Stuck on Murder

by Lucy Lawrence

  “Oh, all right. Good night then,” Twyla said. The three of them walked slowly back to their cabins, calling out their good nights and giving the part of the lake roped off by the yellow plastic ribbon a wide berth.

  Brenna rose to her feet. She supposed she could have told Nate that she didn’t need an escort, but that would have been a lie.

  She had come to Morse Point to leave the violent crime of Boston behind. She had thought she’d left the demons of her past there in the city, but no. Here she was again being terrorized by violent crime. She felt sick to her stomach and wondered if she’d ever sleep again.

  Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the mayor’s bloated face and the water gushing out of his mouth when she sat him up. A shudder rippled down her spine.

  “Are you all right?” Nate asked. He moved to stand beside her.

  “No, not really,” she said.

  He draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. The feel of his solid warmth comforted her, and Brenna soaked it up like a dried-out sponge. He kept his arm around her as they walked down the steps and across the yard. She noticed he was steering her away from the crime scene and she was grateful. Hank followed behind them, emitting a low growl when they passed by the lake.

  When they reached her front porch, Nate removed his arm and the night’s chill crept into his place, enfolding Brenna in its cold embrace. She shivered. Hank trotted up onto the steps and sat beside her.

  “Do you want to keep Hank for the night?” he asked.

  “Can I?”

  “I don’t think you have a choice,” he said with a rueful smile.

  Hank was leaning against her, as if offering his support, and Brenna reached down to rub his ears. Having Hank around would make the night so much more bearable.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” he said. “Hank knows who needs him the most. You had quite a scare tonight.”

  The breeze picked up one of Brenna’s long curls, tossing it about her face as if playing catch with it. Nate reached up and tucked it behind her ear. His gaze was full of concern and it warmed Brenna from the inside out.

  “I still can’t believe it,” she said. “How could this have happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I was no fan of Ripley’s—in fact, I thought he was a complete boob—but I sure never wished for this.”

  “Wished for what?” she asked. She knew what he meant, but she wanted to hear him utter the words. She wanted someone else to say out loud what she was thinking but afraid to say herself.

  He met her searching look with his grave gray stare. He didn’t look away when he said, “I never wished for his murder.”

  Chapter 8

  To strengthen thin papers before use, apply a coat of sealant first and let it dry completely.

  Brenna woke up to a face full of dog breath. Her eyes peeled open, and she looked to find Hank sound asleep with his head on the pillow next to hers. He was on his back with his paws in the air, the picture of canine contentment. She couldn’t help but smile.

  The minute she sat up and pulled on her robe, he snapped out of his deep sleep and jumped to the floor. He shook himself from head to tail, as if that was how he woke himself up, and she wondered if she should try it. Maybe another time—she’d had trouble sleeping last night and had a scorching headache. She was afraid any sudden movements might cause her head to roll right off her shoulders.

  She shuffled to the kitchen and started to fix coffee. Nothing was right on her planet until she’d downed at least one steaming cup. Hank bounced around her feet and she wondered if he was hungry. Probably.

  She opened her frig and looked for something suitable. She supposed she could just let him out so he could go home, but she was loath to give up his company.

  She looked at him over the open refrigerator door. “How about bacon and eggs?” she asked. He wagged his tail, and she took it as an emphatic yes.

  She set to work while the coffee brewed. She toasted some of the French bread she’d bought the night before. She had no appetite for the cheese soufflé. It didn’t reheat well, and for some reason it was linked in her mind to finding the trunk and the mayor. She dumped it in the garbage, knowing it would be a long time before she made cheese soufflé again.

  She flipped the bacon and there was a knock on the door. She turned the heat to low and went to answer it. She ran her fingers through her curls as she went, hoping she didn’t look as wiped out as she felt but knowing she probably looked worse, like road kill worse.

  As she had suspected, it was Nate. Hank got to the door first and was jumping in a circle. Brenna had to grab his collar as she opened the door for Nate.

  “Hi,” he said. “I brought Hank’s breakfast.”

  Sure enough, he had a big blue bowl in his hand. He set it down on the corner of the porch and Hank dove for it as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks instead of hours.

  “I was just making him some bacon and eggs,” she said.

  “If you do that, he’ll never leave,” Nate said.

  “I wouldn’t mind,” she said, moving aside to let him in. “He’s a great dog.”

  Unlike her, Nate looked great. His wavy brown hair was damp from his shower and he was wearing a charcoal-colored Henley that turned his watchful eyes the shade of wet slate.

  “So you like waking up to a blond in your bed?” he teased.

  Brenna felt her face grow hot. She supposed she could flirt and say that she preferred brunettes, but she wasn’t sure how that would go over and it was too early in the day to make an ass of herself, so she decided to err on the side of caution and ignore his comment.

  “You might have mentioned that he’s a bed hog,” she said. “But at least he doesn’t snore.”

  “No, but when he starts chasing rabbits in his sleep, you have to watch it or he’ll kick you right out of the bed.”

  “Is that experience talking?” she asked. She took the French bread out of the toaster and spread whipped butter on it.

  “See this scar?” He pointed to a small jagged white line in the shape of a crescent moon just above his right temple. “Nightstand at three in the morning thanks to Thunder Paws out there.”

  Brenna winced in sympathy and then laughed. She couldn’t help it. There was something charming about a man who let his dog sleep in his bed despite injury to his own person.

  The bacon and eggs were done so she loaded up two plates, adding a piece of toast to each. She slid one plate in front of Nate and kept the other for herself.

  “Don’t tell Hank you’re eating his breakfast,” she said.

  “I’ll save him a piece of bacon,” he offered.

  She poured them each a cup of coffee and they both took a seat at the breakfast bar in her tiny kitchen. Nate tucked into his food as heartily as Hank but with better table manners. As for Brenna, she ate but not with any enthusiasm.

  While waking up with Hank had been amusing, it had also reinforced what had happened the night before. There was no pretending that it was just a bad dream. Mayor Ripley was dead.

  Three sharp knocks sounded on the doorframe of her front door and Brenna started. Nate glanced at her.

  “Are you expecting company?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. She wondered if the news about the mayor had spread through town yet. The roosters on the Milsteads’ neighboring farm weren’t even up yet; surely, the gossip hadn’t traveled that fast. “Maybe it’s Twyla or the others?”

  “I’ll go see,” he said. He was off his stool and striding toward the door before she could stop him.

  Nate opened the door and there stood Ed Johnson, editor-in-chief of the local paper. At the sight of Nate Williams answering Brenna’s door, he went rigid as a pointer dog spotting a fallen pheasant.

  Brenna resisted the urge to groan. This was all she needed after a night of no sleep.

  “Hi, Ed,” Nate said. His voice betrayed nothing of what he was t
hinking. “What can we do for you?”

  “I … uh …” Ed stammered and stuttered. Obviously, he’d been caught off guard by finding them together and by Nate’s show of cooperation. It was as if his head was so full of questions that he couldn’t pick one to ask.

  “Yes?” Nate said.

  Ed stared stupidly at the pad in his hand. “About last night,” he began, “I have some questions.”

  “Don’t we all?” Nate asked.

  “Huh?” Ed looked confused. He glanced over Nate’s shoulder at Brenna. “Ms. Miller, is it true that you found the body?”

  Brenna felt all the blood rush out of her face. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to be known as the poor schnook who’d dragged the trunk out of the lake and discovered the mayor’s body.

  She especially did not want her name in the paper inviting anything from her past back into her life. She’d left everything in Boston behind her, and she had no intention of letting Ed Johnson write a story about her that would lead a trail to her new life.

  From across the room, she could feel Nate’s scrutinizing glance. She didn’t want to put him in the position of chasing Ed away, but according to the rule of closeness, he was closer than she was so it fell to him. It was a convenient rule.

  “Sorry, Ed, Brenna’s not up for an interview at this time,” Nate said, correctly reading her expression. “You’ll have to come back later. And perhaps, you’d better call first.”

  He went to close the door but Ed shoved the toe of his scuffed leather loafer into the opening.

  “You can’t refuse me an interview,” he said. “This is the biggest story to ever hit Morse Point.”

  “You’re a good writer, Ed, I’m sure you’ll manage,” Nate said.

  “No!” Ed snapped. He pushed against the door with all of his weight, and Nate was forced to brace it with his shoulder to keep him out. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this? Do you have any idea of how hard I’ve worked, of what I’ve done to get here?”

  Brenna rose off her stool and moved to stand behind the counter. The desperation in Ed’s voice made her nervous, and she was afraid he would force his way into her house if need be.

  Abruptly, Nate relaxed his hold on the door and Ed fell into the room, sprawling across the IKEA area rug in an untidy heap. Before he could scramble back to his feet, Nate scooped him up by the collar and the back of his pants and tossed him out the open door to land in a jumble of arms and legs on the front lawn.

  “Have a nice day,” Nate said. Then he quickly closed and latched the door and pulled down the shades on all the windows.

  “Whoa,” she said, impressed.

  “I bartended my way through art school,” Nate said with a shrug. “I frequently had to toss out the drunks. Nosey reporters aren’t that much different, although they do put up more of a fight.”

  “Thank you,” Brenna said. “I know I can’t avoid him for long, but I’d like to shower first at least.”

  Sure enough, a fist pounded on the door again.

  “Go away, Ed!” they shouted at the same time.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me,” Ed shouted back through the door. Then they heard a low-pitched growl. It was Hank, back from his morning walk and not happy to find a stranger on Brenna’s porch.

  “Nice doggy.” They heard Ed through the door. “Nice doggy.”

  The growling continued and Ed yelled, “Hey, you want to call him off?”

  “Should we?” Brenna asked. Nate didn’t seem worried, but she didn’t want Ed to sic the dog warden on Hank because of her.

  “Nah, Hank won’t hurt him, he’ll just show him his teeth until Ed gets the message,” he said.

  The growling continued and they heard Ed step off the porch while still trying to reason with Hank. Brenna crossed the room and peeked around the blind. Ed was hurrying across the lawn to his car while Hank was doing his best impression of a stalking lion.

  As soon as Ed drove away, Hank came trotting back to the door, wagging his tail and looking quite pleased with himself. Brenna opened the door and offered him two strips of leftover bacon.

  “Good boy,” she said, and she scratched his back just the way he liked it.

  Nate moved to stand in the open door. “You can shower now,” he said. “I don’t think Ed will be back for a while.”

  “Thanks,” Brenna said. “I really don’t want my name in the paper.”

  Nate looked at her questioningly and she realized she’d said too much. Before he could ask for an explanation, she said, “What do you think he meant when he asked if we knew what he’d done to get here?”

  He studied her for a moment as if trying to decide whether to allow her to change the subject. Finally, he said, “I think he meant covering all of the lousy stories that he’s had to write all these years, from school board meetings to charity yard sales. He’s finally got hard news and he’s not going to give it up easily.”

  “Oh,” Brenna said. She supposed that could be true.

  “Why? What do you think he meant?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  She wasn’t going to admit that she thought he was saying he had done something to create this story. Not yet anyway.

  Chapter 9

  Laying out the image is a lot like fitting together the pieces of a puzzle.

  It wasn’t long after Nate and Hank had left and Brenna had showered that the phone started ringing. Judging by the messages on her voice mail, the gossip had begun at the early bird breakfast at Stan’s Diner with the waitress Marybeth DeFalco, who was married to one of the police officers who’d been at the scene. With every order of coffee, she served up a side of the latest dish, today’s being the mayor found dead in a trunk. By eight o’clock in the morning, the entire town knew that Cynthia Ripley was now a widow.

  Brenna didn’t answer her phone and stopped checking her messages. She supposed some people were calling to see if she was all right, but she imagined most of them were looking for information. Well, she didn’t have any and she didn’t need to relive the whole horrible experience for the vicarious thrills of others. So there.

  Once it was more dry than wet, she pulled her curly, reddish brown hair back in its usual band and put on a moss green sweater, which made her hazel eyes appear more green than brown. She wore tan khakis, and in deference to the mud, she donned her hiking boots instead of her usual sneakers. She locked up her cabin and followed the path to the communal lot.

  Although it was her day off, she just couldn’t sit on her porch staring out at the lake beyond, thinking about last night. She needed to be in motion. She needed to be someplace where she felt comforted and safe. So she climbed into her Jeep and went to work at Vintage Papers.

  As soon as she opened the door, Tenley charged at her from across the room and folded her into a hug that would have suffocated her if it had lasted a second longer.

  “Brenna, are you okay? Are you all right? I’ve been calling and calling. Why aren’t you answering your phone? I was just about to drive out to your place. Why didn’t you call me last night?”

  “Tenley, breathe,” Brenna ordered, grabbing her friend by the elbows and pulling her off.

  Tenley sucked in a long breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth.

  “Okay, I’m better,” she said. “Now start talking.”

  So much for hiding, Brenna thought ruefully. It was all right, however, because it was Tenley. She knew it was concern and not gossip that motivated her.

  Tenley flipped the Closed sign on the shop door and locked it. Then the two of them hunkered down in the break room in the back of the shop with a pot of coffee and a box of doughnuts. Brenna could have sworn she wasn’t hungry but she managed to eat two jellies and a cruller while she told her tale.

  When she got to the part about discovering Mayor Ripley in the trunk, Tenley covered her mouth with her
hand and turned an unflattering shade of green.

  “Did you throw up?” she asked from behind her hand. “I would have thrown up.”

  “I came close,” Brenna admitted. Then she told her how the investigators were there until the wee hours of the morning and that Nate had lent her Hank to get her through the night. She did not mention breakfast with Nate or how he’d tossed Ed Johnson out that morning. She figured Tenley already had enough to process as it was.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Tenley said. “Who would want to kill Mayor Ripley?”

  “You mean other than Nate?” Brenna asked.

  Tenley gasped. “You don’t think … ?”

  “That Nate did it?” she asked. “No, absolutely not.”

  “But you’re worried about him,” Tenley guessed.

  “Nate’s like me,” Brenna said. “He’s not from around here and he keeps to himself. It would be easy for people to read bad things into that.”

  “I wish I could argue with you, but you’re right. The people of Morse Point have long memories,” she said. “And even though Jim Ripley was, well, an idiot, he was still one of our own and the locals won’t forget that.”

  Brenna nodded. This was exactly what she needed, someone who understood the situation.

  “So if it’s not Nate, and we’re agreed it’s not, then who?” Tenley asked.

  “Cynthia?” Brenna suggested. “Isn’t it usually family that they consider first in a murder?”

  “They do, but I don’t see it.” Tenley shook her head. “Cynthia made Jim what he is … er … was. It was her foot in his behind that got him into politics to begin with, and I can’t see her stuffing her investment into a trunk. Being the mayor’s wife gave her the cachet she always dreamt of, and I don’t see her letting it go, not willingly at any rate.”

  The sound of someone banging on the front door interrupted their talk. They glanced at one another, and Tenley stood up and poked her head out the back room door.

  “It’s the Porter sisters,” she said. “And they look like they mean business.”

  “You don’t think they’d actually break down the door, do you?” Brenna asked.