” Crew nodded to us, and I realized then I was about to be cut off from the investigation. From the deep scowl on Dad’s face, he made the same connection in that moment. “Please proceed with emptying the room as we discussed. I’ll handle this.”
He had to be kidding. He had multiple suspects lurking around. From the sound of things everyone in his life knew Mason was allergic to peanuts. Anyone could have used that against him. Crew needed us to keep an eye on the others while he questioned each individually.
Dad had made the same assumption. “Can I talk to you, Sheriff?”
Crew looked like he already knew what my father was going to say and yet he stepped away and joined us like he was going to war. Brave, but stupid.
“I don’t have time to argue with you, John,” Crew said.
“Or to spend hours interrogating a single suspect,” Dad said. “I know your methods, Crew. You need to be fast on this.”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.” And there it was, the bitterness between them, the pushback of testosterone that got Dad’s back up, too.
“Have you ever been in a situation like this one, kid?” Oh, Dad. You called Crew kid, really? I knew immediately it was a huge mistake.
“Have you?” Nice back challenge, but as it turned out, Dad nodded.
“Hunting lodge, 1984. I was a deputy then and one of the hunters was murdered. We were stuck up the mountain. I learned fast that day, Crew. Almost lost the killer in my need to be thorough when speed was more important.”
“Well, we’ll just have to disagree there,” Crew shot back, though I saw the doubt in his eyes. “I trust my training, my experience and my techniques. And now, if you will please do as you said you’d do and help me, I need this room cleared and the guests secured in their rooms.”
All those years of instinct and wisdom staring him in the face and here he was, Captain Do-It-All, sending away the only two people in the room who could actually help him.
To my shock, Dad didn’t argue. At all. Instead, he nodded to Mom before grasping my arm and tugging me away from Crew and the body, the suspects, Simone. All of it. I hissed at him when I managed to find the energy through my shock to protest, jerking my arm free even as Dad spoke in a low, tense voice.
“I’m going to do some looking around,” he said, “while Crew is occupied with his endless interrogations. Your mother knows enough from being married to me all these years to keep your young friend from saying anything that will incriminate her.” He grimaced. “As for you.” Dad met my eyes and I realized there was sadness there. “Fiona, I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you do what you do best. Go poke your nose in where it’s not wanted. That fool,” he jabbed the air in Crew’s direction, “doesn’t understand how our minds work or just what he’s up against with a lodge full of suspects and no trust for those he could use to his advantage.” Dad just said “our.” Did he really just say “our?” “He just gave us the freedom to solve this case while he’s bogged down with the endless procedure he’s dragged here with him from California.”
Yeah, no resentment there or anything? And yet, as I glanced back at Crew, the covered body, the gathering of people doing as he told them for the most part, I decided to give the new sheriff the benefit of the doubt. “Or,” I said, relaxing out of my instinctual kneejerk to being sent away, “he knows exactly how we think and that’s why we’re out here and he’s in there.” Dad joined me in watching Crew, surrounded and alone, taking the full weight of the visible investigation on his shoulders, arguing with James and Lucas while Mom hugged Simone.
I looked down as something warm settled on my feet and sighed. Petunia followed me and I’d forgotten all about her. I had to tuck her into my room at some point or give her over to Lily to take care of. For now, she could follow me while I did my best to do what Crew asked—and what he didn’t—and maybe uncover something that might help.
“Dad.” I grabbed his hand, squeezed it as he turned to go. “Thank you. For trusting me.”
He squeezed back. “I wish I’d done it a long time ago. But you showed me in July I was wrong all along, Fee. And I’m sorry. Maybe it’s time to look at the police academy. If you still want to go.”
He left me then, staring after him in stunned silence, chest pounding, unable to breathe for a second. When air finally filled my lungs again I shook off the shock and followed him, my mind turning over what he said.
***
Chapter Eight
No matter how I tried to focus on the task at hand, guiding people out of the dining room in small groups and to the elevator, my pug offering licks for those who bent to pet her, while Dad organized them in tidy, orderly fashion no one questioned thanks to his casually commanding air, I struggled to forget what he’d said. Could I really think about giving up my life as it had evolved for a chance at being a cop like him? At my age? Of course I could. But did I want to? The idea appealed, as always. The thing that didn’t? Starting out as a rookie at what would amount to thirty or thirty-one if I was going to be honest about it. Not so appetizing. I’d just had my twenty-ninth birthday in October. And while the lifelong dream lingered thanks to our conversation, I felt old as I led yet another cluster of nervous guests across the foyer and saw them safely away with my best B&B owner’s voice and the charm I learned from Mom, Petunia’s cheerful panting and grunting adding that extra layer of all was well to the point the entire experience felt more surreal than solid.
As the room slowly emptied, guests following Dad’s directions and my clicking heels better than I’d expected, I wound my mind around becoming a police officer for real, at last. And, when I turned in the end to the mostly empty dining space, I sighed and shook my head to myself.
Maybe, had I the chance at eighteen. But no. Petunia’s was my fate, the B&B and the pug, at least for now. I was happy in my new home, happier than I ever expected to be. Solving mysteries, hunting down murderers and criminals of other kinds while appealing in a romantic sense, well. I knew what thinking about a job like that in those terms meant. Delusion, disappointment and probably death at the other end of a criminal’s gun for being so stupid to think I had what it took.
“Fiona.” I caught my breath, hand coming to my chest in shock at the interruption. Petunia chuffed a greeting, warm rear on my feet when I stopped and turned to find Malcolm Murray, the owner of The Orange pub, standing behind me, smiling at me. The old Irishman nodded in greeting, bending to pat Petunia who accepted his greeting with her normal pug grace. His longish gray hair fell over his forehead, those green eyes as piercing as mine meeting my gaze when he straightened once more. While his wrinkled face told his age, he had a lean dangerousness to him, his eyes at my height as he saluted me with his glass. Looked like whiskey, same stuff Dad drank. And here was a criminal who my father knew well, who had an arrangement with him when Dad was sheriff. At least, as far as I knew.
>
“Malcolm.” He’d visited Petunia’s a few times for tea over the last few months, making small talk with the ladies and being a perfect gentleman. I’d even sat with him once, poked and prodded a bit for info, but he was a wily sort and I’d only ended up with a cute story from his days as a boy in Ireland, a mention of Grandmother Iris’s fine cooking and frustration.
I’d refrained from telling Dad about the visits because his initial reaction to me informing him I’d met Malcolm was shock and horror. Despite the fact the Irishman spoke highly of Dad.
Interesting and a puzzle for another time, but one I’d been neglecting long enough. I might not have wanted to pursue a life of police work, but that didn’t keep my curiosity from stirring.
“Sad state of affairs, murder,” Malcolm said, taking a sip from his glass. “The young man might have been a butthole and a gobshite but no one deserves that fate.”
I loved the lilting accent and had to shake myself from the mesmerizing cadence of it, despite the swears.
“Who said it’s murder?” I grinned to soften the challenge and Malcolm laughed.
“You and your da are involved,” he said. “That’s enough for me, my Fiona lass.”
I missed his approach, should have expected it, shocked still when Dad interrupted us by storming to a stomping halt next to Malcolm, towering over the slim Irishman and firmly planting himself between me and The Orange’s owner.
“Fee,” Dad ground between clenched teeth, shoulders stiff. “If you’re done sorting guests, go help your mother.”
