Marriage and Murder: Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries Series Book #2

by Penny Reid

  I petted her hair to soothe her even as my tears flowed freely. “I hate this.”

  “I do too.”

  “You have to go, I know you do. But I don’t want you doing anything that you’ll regret,” I said around a sob. “I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

  We held each other, swaying. I felt her tears on my neck, so I held her tighter and swallowed down the bitterness.

  We’d come so far. This last year and a half, our relationship had altered so much. It had been difficult, but we’d done it. My mother was so different now from the domineering and demanding maternal presence of my past.

  She’d listened to me. She’d gone to therapy. She’d worked on herself. She’d changed for me. She’d wanted to be better for me. She loved me. Now she was leaving me.

  And I had to love her enough to let her go.

  After a long while, she sniffled and pulled back, wiping at her eyes with one hand while keeping the other on my shoulder.

  “We’ll be fine,” she said unconvincingly, a half-hearted smile on her wobbly lips. “Let me just go freshen up for a minute, splash some water on my face. Then I’ll—I’ll make more tea, okay? Anyone want some tea?”

  “I’ll have some more,” Mr. Repo said with infinite gentleness. I wondered at his request since he hadn’t consumed any of his tea. The full tea cup from earlier sat untouched in front of him.

  Mr. Repo then cut Cletus a hard glare, which prompted my fiancé to say, “Yes, please. Tea sounds really great.”

  “I’ll have a cup too,” I muttered, feeling the absurdity of the words as they came out. I felt like I was drifting, floating on a current I couldn’t escape.

  What was happening? How had we arrived here? And what could I do to make things right?

  Ever since that night of the party, things had been spiraling out of control. I’d tried to ignore it. I’d tried to confront it. Nothing helped.

  “Jennifer.”

  I looked up at the sound of my name, surprised to see my mother was no longer in the room with us. I heard water run from a faucet.

  “Jennifer,” Mr. Repo repeated my name, and I gave him my eyes if not the entirety of my attention. I couldn’t.

  I felt . . . lost. So lost.

  He’d also stood at some point, and the man hooked his thumbs in his pockets as he spoke, “You don’t know me, but I keep my promises. I will take care of your mother. She will want for nothing, she’ll be safe.”

  “Except her family,” came my dull reply. “She’ll want for nothing except her family.”

  His chest rose and fell with a silent, deep breath, the muscle at his temple jumped as he flexed his jaw. I stared at this man who was right about one thing: I didn’t know him. I mean, yes, I’d seen him around town my entire life. I recognized him as a citizen of this part of the world and a member of the Iron Wraiths. But beyond that, I had no idea who he was.

  “I still don’t understand why you were there that night,” I said, my tone tired instead of hostile. “Why were you there, Mr. Repo? You never answered. Were you there for my mother? To see her?”

  “That was part of the reason, yes,” he answered solemnly, and by all accounts sincerely.

  And yet I didn’t know him. How do I know if he’s being sincere?

  “So why else? What other reason did you have? Hmm?” I crossed my arms, angling my chin. “Did you plan this?”

  “No.” The word was quiet, contrite, like he was doing his best not to upset me further.

  It pissed me off. “Then why were you there?” I whispered harshly, not wanting my mother to hear.

  Mr. Repo licked his bottom lip, his gaze jumping to someplace behind me—maybe Cletus—then falling to the floor before lifting to mine once more. He didn’t look belligerent, but something about the angle of his jaw and the grit in his eyes told me that Mr. Repo was never going to answer my question.

  “He hoped Jessica James would be there,” Cletus said all of a sudden, matter-of-fact, like wanting to see Jessica James would explain Mr. Repo’s appearance the night of our engagement party.

  I scrunched my face, not trying to hide my confusion or temper. “That makes absolutely no sense. Why on God’s green earth would Mr. Repo care if Jessica James was—was . . .” I didn’t finish the question because a memory—or rather, a series of memories—flashed in my mind’s eye like a slideshow.

  I was and always had been a people-watcher. I’d recognized Mr. Repo, his a familiar face, living in the same town. Additionally, he’d been one of the Iron Wraiths I saw most often with my brother, always from afar.

  But I also recognized him because he’d been places where an Iron Wraith had no business being.

  Outside of church on several Sunday mornings after the early service, which the James family always attended because the sheriff didn’t want to miss football games.

  Buying hot dogs at a baseball game between Green Valley and Lawrence middle schools when Jessica happened to be the pitcher. Yep, Jessica James had been the pitcher for the middle school baseball team. Isaac had also been on the team, which was why my family had been there. We’d been homeschooled, but he’d been allowed to join the local public school’s sports teams. Of note, I had not been allowed. Girls didn’t play sports according to my daddy.

  But Jessica had, and she’d been stellar. I remembered being envious, watching her after the game with her family. Jessica’s daddy, the sheriff, had been so proud.

  Jessica’s daddy.

  “Are you Jessica’s father?” I blurted and, even in my state of surprise at the eruption of words, I didn’t miss how Mr. Repo’s eyes dropped to the floor again, like the weight of my stare, of the question, was too much to bear. He also seemed to have trouble swallowing.

  Once more we stood in silence. The only sound being the water from the faucet in the bathroom where my momma freshened up. It ran and ran and ran.

  But eventually Mr. Repo did swallow, and he did answer, “Not in any way that matters,” his voice imbued with immeasurable sadness and regret. The words nearly knocked the wind from my lungs.

  Had this man just admitted to being Jessica James’s biological father?

  Last year, Jessica had told me of her recent discovery that her maternal aunt had actually been her biological mother. Her biological father, she’d said, remained a mystery. No one seemed to know who he was, and her aunt had died before Jessica could ask.

  Which meant Jessica had no idea.

  He’d been here, the whole time, watching her grow up. And he’d definitely watched her, I felt certain of that. If Jessica and I had been friends growing up, if I’d been privy to more of her life than just Sunday service and baseball games, then I knew without a doubt I would’ve spotted Mr. Repo in the background, hovering, watching, but not speaking up. Not claiming.

  “Why didn’t you—”

  “Tell her?” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Why would I do that? Why would I ruin her happy life?”

  “But—but you’re her—”

  “I’m not.” His eyes were flinty. “The sheriff, that’s her daddy. Janet, that’s her momma. Jackson is her brother. They’re her family, not me. Jessica has always been where she belonged. How much of a selfish asshole would I have to be to take her away from people who were better equipped to love and care for her than I’ve ever been?”

  “What about her mother?”

  Mr. Repo laughed again, this time it sounded bitter. “That woman didn’t know how to love. She knew how to have fun, how to . . . make money. How to be brilliant. How to be cold. But loving came about as naturally to her as walking with two legs comes to a snake.” After the words were out, he closed his eyes, shook his head, looking tired. “No. Jess . . . Jessica James isn’t mine.”

  “Then why show up at our engagement party?” For some reason, I needed to know.

  Maybe it was because my father had also shown up uninvited. He’d shown up my whole life and, mostly, I’d wished he hadn’t. He’d shown up that
night and wanted to ruin everything, make everything about him and what he was due. He didn’t care about me, about hurting me.

  But here was this other man who’d shown up. He’d shown up at baseball games and said nothing, just quietly rooted for his daughter and asked for nothing. Clearly, her happiness mattered to him. He wanted to see her, to see she was happy, but didn’t feel like he had to be the center of it or the cause. Here was a man who had a claim and never staked it because doing so might cause harm.

  And suddenly, I knew why.

  I understood.

  “You love her,” I whispered. Tears again pricked my eyes. “That’s why.” I pressed my lips together to still my wobbly chin, but it was too late. Cletus must’ve perceived the unsteadiness of my voice because he was next to me in a flash, his hand on my back, quiet support. “You love her. And that’s why you want what’s best for her, even now. That’s why you stayed close but never intervened. You love her, and that’s why her happiness matters more to you than what you could’ve gained as her father if you’d made it known.” I shrugged at the futility of his situation, and at the futility of my own. “You love your daughter, Jason.”

  He stared at me, eyes glassy. I stared at him, tears spilling down my cheeks. But I didn’t care, because at least now I knew for sure. I could stop feeling guilty for not feeling guilty. I could stop trying to mourn for a man who only ever saw me as something to be used, controlled, exploited.

  Jason had shown up to the engagement party because he loved his daughter. My father showed up to my engagement party because he never loved me.

  And now I could let him go.

  Chapter Twenty

  *Cletus*

  “Nothing travels faster than the speed of light with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws.”

  Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless

  I still hadn’t pieced together all the details. But at some point I was going to have to inform Jenn of my suspicions. Namely, I suspected her brother, Isaac Sylvester, was a horrible, soulless, evil dumpster fire of a human.

  “Are you excited?”

  My brother Jethro’s cheerful interruption of my careful internal deliberations had me blinking up at him. Presently, I was on the ground of the auto shop, staring unseeingly at the underside fender of Belle Cooper’s Cadillac, most of my body obscured beneath the car.

  “Pardon?” I frowned, disliking that he’d caught me unawares while debating weighty matters.

  Prior to Diane’s departure, I hadn't informed Jenn of my suspicions about Isaac because, though the possibility had always been there, I’d felt no degree of certainty until Diane relayed her version of events. Then, like flooding after a hurricane, the possibility of Isaac’s involvement could no longer be ignored.

  Unfortunately, keeping this suspicion to myself had put me in a perpetually perturbed mood. I wanted to talk it over with her, think through it, but how could I broach the topic?

  These pancakes are delicious, and I know you’re going through a lot at present, but have you considered the possibility that the reason your momma was so adamant about not recognizing the shooter’s voice is because the man with the gun that night was your brother? Also, more bacon while you’re up, please.

  Jethro stopped rubbing his hands together and peered at me with a measure of caution. “Uh—”

  “What do you want?” I snapped, rolling myself out all the way. “I’m backed up here, so unless this is a blueberry emergency, make it quick.”

  “We’re not backed up, Jethro.” My brother Beau, smarmy ginger and contradictor extraordinaire, poked his head out of the hood he’d been tucked behind, adding, “So unless he’s talking about constipation, he’s lying.”

  I wasn’t technically lying about being backed up. My preoccupied state over the last few weeks meant my output had been lower than normal. Beau and Shelly had pitched in the last few days, and we were now all caught up.

  But I had 100 percent been lying—through omission—to Jenn.

  I hadn't told Jenn yesterday, or the day before that, or the day prior to that about her brother because my lady’s soft heart had been suffering since Diane’s exodus three weeks ago. Despite valiant attempts and meticulous consistency, no amount of foot rubs, back rubs, or—ahem—other rubs had vanquished my love’s melancholic mood. She slouched. She sighed. She stared at nothing. Her smiles never quite reached her eyes. It was the difference between a sunny sky and an overcast one; the sky remained in the same familiar position, but nothing about felt it the same.

  “She doesn’t always need to be sunny,” Sienna had said yesterday during our early morning yoga. “You’re worried about her, we all are. But she’s sad, and she has every reason to be. She just lost her father and now her mother. Give her time.”

  She just lost her father and now her mother.

  That was the truth and the crux of the issue. How could I tell Jenn about my suspicions when doing so might mean losing her brother too? The blond muscly menace had returned to his previous modus operandi, functioning as an Iron Wraith, in town, always at a distance. He never saw his sister purposefully, never reached out to her.

  But he was still here. Present. And yet, if I spelled out the facts as I knew them to be, it wouldn’t matter if his body existed in Green Valley, his soul—and therefore him—might already be gone. Lost to her.

  Yes, I’d promised I wouldn’t keep information to myself, lie, or obfuscate facts anymore. But this . . . this wasn’t information. This was a nuclear warhead covered in murder hornets and the plague.

  Sometimes, rarely, and by rarely I mean just this one time, I really hate knowing things.

  Jethro, appearing uncertain, glanced over his shoulder at Beau and then back to me. He then set his hands on his hips as I got to my feet. “Are you sick? Does this mean you’re not coming to dinner?”

  “My bowels are none of your concern.” I tossed a wrench into the nearby toolbox and stuffed the rag in my grip into my back pocket. He inspected me with a worry that had me regretting my words. So I lied. “But, yes, I have been having some tummy trouble. If Sienna wouldn’t mind making me one of her coconut smoothies, I’d be much obliged.”

  His brow unknit itself, and he nodded. “Sure. No problem. I just came from the store, and I’ll text her on the way home. But, just to be clear, y’all are still coming for dinner tonight, right?”

  “Correct. And to your earlier question, we are excited. Have Duane and Jess recovered from their jet lag?”

  My surly younger brother and the love of his life had flown into town just yesterday. They planned to stick around long enough to attend the wedding next week and visit loved ones, which of course included the James family: Deputy Jackson James, Janet James, and Sheriff Jeffery James. They planned to be in attendance at dinner tonight, which I suspected would likely reek of conversation missteps and awkwardness, seeing as how Jenn had been arrested two months ago.

  I’d only seen the sheriff a handful of times since the discovery of Diane’s clandestine departure. The man hadn’t seemed at all surprised by her inexplicable absence. In fact, Sheriff James seemed relieved. After interviewing Jenn and I—and always in the presence of lawyer Genevieve Taylor—the FBI also packed up and absconded Green Valley. Our stories had been synchronized, unimpeachable, and Jennifer’s distraught tears had been very, very real.

  In fact, so distracted was she by her momma’s flight from the law, Jenn didn’t seem to notice the whispers. She didn’t seem to notice folks had drawn their own conclusions about Diane’s abdication of her Green Valley business mogul throne. Mind, these were the same folks who couldn’t draw a straight line along a ruler’s edge or tip over a bucket if the instructions were written on the bottom, but they felt right at home drawing conclusions.

  The general topics discussed by gossip mongers revolved mainly around: Diane Donner being a vulpine murderess; poor, simple Jennifer being greatly used by both her parents; how the heck would Jennifer manage th
e lodge and the inheritance left by her deceased father; whether or not our wedding should be canceled due to all the scandal.

  I couldn’t shield Jennifer from the constant onslaught of pitying glances wherever we went. As such, we rarely went anywhere. But the wedding—whether or not to move forward as planned—was not up for discussion.

  Jennifer didn’t wish to cancel the wedding. She’d been adamant we move forward as planned. In private, I suspected Ashley’s hard work thus far was part of the reason for Jenn’s stubborn determination. The other part likely had to do with Jenn’s father. She didn’t wish to sacrifice any more of her life due to his actions, or inactions, or death.

  And so, I’d been supportive.

  But I fretted.

  And then there’s still the matters of Kenneth Miller and Elena Wilkinson to deal with. I’d have to address their nefarious behavior eventually.

  Elena hadn’t shot Kip, but she’d strangled him. She’d fled into the woods with the shooter in pursuit. Obviously, the police not being privy to Diane’s version of events meant they could persist in their ignorant assumption that Kip had been strangled and shot by the same person.

  And Miller. Did he have the gun? If so, how’d he get it? And where in tarnation was he? Questioning Elena and Miller was on the back burner, mostly because I couldn’t find either of them, not since Diane and Repo had left town.

  “Oh no, I wasn’t asking if you’re excited about dinner.” Jethro flashed me a big old grin, pulling me once more from my reverie. It was the cheekiness of the grin that had me bracing my bowels. “I was asking if you’re excited about tomorrow.”

  I glanced to the left, then to the right. “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Your bachelor party,” he said, his grin faltering. “Did you forget?”