by Jeff Shelby
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I called after him.
TEN
“Tell me what you know.”
I’d waited a couple of minutes, then got up to check the hallway to make sure Sheriff Lewis had really left before sitting back down and continuing my conversation with Dawn. He was definitely the kind of person who would lurk behind a closed door and try to eavesdrop. Of course, he would probably also mishear everything that was said, either purposefully or simply due to his age. I didn’t know with certainty how old he was, but I was fairly certain he was pushing into his eighties.
“I’ve already told you what I know.” Dawn’s voice was weary. She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes and I felt a tiny pang of sympathy for her.
“Okay,” I said.
I recapped in my mind what I had learned from Dawn before the sheriff had arrived. Her brother had been found dead in his motel room. The sheriff believed he had been killed with a…pillow. Dawn had fought with him at the motel last night, but insisted she didn’t kill him.
And she’d called me in on the situation not because she thought highly of my investigative skills or because she considered me a friend, but because her husband insisted she do so.
I sighed. “You said you weren’t involved in what happened to your brother. Do you know of anyone who might have wanted him dead? Did he have enemies?”
She snorted. “You met him; you tell me.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. I leveled her with a look. “I only just met him yesterday, Dawn. I have no idea what kind of person he really is. You’re his sister.”
“The Owen you saw yesterday is the Owen everyone else knows. Except he was actually on pretty good behavior when you were around. It went downhill pretty quickly, especially as he started drinking.”
If the interaction I’d had with him was good behavior, I cringed to think of what would be considered bad.
“So there are people who don’t like him?” I hesitated. “Enough to see him dead? To…kill him.”
Dawn nodded. “I could name half a dozen” And she did. She rattled off the names of a few different guys, and gave a brief explanation explaining Owen’s transgressions. Victor and a stolen stereo. Marcus and a trashed apartment. Gary and giving up information that sent him to jail for a year.
I took all this in. None of the “crimes” seemed like they warranted killing someone, but what did I know? Maybe there were more people like Dawn in Latney and the surrounding area than I thought; people who held grudges and got angry and acted spontaneously violent at times.
“Anyone else?” I asked. “What about Eric?”
She blinked. “Eric?”
“The guy he was with,” I said. “The guy who found him.”
She gave me an irritated look. “I know who he is,” she said curtly.
I waited for her to elaborate.
“They’re friends,” she said. “They’ve been friends for a while now.”
“No issues between them? No bad blood?”
“They were in here all day yesterday drinking beer together. My beer,” she added darkly. “So, no.”
“Okay,” I said. “Anyone else? Disgruntled girlfriends?” For some reason, I instantly thought of Jill.
“I see my brother a couple of times a year, at most,” she said. “I don’t keep tabs on his every move. I have no idea what his love life is like. Could an ex-girlfriend have killed him? Sure. Anything’s possible.”
She wasn’t offering much in the way of information, and her attitude wasn’t doing much in the way of motivating me to want to help her.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Dawn,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t have any suggestions other than to suggest you consider getting a lawyer. Just in case.”
“You won’t help me?” Her tone was accusing.
“I can’t help you,” I corrected. “I’m not a lawyer, and I’m not an investigator. There aren’t a lot of leads here, at least ones that I’m aware of.”
“So you won’t help me?” she repeated.
I sighed. “I don’t know how.”
She stood up, her arms stiff by her sides. “You help everyone else in this town when they come running but you won’t help me?”
“That’s not it—”
She held up a hand to stop me and I flinched, thinking maybe she’d do something more with it. Like hit me.
“I get it,” she said. Her eyes burned holes into me. “Fine. But you and I both know that if it were anyone else, you’d step up in a heartbeat. But, hey, it’s just me. No problem. Figure it out yourself, Dawn.”
She spun on her heel and headed for the door, ready to leave me sitting alone in the back room of her own restaurant.
I was torn between feeling angry and feeling guilty. Her accusations were completely unfair, and her attitude demanded that I just stand up and leave.
But part of me felt sorry for her—and yes, a little guilty, too. Because if I was being honest, I was treating her unfairly. Despite my misgivings and reluctance to get involved over every other case I’d dug into during my time in Latney, I’d still forged ahead.
Why should Dawn be any different, especially considering the fact that the consequences she might ultimately face could be significantly greater?
“Wait,” I said weakly.
She stopped but didn’t turn around.
I took a deep breath, closing my eyes as I did so. I would picture a friendlier Dawn, a grateful Dawn, not the Dawn I knew was standing in front of me with her back turned, a sullen expression likely crossing her face.
“I’ll help you.”
ELEVEN
It had stopped raining while I was at the Wicked Wich, but a dark cloud still hung over me as I got back in my car.
I told Dawn that I was willing to help, but I wasn't sure what good that would do. But I told her I was on her side and I'd do what I could. She'd nodded and walked away from me. I didn't know if she wanted more from me, but that was all I felt that I could offer.
As soon as I turned the key in the ignition I remembered the note I’d left for Laura, explaining away my absence by telling her I’d run to the grocery store for some last minute items. So I made a quick stop at Toby’s, grabbing the first thing that came to mind. Rolls. Everyone needs rolls for Thanksgiving.
Once back in the car, my thoughts returned to Dawn. The last thing I wanted to do was get involved in a murder investigation. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the Thanksgiving holiday obsessing over someone else’s problems.
And the last thing—the really, really last thing—I wanted to do was explain to my daughter how I had managed to get myself entangled in the latest crime plaguing my tiny little town.
I slowed my speed so I was just at the speed limit, hoping that would buy me an extra couple of minutes to think.
I shouldn’t have been dreading going home. I didn’t need to explain my actions to anyone, least of all my daughter. After all, I was a grown woman; I was perfectly capable of making my own decisions, even if they were unpopular with my own child. It was my life, not hers, and I was the one responsible for what I ultimately chose to do with my time and with my life.
I was so focused on my mental pep talk that I almost didn’t notice the extra car still parked in my driveway when I pulled in from the road.
Gunnar’s pick-up truck was still parked next to Connor’s car.
And he was sitting inside of it.
I grabbed my purse and got out of the car, being careful to avoid the large puddle I’d somehow managed to park right alongside of.
Gunnar was out of his truck a few seconds later. I stole a quick glance at the passenger seat but it was empty.
“Where’s Jill?” I asked.
“She went home.”
“She walked? In the mud?”
Gunnar shook his head. “I drove her back.” Even though he was my next-door neighbor, there was still a good bit of distan
ce to cover between our front doors, and with the deluge of rain, it would have been a muddy, mucky mess to walk through.
“Oh.” I shut my car door and stuffed my keys in my jacket pocket. “So you came back?”
He went to lean against his truck and then must have remembered it was wet because he straightened himself instead. “I just wanted to see how everything went with Dawn.”
I could have unloaded right there. Told him everything Dawn had said, shared my little confrontation with the sheriff, added my thoughts about Dawn’s brother.
But I didn’t.
Because, looking at Gunnar, at the way the muscle in his jaw was working and the way the smile he sported didn’t quite meet his eyes, I knew exactly why he was in my driveway.
And it had nothing to do with Dawn.
I sighed. “You’re still upset about Declan, aren’t you?”
His eyebrows lifted and he managed a look of innocence. “What? No, not at all. You can invite whoever you want to Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t control what you do.”
I nodded. He didn’t control me, and neither did Laura. I was my own person, darn it. And it irked me a little that he felt the need to tell me he didn't control what I did. Like he was giving his okay or something.
“And yet you're sitting here for some reason,” I said. “And I'm aware that you don't control what I do.”
“You’ve always made your own decisions. About everything.”
It felt like another dig.
“This feels weird,” I said slowly.
“The mud?” he asked, gesturing to the wet muck my left foot had settled in to, the wet muck I thought I’d been diligent about avoiding.
I shifted my foot, gingerly lifting it and settling on firmer gravel. “No. This. Us.” I took a breath. “Do you and Jill want to join us? For Thanksgiving? Is that what you're here to ask?”
He looked down at the ground. “No,” he said. “I was serious about you spending time with your family. About having that separate time with them.”
“Well, it isn’t going to be just us anymore,” I pointed out. “Declan will be there.”
“I’m aware.” I couldn’t read what emotion, if any, was in his voice.
“So if the two of you want to come…”
He shook his head. “It’s fine. We should just stick with the original plan.”
But the original plan had already been altered by my inviting Declan to join me. The original plan had been altered by the dilemma Dawn was facing, the dilemma she had drawn me into.
And the original plan had been altered by something else, too. Gunnar’s reaction when he’d discovered Declan was coming to Thanksgiving dinner.
“Well, the original plan has been changed,” I said. “For better or for worse. So. If this is what's bothering you, then you have an invitation to come to dinner. But I'm not going to do this passive-aggressive man thing. I've made it clear to you that Declan is just a friend and I am not looking for any drama. I'm too old for that.”
He looked at me for a moment, then forced a smile. “It's fine, Rainy. It's fine.”
It didn’t feel fine, though. It felt like a little hiccup, a minor bump in the road of our relationship.
A minor bump that might turn into a major mountain.
TWELVE
I didn’t get a chance to dwell on my conversation with Gunnar because Laura was waiting for me as soon as I walked through the front door.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
Her hair was still wet and I figured she must have taken a shower, because I knew I’d been gone long enough for her rain-soaked hair to have been dry by then.
I lifted the paper bag, half-hiding my face as I hurried past her and into the kitchen.
“I went to the store,” I told her. “Didn’t you see my note?”
“What did you need?” Laura asked.
Connor came down the stairs, joining Laura as she followed me into the kitchen.
“Rolls. I forgot rolls.” I lifted the bag for emphasis. “You can’t have a Thanksgiving without rolls, right?”
“Well, actually, I’m on a low-carb diet,” Connor said. “And I’m trying to avoid gluten.”
Laura ignored Connor, her eyes narrowing as she zeroed in on me. “It took you an hour to get rolls? The grocery store is ten minutes away.”
I busied myself with finding the perfect spot on the counter to set the packages of rolls so I wouldn’t have to look at my daughter. “Well, it was really busy. Lots of shoppers. Thanksgiving is tomorrow and they’re closed, you know.”
I pasted a smile on my face and then froze as I took in the state of my kitchen. It looked as though a small tornado had ripped through it.
“What happened here?” I asked, spinning from left to right as I surveyed the damage.
One entire counter was covered with dirty dishes, and more were stacked in the sink. There were pots on the stove and by the looks of it, all of them had bubbled over because there were stains everywhere on the range.
“We’re cooking,” Laura said. “Well, we cooked already. And then I took a shower. I was a mess.”
As was my kitchen. “Um, what did you make?”
“Chestnut soup,” Connor proclaimed.
“Chestnut…soup?” I repeated.
Laura nodded. “Connor is a great cook. He’s always finding new recipes to try.”
“And what is in chestnut soup? I asked.
Connor quirked an eyebrow. “Chestnuts,” he said, stating the obvious.
“I didn’t know you could make soup with chestnuts.”
I didn’t want to admit that I’d actually never eaten a chestnut. The whole chestnuts roasting over an open fire thing had never sounded particularly appetizing.
“Looks like there are several steps to cooking chestnuts,” I said as I surveyed the scene in front of me.
“We had to cook up the bacon and caramelize the onions,” Laura said, a little defensively. “And the pot we used initially wasn’t big enough for the soup, so there are a couple of extra dishes. We’ll clean them up.”
I didn’t really care about the dishes. I mean, I did, but I was more focused on the fact that she’d pivoted fairly easily from her interrogation of my whereabouts.
“What did you need the cooler for?” I asked, gesturing toward the plastic box on the floor. “Do chestnuts need to be refrigerated?”
Connor shook his head. “No. We brought a duck.”
“A what?” I shook my head slightly, trying to clear my ears.
“A duck,” Connor repeated.
I frowned. “We’re having turkey for dinner.”
He chuckled. “The duck is for the soup.”
“There’s duck in the chestnut soup?”
I wasn’t a picky eater, but I was one of those people who had a hard time eating certain animals. Venison and rabbit were off-limits to me: if I could see a certain type of animal traipsing through or grazing in my yard, it was a pretty safe bet that I didn’t want to eat them. Now that I lived on a farm that, in theory, could house several animals, I might need to revisit that line of thinking. After all, I did have chickens and used the eggs they provided. But I wasn’t ready to stick any old hens in the soup pot just yet, and I certainly wasn’t thrilled about eating ducks when I could walk down to my pond and see several of them paddling in the water.
“No,” Laura said, and I could tell from her expression that she knew what I was thinking. “No duck.”
“Just the fat,” Connor said. “We cooked the bacon in duck fat. And the soup is garnished with duck cracklings.”
I gave him a blank stare.
“Fried duck fat. I suppose we could throw in some of the duck meat. It would change the taste a little—”
“I’d prefer to try the recipe as is,” I said quickly. And I would also surreptitiously remove any fried skin from my soup. I shuddered.
Laura looked at one of the packages of dinner rolls I’d bought. “We could have made some, yo
u know,” she said.
“Rolls? With duck?” I asked.
She frowned. “No, Mother. Not with duck.”
Connor perked up. “I do have a great recipe I’ve been wanting to try,” he said to Laura. He turned to me. “Do you have any oak trees on your property?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Oak trees,” he repeated. “I’ve seen some foraging recipes that use acorns to make flour. We would have to collect them and then cook them in the oven—you know, to make sure any worms or weevils inside of them die—and then grind them into flour. But we would need oak trees.” He looked expectantly at me.
I was saved from having to answer by a pounding on the front door.
“Hold that thought,” I said to Connor, even though I was secretly hoping he’d forget the idea of hunting for acorns to turn into flour.
Laura looked at me as I walked toward the living room.
“I thought living in the country would be quieter,” she commented, following me to the door.
I thought most people made bread with wheat flour, but I didn’t comment.
“This house is a revolving door of people,” she continued.
“It’s not usually like this,” I told her as I approached the front door. I could make out the shape of someone standing on the front porch. A man, tall and well built. “It’s just because of the holidays.”
I opened the door and Martin Putnam was there, looking anxious.
My heart filled with dread. Maybe the sheriff had come back as soon as I left and arrested Dawn.
“Martin,” I said. I didn’t want to ask what was wrong, especially with Laura right on my heels, so I lowered my voice and asked in a half-whisper, “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” he repeated, his voice louder than I’d ever heard it. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. Owen is dead!”
TWELVE
