“The sheriff takes statements now?” I asked, cocking my head, but moving toward the door nonetheless.
“He does when it’s about a murder investigation,” Sheriff Dash answered. “And when the clearly not forgetful witness in question seems intent on getting herself in trouble.” He opened the door to his office for me. “How’d you like the blueberry bagel anyway? Interesting enough for you?”
“Absolutely transcendent,” I answered as he shut the door behind us.
Dad’s office had gone through a similar renovation. Sheriff Dash had taken away all the homey touches that the space used to have; fishing poles, pictures of friends, my five - year - old handprints in plaster and replaced them with sterile degrees and commendations.
He had kept the same desk though. I could tell from the scuff mark at the bottom right hand corner, were I had bumped my head when I was eleven.
But other than that, any sign that my dad had even set foot in this room- let alone worked in it for 35 years- had been scrubbed clean.
“Take a seat, Ms. Redoux,” Sheriff Dash said, motioning to the pair of chairs sitting in front of his desk. “I doubt this will take long.”
Sheriff Dash looked exceptionally fresh this morning, especially for someone who had likely spent the entire night dealing with the first murder to occur during his tenure as sheriff.
I doubted I looked nearly as chipper. Though, when you take the whole ‘coming back from the dead’ thing into consideration, I had been through a lot more than him. So it was to be expected.
“Should I be nervous?” I asked, only half joking.
“That depends on whether or not you’re planning on attempting to break into my database again,” he answered, taking the seat across from me. As I looked over at him, I noticed there were no photos on his desk and (not that I cared) no ring on his finger. Our Sheriff Dash looked to be a lone wolf. Which I suppose made us two of a kind at the moment.
“You realize I could have you arrested for that,” he continued.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I answered, shrugging my shoulders.
“Our system logged a sign in from an unspecified location late last night. You expect me to believe that wasn’t you?”
“Honestly, I couldn’t care less what you believe, Mr. Dash. If I remember my high school social studies correctly, what you have to do is prove it,” I answered. And I grinned because I knew (among other things) how to reroute a signal through enough dummy servers to make it pretty much untraceable. Being the sheriff’s daughter did have its perks.
“It’s Sheriff Dash, Ms. Redoux. And you can rest easy. I have bigger things to do than busy myself with a little online trespassing. Though you’ll find more than a blueberry bagel waiting for you the next time.”
“Noted,” I answered, shuffling uncomfortably. “Can we get on with the questioning? I have a batch of pies that aren’t going to bake themselves.” I glared at him. “None of which are Key Lime.”
“And just when I was starting to like you,” he answered, typing on his desktop. “Where are you from originally , Ms. Redoux , and what’s your business in town?” The playful lift vanished from his tone.
“I’m from Plano, Texas,” I lied, knowing he wouldn’t find anything online and figuring it would take a couple of days for him to get intel across state lines.
That should give me enough time to whip something up.
“And I’m here for a fresh start.” That part was true…if involuntary.
“And what brought you into the Pie Ladies’ Paradise bakery last night?” He asked, typing furiously on his keypad.
“Pie,” I answered curtly. “Also ladies. Honestly, the paradise part tempted me too.”
Okay, so I was being a little smug, but I couldn’t help myself. Sheriff Dash was asking all the wrong questions. He was focusing in on me instead of what was actually going on. This murder was connected to Mrs. Hoover’s two years ago, and maybe mine too. It was as clear as day, or as clear as a blood covered wrench. Whichever metaphor you prefer.
There was also the huge hole in Mrs. Hoover’s floor and the way the place had been ransacked, like whoever killed her was also looking for something.
And the fact that Patrick came from New York, but told everyone in town that it was Philadelphia. That had to mean something. There were all pieces to a puzzle; a puzzle Sheriff Dash would never be able to put together if he wasted all his time focusing on me.
But how could I tell him what I knew without telling him how I knew it? It seemed impossible.
“And you witnessed the victim scuffling with someone?” He asked, still typing.
“Not really,” I answered. “We heard the altercation and then saw someone running away from the scene. But the parking lot was backlit and I couldn’t really get a good look at them.”
“That’s convenient,” Sheriff Dash responded.
“Not for Patrick,” I answered.
“Look, I’m going to level with you, Ms. Redoux. I don’t trust you. You come waltzing into town on the same night that we’ve had our first homicide in two years. You just so happen to be at the scene of the crime, and you keep the shop’s proprietor busy while the homicide occurs. You ask strange questions and seem to know a suspicious amount about this town and the people in it, almost as though you’ve been casing us.” He stopped typing. “But all of that, I could mark down to coincidence- if not for what you said last night.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, my fingers tightening around the arm of my chair.
“You mentioned the wrench,” he said.
“Of course I did. It’s obviously the murder weapon,” I stammered.
“Not that one. You mentioned the wrench at Mrs. Hoover’s house two years ago.”
“Well, it was obviously the murder weapon there too, and don’t you think it’s suspicious, finding an item at two separate murders, an item that unrelated to either setting?”
Finally, I could ask the questions I needed to without giving too much away.
“Of course I do, Ms. Redoux. And so did our last Sheriff. He found the placement of the wrench so curious that he thought he could use it to weed out suspects. That’s why he kept it out of the official report.”
Uh-oh.
“It never went to any media outlets. It never made the papers or the newscast. It was never seen by anyone who hadn’t taken an oath to serve and protect. So it’s never even been a subject of gossip.” He leaned forward in his chair. “So I ask you, Ms. Redoux. How do you know about it?”
I searched my brain pretty frantically. Sheriff Dash was staring at me with those intense brown eyes. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t even blinking. And suddenly, my brain shut off.
I was the smartest person I knew. Okay, maybe not the smartest traditionally, but I was definitely the most resourceful. I was a problem solver. So solutions came to me pretty easily, with the noticeable exception of here and now.
I opened my mouth, ridiculously unsure of what I was going to say, when the door flung open.
“Not now Office Coulson,” Sheriff Dash said without taking his eyes off me for even an instant.
This guy was a machine.
I turned to see Dwight standing in the doorway. He made eye contact with me for just a moment, and then turned back to the sheriff.
“I understand that you’re busy, Darri- I mean, Sheriff Dash. But I’d like to make a confession, and I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”
This did manage to pull Darrin’s attention away from me, though only for an instant. “I think that whatever it is can wait until I’m done here.”
“See, that’s the thing,” Dwight said, nervously tapping his foot against the floor. “Ester had her coffee cup resting on the intercom before, and I heard what you were asking Ms. Redoux here as I passed by. Ester didn’t hear it, naturally. But I did, and I think I need to jump in here before things go any further. I wouldn’t want Ms. Redoux taking the fall for something that really
wasn’t her fault.”
“Dwight, what on earth are you talking about?” Sheriff Dash sighed.
“Well, after the first murder, I received a lot of phone calls. The press and people like that.” He looked down at the floor like a scolded child. “I was being asked a lot of questions and I had been through a bit of personal tragedy myself, seeing as how Rita- the other Rita,” he amended, looking over at me. “Was a real friend to me. And there was this one reporter who got a little bit information out of me than she should have. “
Sheriff Dash looked from Dwight to me.
“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you used to be a reporter?” The sheriff obviously had his doubts about this, but it seemed like as reasonable an explanation as I was likely to come up with. So I nodded and agreed.
“Used to be,” I said. “It was kind of a downer for me though, so I decided to make a career change.”
“To a pie shop?” Sheriff Dash couldn’t have looked at me with more disdain if I had open palmed slapped his grandmother.
“What can I say?” I shrugged.
“I’m afraid to venture a guess.” Sheriff Dash stood from his seat and motioned toward the door. “I’m going to let you go now, Ms. Redoux. But don’t think that means I’m not keeping an eye on you. Stay in town.”
“Where else would I go?” I asked, standing.
“And you Dwight, I’m m very disappointed with you.”
Dwight blanched and kept his head down.
Sheriff Dash glared at me, the visual equivalent of the sourest slice of his beloved (and nasty) Key Lime pie.
“I’ll see you around, Ms. Redoux,” he said as I followed Dwight out of the office. “Sooner rather than later.”
I marched, step for step, with Dwight, feeling more than a little guilty about the dressing down he had just taken.
“Look, I’m sorry about coming back around like this,” I said, keeping up the guise of intrepid reporter. “I would have given you up.”
“You can cut the act now, Rita,” Dwight said as we stepped outside of the station and back onto the street. “I might look stupid, but I’m not. At least not anymore. I know exactly who you really are, Rita. And I know exactly what’s going on.”
Chapter 8
As I stared at Dwight, my heart resting firmly in my throat (in what seemed like its new permanent position), I couldn’t help but think about the past.
Dwight and I had known each other since forever. He grew up in Second Springs, just down the street from my house.
He was the butcher’s son, but he was always more interested in my dad’s line of work. And Dad took a liking to him too. Sure, he wasn’t the absolute sharpest person in the world, but he had a good heart, a strong stomach, and a follow through that would make Michelangelo himself green with envy.
You set Dwight on the right path about a case and he was like a dog with a bone. He’d give himself lockjaw before he let go of it.
So had someone put Dwight on the right path about my case? Was it possible that he actually did know who I really was, that-underneath this floral, redheaded exterior- he saw the heart of the true Rita beating in my chest (or my throat, as it were)?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, figuring playing dumb was my best bet.
Hey, Jessica Simpson did it and-unless the last two years have been seriously bad for her- she spun it into gold.
“Stop,” he said, raising his hands to quiet me. “I told one person about that wrench, just one. I know who you are, Amelia.”
Okay, so he didn’t know that I was the reincarnated version of Rita Clarke, which was a relief. Because how on earth was I going to explain that? But who was Amelia? I was going to have to switch tactics.
“You got me,” I answered, looking around the street with my eyes narrowed. “Are you sure it’s safe to talk about that here though?”
Dwight matched my level of narrowness almost exactly and nodded.
“You’re probably right,” he conceded. “Follow me.”
Dwight turned tail and walked into the parking lot. Passing by a dozen or so squad cars, he settled in front of a small, navy blue Toyota.
“Get in,” he said, unlocking the passenger door and holding it open for me.
“You don’t have a squad car?” I asked, remembering very clearly that he did. Aiden and I took a picture with Dwight in front of it the first day he brought it back from the station.
“Not anymore,” he answered. “I know the last time we spoke I was a field guy, but I’ve sort of been promoted to a desk job.”
Promoted?
I knew better than that. What promotion would leave Dwight in a rust bucket of a Toyota and earn him a dressing down? Sherriff Dash, that cocky usurper, had obviously demoted Dwight in the two years that I ‘missed’. No wonder he hadn’t been at his requisite speed trap.
If there was any way I could have disliked Second Springs’ new sheriff any more than I did now, I wouldn’t know how.
“Sounds fancy,” I lied, knowing that taking the conversation in that direction wouldn’t help anything.
Dwight jumped in the driver’s seat and flipped the ignition on.
“Where are we going?” I asked, as he backed out of his space and edged toward the main street.
“Just around the block a few times until I can figure out whether or not I can trust you with the rest.” He said, and started to pull out onto the main road.
A huge brown truck topped the hill. It had to be going 65 in what was clearly a 30 and blew the horn as it passed, swerving to miss Dwight’s car, which was half out into traffic.
“Woah! Aren’t you going to stop him?” I asked, remembering how much Dwight loved his little speed trap, and the rush he’d get whenever he caught someone going even five miles over the speed limit, let alone thirty - five.
“No,” he answered, pursing his lips. “I’m not technically allowed to give out traffic tickets. Besides, it’s that new speed demon of a delivery truck driver. I swear he’s gotten ten tickets since he added this route, and it hasn’t slowed him down a bit.”
He took a left and I brushed past the hurt on his face.
Stop it Rita. You didn’t grow up with him. At least, not as far as he knows. There’s no reason you’d feel bad for him.
“So,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “How long have you had this car?”
“Since I got benc- Since my promotion last September,” he answered.
Okay, that meant that whoever Amelia was hadn’t spoken to Dwight in at least a year. It also meant that he needed to do a better job of keeping this car clean.
“Right,” I answered, pushing around errant soda bottles with my feet. “So, the last time we talked.” My eyes darted over to him, looking for some kind of clue in his expression.
Dwight bit his lip and shuffled uncomfortably.
Oh Dwight, I love you. But a poker player, you are not.
“It didn’t go the way I wanted,” I answered.
“For me either,” he answered and I relaxed a little because I was right. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you, but I had just suffered a loss too. Rita, the girl on the steps, she was a really good friend of mine.” He shook his head. “I know it’s not the same as losing a mother, but it hurt.”
A mother?
“I am sorry for your loss though. Mrs. Hoover was a good woman. I had no idea her life had been as traumatic as it was, and she deserved a better ending than the one she got.” He took a right toward the hardware store. “She definitely deserved some justice. I’m sorry we couldn’t give that to her.”
A rush of information slammed into me. So Mrs. Hoover’s murder was definitely not solved, and this Amelia person had been her daughter.
But that wasn’t right. Mrs. Hoover didn’t have any children. I didn’t know her exceptionally well, but we had talked about it on several occasions. The woman even had Thanksgiving at our house once so she wouldn’t have to
be alone.
Why would a woman with a daughter not want to spend the holidays with her and, more importantly, why would she lie about her existence in the first place?
Maybe it had something to do with the traumatic life Dwight talked about. The only way I would know was by asking more questions. But Dwight had a few questions of his own first.
“Is that your real name, Rita? It would explain why we never found an Amelia Hoover anywhere under the sun,” he said.
“We?” I asked. “Who else is involved?”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business, not when I can’t get so much as your Christian name from you.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “And another thing. I get why you called me so much after the murder. I get why you got ahold of my cell number and cried and cried until I told you everything I knew about the crime scene. But why would you disappear after that? It’s been two years now, two years and I haven’t heard as much as a peep from you since the night I told you about the wrench.” He looked over at me, his eyebrows knotted up the way they always used to get whenever Mary Anne Sheckley blew spitballs at the teacher and blamed it on Dwight. “And if you loved her as much as you said you did, if she saved your life and all that, then where were you during the service? I mean, I know you said you had your differences, but what kind of daughter doesn’t come to her mother’s funeral? The city paid to bury her, Amelia. Or Rita, or whatever your name is. We all got together, we talked about how much we loved your mom and Rita both, and then we took up a collection because we thought your m other had nobody in the world. Everyone thought that, and it was because of you.”
He took a deep breath, his face red and puffy.
“Now, I’m sorry. I might have been out of line there, but it had to be said. Family is everything. I just began to understand what that means.”
What kind of horrible person was this Amelia anyway?
The big brown truck roared back by us, blazing down the road.
Twice Baked Page 5
