I scowled. “About Marigold.”
“You’re kidding me,” Eric muttered as his hands turned to fists. “What an ass.”
“I know, right?” I felt better seeing Eric get so angry about Dillon insulting Marigold. “And that’s when Rafe told him to get off of his property and don’t come back.”
“Good,” Eric said.
Mac and I continued talking, going back and forth, adding little details, but that was the gist of the argument.
Eric’s eyes were narrowed to sharp points. “He really said that about Marigold?”
“Yeah,” Mac said. “I’m not saying the guy deserved to die. But I sure didn’t blame Rafe for kicking him out of the conference.”
“Me neither,” I insisted. I wasn’t about to mention that I’d clearly heard Rafe say that he would kill Dillon, mainly because there had to be a dozen other people who had those same feelings for the guy. Including me.
Eric continued writing for another minute, then looked at me. “Do you think Marigold knows what Dillon said to Rafe?”
“I hope not,” I said. “But I was just thinking that Mac and I probably aren’t the only ones who overheard their conversation. I mean, they were right out in the open.”
Eric nodded. “There were a lot of people out there last night. Someone else easily could’ve heard them and then told Marigold what was said.”
Mac winced. “It’s possible that the killer heard them arguing and knows that Rafe had a motive. Whoever it is could use that against him if it comes down to it.”
“That’s a horrible thought,” I said. But then my mind flashed on Hallie. “I wonder if their secretary heard them yelling.”
“Is she the clingy one?” Eric asked.
“So you saw that,” I said flatly.
“Couldn’t miss her,” he admitted. “Her wailing caught my attention at first, but when I noticed twenty minutes later that she was still stuck like glue to Rafe, I had to wonder.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Briefly. She didn’t have a lot to say except to insist that everyone in the company was like one big happy family. Definitely a case of protesting too much. Everyone loved working there, everybody loved Dillon, et cetera, et cetera.”
Mac snorted. “And if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge I’d like to sell you.”
“Don’t bother,” Eric said, shaking his head. “Nobody’s happy all the time, especially at work. And I’ve rarely seen a high-powered business where there weren’t undercurrents of some really ugly stuff.”
I gazed at Eric. “I guess Hallie didn’t mention that Dillon was horribly rude to her when we met her last night.”
Eric shook his head. “No, she didn’t. Tell me about it.”
Mac took over here, explained what Dillon had said about Hallie fawning over Mac. “It was a real crappy thing to say. Hallie was humiliated, and it embarrassed all of us, not just her.”
Eric continued to write in his notepad.
Finally I asked, “Did you talk to Rafe?”
“Yes,” he said.
He didn’t add anything else, and it gave me a sinking feeling. Maybe it was because I’d eaten too much pizza, but I didn’t think so. “So did Rafe mention the fight he had with Dillon?”
For a long moment, Eric locked his gaze on me in that Zen-like way of his that usually had me crying for mercy within a nanosecond or two. Eventually he looked away, checked his notes, checked his watch, and then glanced around the table at each of us. “I’m afraid this investigation is hitting a little too close to home for all of us. I’m going to take off now, but if any of you remember anything else, or you talk to anyone who has information, you call me. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely,” I said, and Niall and Mac murmured their agreement.
Eric stood. “I hope I don’t have to remind all of you that everything you’ve heard tonight is confidential. If you need to talk about it, you talk to me.”
“Sure will,” I said.
Mac saluted. “Got it.”
“Yes, sir,” Niall said smartly.
Eric nodded. “Good. That’s good.” He nodded at Mac. “I like the salute.”
Mac chuckled. “Thought you would.”
Eric’s phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. Staring at the screen, he smiled so softly that I almost didn’t recognize him.
“It must be Chloe,” I said.
He grinned. “It is. Let me just say hi and I’ll call her back.”
“I want to say hi, too.” My sister Chloe had confided in me that she and Eric spoke on the phone every night. He didn’t seem to be getting tired of the arrangement. In fact, I’d never seen our big tough police chief happier.
It was nice for me to see that Chloe’s love was reciprocated, if Eric’s dreamy expression was any indicator.
I took the phone. “Hey, sis. When you coming up?”
“We’ll be on hiatus starting in two weeks,” Chloe said. “And then I’ll be able to stay for a month.”
“Fantastic. Can’t wait to see you.”
“Me, too. Send my love to Dad and Uncle Pete.”
“You bet. Love you, bye.” I handed the phone back to Eric, who said a few more quiet words, then hung up.
He snapped his briefcase closed, then pulled it off the counter. I could tell he had shifted back into Police Chief mode.
He glanced at all of us again. “I know you’ll call me if you think of anything else.”
“We all will,” Mac assured him.
“And hey, thanks for the pizza and the beer,” he said cheerfully, as if we had spent the evening watching a football game.
“Glad you could join us.” I stood and gave him a hug, then watched as Mac walked with him out to his SUV.
After taking another slug of beer, I turned and smiled at Niall. “That went well, I think.”
* * *
* * *
The next morning, the smart mice escaped.
The news sent Antarctic-sized chunks of icy chills sailing up and down and around my spine. The sight of that bloody knife the night before was nothing compared to the horrific possibility of having mice scampering all over the place.
Smart ones. Ugh.
Plus, if this were a science-fiction movie, those smart mice would start breeding, and within a couple of months, we’d have whole herds of them running around. And that thought creeped me out so much, I knew I’d be dreaming about it.
The thing was, I couldn’t talk about it with my closest pals, and I didn’t dare tell anyone how I felt. I was a kick-ass contractor, after all. I wore a tool belt with panache and could swing a hammer better than anyone on my crew.
How could I confess that I was afraid of a silly little mouse? It was a phobia that, like many phobias, had no basis in reality. Mice were not terrifying to most people. They were cute, furry little creatures. They were fun pets for children.
And that thought was just gross.
In my mind, there was nothing fun about them. And these mice were smart. How smart? I wondered. Could they devise plans to take out the human race?
Double ugh.
I drank my coffee and thought about it. Why were the smart mice being featured at this conference? I suppose they might be useful for gobbling up the piles of food scraps left behind by humans. I had to wonder just how smart these smart mice were.
The escaped mice situation was scrambling my brain.
Maybe it was a good thing that these were supposed to be smart mice. Maybe they would be smart enough to stay away from me. But I doubted it. Just as a cat could recognize the one person in a room with allergies, a mouse would sniff out my fear and come a-running.
Maybe they were so smart, they would know enough to gang up on me. As a mouse squadron, they could drive me crazy, terrorize me to such a point
that I would become comatose, unable to speak or react. Then they would start to nibble at my feet, then move up to my ankles. My shins. Knees. Oh God. Pretty soon I would have mouse bites all over my body. Could I bleed to death?
My imagination was clearly working overtime. I was sick of feeling so helpless. If I could figure out where the mice had gone, maybe I could simply avoid that area and be perfectly fine. That was sort of proactive, right? In a really passive way.
I was determined to find out just how smart these mice were. I grabbed my bag, pulled out my conference program, and looked up Professor Arnold Larsson. I wanted to find out exactly what his smart mice were capable of.
I considered myself extraordinarily brave when I found his cubicle in the old barn and walked inside to meet him.
“Dr. Larsson?”
“Ya?” He whipped around, his white lab coat flapping. “Hello.”
“Hi. I’m Shannon Hammer. I wanted to find out about the mice that escaped.”
“Oh, ya. No worries. We are in control of the situation.” He had a charming Swedish accent. “The mice will be back in their cages within a few hours.”
“Really?” I asked. “Because this property is huge. They could be halfway across the state by now. And there’s the woods. Mice love to hang out in the woods, don’t they? Lots of places to hide in the woods.”
“No, no, not my mice.” But he said it through tightly clenched teeth. “They love their cages. They love me. This is where they feel safest.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, ya. I take good care of them. They remember. Smart mice have long memories. They are also very docile and easily captured.”
“How will you capture them?”
He smiled. “With food, of course.”
Of course, I thought. The same way you would capture anyone. Me, for instance. Spaghetti or cheeseburgers would do the trick. And just like that, I wanted to have a cheeseburger. But since I’d had one just the other day, I would try to restrain myself.
“How did they escape?” I asked.
“It’s a mystery,” he said, frowning. He made several sweeping gestures with his arms. “Look around you. These conditions are luxurious. Their cages are pristine. I feed them only the finest quality fruit and grains.”
I did as he said and took a look around. It was pretty cramped in here, but it wasn’t like mice need a lot of room. What did I know?
“What makes them so smart?” I asked.
He stared at me for a long moment, then shrugged. “Gene manipulation, of course.”
Another icy chill slid down my spine. “Gene manipulation? So you actually perform surgery on them?” Could this get any worse?
“Ya, of course.”
“So you could manipulate them to do anything?”
“No, not anything,” he assured me with a quick smile. “But for instance, I have strengthened their memories and given them better recall. I have made them quicker to react to changes. And I have taught them to fear.”
“Wait? What? Fear?” I took a deep breath to calm down. “But won’t fear make them more aggressive?”
“Oh no, it will simply make them more careful. They will make better decisions.”
“Like what? Don’t walk on the freeway? Don’t take a shortcut with anyone named Donner? What decisions can they make?”
He laughed. “You are a funny one. But no. Not those kinds of decisions. Those are not within their scope.”
“And you control what is within their scope.”
“Ya, of course. We want to keep them alive. And by making them more careful, more fearful, if you will, they will live longer.”
“Oh, that’s just great.” Mice living forever. A dream of mine. “Well, I sure hope you find them.”
“The traps will be set this afternoon.”
“Traps?”
“Humane traps. They will enter for the food and won’t be able to leave. We should have them all back by dinnertime.”
“That’s great news, Doctor. Thanks.”
I walked out feeling even worse than I had earlier. Mainly because now I felt sorry for the mice. I didn’t like that the scientists were conditioning them to be more fearful. How did they do that? And did I really want to know? It was just weird. But then, if they could actually make decisions, maybe they would decide to take revenge on the sickos experimenting on them.
Maybe I should wear a sign that says I LOVE MICE.
But no. I couldn’t do that. They would see right through me.
My phobia was still intact, but I had to admit I was feeling some camaraderie with the mice. And maybe that was the first fledgling step toward friendship with the little creatures. Baby steps, right?
Right?
No freaking way! I screamed silently.
Good grief.
I checked my watch. It was time to meet Emily. I tiptoed all the way back to the catering area, scanning every inch of ground for roving gangs of mice. But I had a feeling, if they were really smart, they were long gone by now.
* * *
* * *
I met Emily and helped her carry a basket of pastries and croissants over to Rafe and Marigold’s house.
“Marigold made a pot of coffee,” Emily explained, “so I don’t have to drag that over there.”
“Good.”
Emily glanced at me as we entered the front yard and walked to the porch. “Do you know what this is about?”
“I don’t, but I have a feeling it’s connected with the murder.”
“Oh dear.” She frowned at me. “But I suppose you would know.”
I shrugged, accepting my fate as chief murder magnet among my friends. “I guess I would.”
“Here we go,” she said. “I’ll get the doorbell.”
But before she could push the button, Marigold opened the door. “Thank you guys for coming.”
“I’m glad we could get together,” Emily said.
Marigold gave us each a hug and took the basket from me. She led us into the small sitting area off the kitchen, where Lizzie and Jane were already seated, drinking coffee and munching on apple slices.
There was a coffeepot on the table along with mugs, cream and sugar, and butter and jam for the croissants.
“Everything looks wonderful,” I said.
“I love this room, Shannon,” Marigold said softly, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “Especially in the morning when the sunshine comes pouring through the windows.”
I was thrilled to hear her say that because I had designed the room with her in mind. Warm and friendly, with comfy furniture and wide glass walls that opened onto a view of the farm that stretched on forever. This morning the blue sky was studded with thick white clouds and sunlight played on the grass.
I didn’t even want to think about how Whitney would’ve decorated this house. Chrome and glass everywhere, stiff black leather couches and shiny red chairs. The woman thought she had good taste, but she was wrong. At least where Marigold was concerned.
“Your house is beautiful, Marigold,” Lizzie said.
“Thanks to Shannon,” Marigold said, giving me a light squeeze. “I love this place. I can’t tell you how happy I am. I’m just so . . . happy.”
And she promptly burst into tears.
“Oh my God, Marigold!” Jane jumped up from her chair and grabbed her in a tight hug. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I rubbed her back. “Tell us how we can help.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” she wailed.
“Sit down,” I said firmly, and taking her hand, I led her over to the big comfy chair on the other side of the coffee table. “Sit down and tell us what happened.”
“You can’t tell anyone,” she cried.
“Of course we won’t tell,” Lizzie said staunchly.
; “Just talk, sweetie,” Jane crooned. “We’re here to listen.”
Emily sat down on the rug by Marigold’s chair and handed her a tissue.
“I love you guys,” Marigold began through her tears.
“And we love you, too,” I said, sitting down on the couch. “Now spill.”
“I—I—I . . .” She hiccupped the word.
“Take a deep breath,” I said. “Do you need some water?”
“I’ll get it,” Lizzie said, and jumped up to take care of it. A few seconds later, she handed a glass of water to Marigold, who gulped it down.
“Okay?” Lizzie asked. “Want some more?”
Marigold shook her head, still sniffling. “Thanks.”
“Tell us why you’re sad, love,” Emily said softly.
She tapped her fingers on her knees nervously. “Okay. It’s just that, something happened and . . . and I can’t tell Rafe. I probably shouldn’t tell you guys either because it’ll get back to him, but I can’t keep it inside.”
“We can all keep a secret,” Emily said. “You know that.”
“This is a pretty big one,” Marigold whispered.
Jane shook her head, as confused as the rest of us. “What is it, Marigold?”
“I’m just afraid that if he hears what happened, he’ll be so upset. Maybe he’ll just want to walk away from everything.”
“He loves you,” I said quietly. “Whatever happened, he’ll understand. There’s no way he’d leave you.”
“My darling girl,” Emily said, her soft melodic brogue cushioning her words. “Have you fallen out of love with him then?”
Marigold’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. And suddenly she was crying again. “No! Why would you think that? Rafe is wonderful.”
Now I wanted to cry, too. Our darling Marigold was a sweetheart, but when she was upset, she could talk circles around the point until everyone was dizzy.
“We all agree, Rafe’s a sweetie,” I said. “So what’s the problem? What the heck happened?”
She blinked a few times and stared at me. “You met his business partner, right?”
“Yes, we talked about that,” I reminded her. “I met Dillon the first night of the conference. And now he’s dead.”
Shot Through the Hearth Page 11
