by Jeff Shelby
“Is it taped off? Sealed?”
“What?”
“The room,” I said exasperation.
“Well, no,” he conceded. He ran a finger over his moustache. “But no one’s gonna want to stay in that room. Someone was murdered there.” He shot a dark look at Jill. “With a pillow.”
She quickly glanced back down at the floor.
I was speechless. The sheriff had accused two people of Owen’s murder—three, if I counted his suspicion regarding Martin—and with virtually no evidence whatsoever. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. Because every time I thought I’d seen the worst of his policing skills, he revealed something new that further exposed his ineptness.
“Sheriff, I think we’re done here,” I said in the politest voice I could muster.
He glowered at me. “We most certainly are not done.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Jill. “She hasn’t answered any questions.”
“She doesn’t have to,” I said. “Remember?”
His complexion turned scarlet. “Why are you always meddling in my cases?” he thundered.
Because people kept getting me involved. Because no one trusted him to solve anything.
“I hope you have a very nice Thanksgiving,” I said, refusing to answer his question. “And now I’m going to ask you to leave my property. I have a family to get back to.”
“You’re ordering me off your property?”
I gave him a frosty smile. “No, I’m asking.”
Sheriff Lewis shuffled from one foot to the other, clearly angry with my request. But he knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on. He was on my property, uninvited, and he was asking questions that legally did not need to be answered.
His frown made his moustache droop, and he shoved the pipe back into his shirt pocket so roughly, I thought it might tear right through the fabric.
“This isn’t the last you’ll see of me,” he announced.
Boy, did I know that.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” he said as he trudged down the steps and back to the driveway. “If it’s the last thing I do.”
Jill and I both watched as he yanked open the door of his car and folded himself into the driver’s seat. His headlights flashed on and he backed out of the driveway, eventually disappearing down the dark road.
Jill expelled a breath. “Thank you.”
I whirled on her. “Not so fast.”
She froze.
“You have some explaining to do.”
TWENTY FIVE
“Nothing happened.”
I stole another quick glance into the living room. Connor had drifted to sleep on the couch, the empty wineglass held at an awkward angle in his hand, the magazine he’d been reading sliding off his lap. Laura was nowhere to be seen. She was probably out of the shower by now and going through her meticulous nighttime routine: lotioning her body, washing her face, combing through her hair and then drying it so not a single strand was wet when she finally left the bathroom—she’d always hated going to bed with wet hair. But even with all of those steps, I knew we were dangerously close to her reappearance. I had to talk fast.
“Baloney.” I gave Jill a warning look. “I need to know exactly what went on in that motel room.” When she stayed silent, I added, “I guess I could always ask your dad what he knows.”
That did it.
“Nothing happened, okay?” She took a deep breath. “I went over there because I wanted to see him.”
“And?”
“And nothing. We talked. That was it, I swear.”
“What did you talk about?”
Jill hesitated.
“I’m trying to help here,” I said. “I don’t know if you realize this, but the sheriff thinks that necklace of yours is about as important as a videotape of the crime. He is going to pin Owen’s death on you if you don’t start talking.”
“You told me not to answer any questions.”
“From him!” I was losing patience. “The last thing we need to do is start talking to the sheriff and putting ideas in his head. It’s already full of enough crazy ones. If you start feeding him information, there’s no telling how his brain will start connecting the dots.”
Jill folded her arms against her chest, almost as if she was wrapping herself in a hug. “Fine,” she said, sighing. “I went over to see him because I thought we could…spend some time together while he was in town.”
“Spend some time together? As in hang out?”
She gave me a look that told me just how naïve I was. I felt a blush stain my cheeks when the realization hit.
“Oh,” I said, blinking a couple of times. “Okay. And so did you, uh, spend time together?”
Jill shook her head. “He said he couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Something flashed in her eyes. “He said there’s someone else now. Someone he’s involved with. Or was.”
“A girlfriend?”
She nodded.
“So he basically turned you down?” I didn’t mean to sound blunt or harsh, but I knew it sort of came off that way.
She nodded again.
I’m sorry,” I told her, and I was. Rejection was never an easy thing to deal with, even when it came from a sleazy guy like Owen.
When she didn’t say anything, I said, “And were you…angry about his rejection?”
She rolled her eyes. “Not angry enough to murder him.” She sighed. “I just didn’t understand. I mean, we’ve sort of had this arrangement for a while now. Both of us have had relationships over the last few years, but it’s never stopped us before.”
I felt a surge of outrage. Was she admitting that they both had regularly cheated on their respective boyfriends and girlfriends?
“It was just something we did,” she said. “We kept it to ourselves and we didn’t hurt anyone, you know?”
I could argue with that but I pressed my lips together, deciding not to comment.
“But he said this time it was different.” Her expression clouded. “Like he finally had a good thing going. He talked about how he fought hard for this relationship, and he didn’t want to screw it up.”
For the first time, I felt something akin to respect for Owen. For all of his other horrible traits, it sounded like he’d found at least one thing to be admirable about.
“And how did you take that news?”
“I didn’t kill him,” she repeated. “But I was angry. We fought—just yelling. And…and my necklace slipped off. I told you, the clasp was starting to break.”
“You said you lost it in town.”
She at least had the decency to look a little sheepish when I pointed that out.
“I know,” she admitted. “I just…I panicked when he started asking about it.”
“Okay, so your necklace came off. Then what?”
“ I grabbed it as it started to slip down my shirt and…I threw it at him.”
“Why?”
She smiled thinly. “It was better than throwing a lamp at his head.”
Good point.
“But I swear that’s all that happened. We talked, then we fought, and then I left. I was never in his bed.” She said this last statement a little ruefully.
Her explanation made sense, more sense than her smothering her ex-lover with a pillow in a fit of rage. I tried to picture the crime but it just didn’t work. Jill was not a big girl and I couldn’t see her being able to overpower Owen with her slight body and use a soft, fluffy pillow as a weapon.
“Mom.”
I spun back to face the door. Laura was standing there in red flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved white t-shirt. Her hair was dry, her face scrubbed clean of make-up.
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”
I held up the bakery box. “Jill dropped off a pie. An apology for the pie that ended up on the floor.” I smiled at Jill. “Which was not necessary at all.”
Jill still looked a little wan, and she barely looked at La
ura. “It was the least I could do,” she mumbled.
Laura looked at the bakery box and then back at me, probably trying to determine whether or not I was telling the truth.
“I should probably get going,” Jill said.
She hunted in her pocket for her phone and fished it out. She tapped the screen a couple of times, then checked the power button.
“Is something wrong?” I asked her.
She frowned. “Looks like my phone is dead.”
“Do you need to call someone?”
She shook her head. “No, I was just going to use the flashlight. It’s a little dark, and there are still some muddy spots on the road and in my dad’s driveway.” She shoved the phone back in her pocket. “But it’s fine. I can manage.”
“I’ll walk you,” I said.
She and Laura both started to object but I shoved the bakery box at my daughter. “I’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.”
Laura pressed her lips together and gave me a disapproving look. “Mom,” she said. “I thought you were done—”
I cut her off. “I am,” I told her brightly. “I’m just walking her home. Unless you’d like to do that?”
Laura took a step backward. She was fresh from her shower…and most definitely in for the night. “Oh, well, I thought I’d go sit with Connor. He fell asleep on the couch and if he doesn’t wake up now, he’ll never get to sleep when it’s time to go to bed.”
“Why don’t you go and keep him company and I’ll walk Jill home,” I suggested. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Laura gave me a doubtful look but she nodded and disappeared back into the house.
“You really don’t have to walk me home,” Jill said.
“I know.”
The walk took all of five minutes. I used the flashlight on my phone to shine a beam of light in front of us and we managed to avoid the last of the puddles and the muddy easement along the road between my house and Gunnar’s.
The light in Gunnar’s living room was on and the house, with its warm, honey-colored log exterior and the soft glow of the interior light, was cozy and inviting. Despite the friction we’d experienced over Declan’s invitation to my house for Thanksgiving dinner, I still felt a sudden longing to go inside and have a glass of wine with him, to cozy up on the couch and chat about anything and everything, and then later, to wake up in his bed. We usually spent time at my house, but there had been a couple of nights that I’d gone to his place and hadn’t come home until morning.
Neither of us had complained.
“Thanks again for walking me back,” Jill said. “And for listening.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“I…I hope you believe me.”
I didn’t get a chance to respond because the front door swung open and Gunnar was there. His hair was damp, his cheeks and chin freshly shaven, and the aroma of his sandalwood soap and aftershave washed over me like a tidal wave.
“Rainy. This is a surprise.”
“My phone died so she walked me home. To light the way,” Jill explained.
“Well, that was nice of her,” Gunnar said, almost as if I wasn’t there.
Jill offered a final thank you and a wave and headed inside.
Given that Gunnar wasn't asking her about the necklace, I assumed he'd bought the sheriff's explanation of just wanting to return it to Jill. It momentarily occurred to me that maybe I needed to tell him what was really going on, but Jill had already shared things with me in confidence and I didn't think it was my place to butt in.
Yet.
Gunnar glanced at me. “Do you want to come in? I just opened a bottle of wine. Shiraz.”
I shook my head, even though it was exactly what I wanted to do. “Laura is waiting for me. I haven’t been around much today.”
“No?” he asked. “Busy inviting more people over for Thanksgiving?”
The warmth inside of me died.
“Excuse me?”
He leaned against the doorframe. “Just asking if you’ve invited more friends to your dinner since the last time we talked.”
His words cut me, and I reacted immediately. “Are you seriously asking me this?”
“It’s a fair question.”
“No, Gunnar, it’s not.” I gave him a steely glare. “I already told you why I invited Declan. I can’t believe you are so hung up on this.”
“I’m not hung up on anything. I was just asking a question.”
But it wasn’t just a question. It was something else: irritation, envy, jealousy. I didn’t know, but I did know one thing.
It was making me mad.
I didn’t have to explain my actions to anyone. Gunnar and I might have been dating, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t invite a friend over for dinner, even if that friend was male.
I’d never seen Gunnar’s jealous side before—if that’s what this was—but I knew one thing.
I didn’t like it.
I forced a smile. “Actually, I did invite someone else to dinner.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “You did?”
I nodded. “Another single guy. I don’t think you know him.”
Gunnar’s mouth dropped open but I didn’t wait to see what expression or words followed.
“The more men, the merrier,” I said.
I turned on my heel and stalked back down the driveway.
TWENTY SIX
“So you’re really done investigating?”
I was sitting with Laura on Thanksgiving morning. Well, she was sitting and I was hurrying around the kitchen, trying to plan out what I needed to do to make sure all of the components for our holiday dinner would be ready by four o’clock.
“I’m really done,” I told her.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of her. She’d found her favorite mug in the cupboard, an oversized Ghirardelli one that she’d used every morning her senior year of high school, when classes started at 7:15 and she’d needed an entire cup full of coffee before she even started to get ready.
Laura lifted the mug—it was so big that, when full, it required two hands—and sipped. Tendrils of steam wafted toward the ceiling and I made a mental note to turn up the thermostat a notch. We shouldn’t be seeing steam in the kitchen, at least not as pronounced as it was.
I rubbed butter on the outside of the turkey, then sprinkled my herb mixture on top of it. The smell of garlic and thyme and sage assaulted my nostrils, and I knew it would smell even better once the turkey started cooking in the oven. I patted the bird, making sure the seasonings adhered to the skin, and then headed for the sink to wash my hands.
My phone rang and I said over my shoulder, loud enough to be heard over the running water, “Laura, can you get that?”
The phone stopped ringing and I could hear Laura’s voice, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. Belatedly I realized it might not have been the best idea to have her pick up the phone; after all, what if it was someone calling with new details about the case, or new requests to help? That would definitely not sit well with my daughter, especially after the relatively nice evening we’d spent together after I returned from walking Jill home.
Connor had woken up refreshed from his wine-induced nap, and we’d spent the better part of the evening playing dominoes and gin rummy. We’d also gone through another bottle of wine, and I’d drunk with abandon. I’d needed it to calm the fire burning inside of me after my confrontation with Gunnar.
I turned off the water and dried my hands. Laura was saying, “Yeah, she’s right here. Hang on.”
I turned to her with a questioning look.
“Luke,” she said, handing me the phone.
I reached for the phone. “Hello, sweetheart. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Same to you.” Luke’s voice sounded fuzzy, a little sleepy, and I glanced at the clock.
“You’re up early,” I said, noting the time difference between Latney and San Francisco.
“Need to ge
t a head start on the day, and I didn’t know what your plans might be so I just figured I’d call early.” He paused. “Laura came for Thanksgiving?”
“Yep, she and Connor are here,” I told him.
“I’m glad they’re there,” he said. “Wish I could be there to celebrate with you guys.”
I wished for that, too. It had been far too long since I’d seen my son and I missed him. He was the calming, steadying force in our threesome, the one who never got upset, the one who could always be reasonable, and who could guide the two of us in that direction when needed.
“What are your plans today?” I asked.
“There’s a 5K this morning, a Walk to End Hunger thing that I volunteered for. And then Drew and I are headed over to the homeless shelter to serve dinner.”
My heart nearly burst with pride. “That’s wonderful!”
I could almost see him shrug. “I get a free meal out of it, so it’s a win-win.”
I smiled. Luke didn’t take compliments well, and he didn’t do things to seek approval or score brownie points. He did what he wanted to do, what he felt was right.
It was one of the things I admired most about my son. He might be living in a one-bedroom shack of an apartment, weeks away from being condemned, and he might not have a solid career or a 401K started, but he was doing what he loved and he was happy.
And that was more than enough for me.
We chatted a few more minutes before he had to head over to the walk where he was scheduled to volunteer. I hung up with a smile on my face and warm fuzzies in my heart.
Laura had stood up and poured herself a second cup of coffee. She stirred in some cream and sugar before returning to her spot at the table. There was a sour expression on her face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her. Maybe the creamer had gone bad.
She cupped the mug and brought it to her lips. Carefully, she set it back down, making sure no coffee sloshed out on the table.
“I just can’t believe my brother will be safer wandering the streets of San Francisco today than I am here in Latney.” She said the name of my new hometown with distaste, as if it were the thing responsible for her expression. Which, I guess it was.
