by Jane Hinchey
"Oh? He's male. Roughly the same size and build as me. It could have been him Mrs. Hill saw through the window."
"He seemed genuinely distraught that someone had found out about his affair with Sophie. It was an instinctive reaction for him, to come forcing his way inside here and unleash his emotions on me. And while he did attempt to hit me, he didn't come with a weapon to kill me. If he's behind your murder, then a: he would already know that people know and he would have reacted differently. Angry? Yes. But not surprised. He'd have been more in control. And, b: he wouldn't have confronted me the way he did. If he'd wanted to silence me he'd have done better to wait until it was dark and then make his move. Like he did with you—if he was the killer."
"You have a point. You have a talent for reading people, Fitz."
I shrugged. "A skill you subconsciously pick up with temping. You get pretty good at summing people up. It can be brutal in the workforce, resentments and jealousy run rife." The temping life reminded me a lot of dating. You'd turn up to an assignment and it was like you were the only single girl at a party—all the other wives thought you were there to steal their husbands—only at work, they thought you were going to steal their jobs. Everyone was so darn insecure, it was sad when you thought about it.
"That bruise looks pretty bad." Ben motioned to my arm. The blow had landed on the underside of my forearm and still throbbed, despite that I'd told Galloway it didn't hurt. He'd have made me go to the hospital if I let on I was in pain, and I had no intentions of another emergency room visit over a simple bruise.
I peered at it. Ben was right though, the bruise was pretty nasty. The red was changing to purple and dark blue blotches were appearing. "I think I'll ice it." Grabbing a packet of peas out of the freezer, I held them to my arm.
Ben was trying to pick up one of Brett's journals but having no luck. "I don't know about those." I sank back down onto the sofa and nodded at the journals strewn across the coffee table. "They're boring. Mostly fashion commentary. I've not come across anything remotely resembling witchcraft. I'm starting to wonder if Brett doesn't have some sort of mental disorder?"
"I wonder why I took the case then?" Ben leaned forward, elbows on knees, head hung low as he examined the rug beneath his feet.
"Hey," I said in a soothing tone. "It's not your fault you can't remember. I'll keep at it." He lifted his head and looked at me. "How did it go outside?" I nodded toward the back garden. "You were examining the grass pretty intently."
He flopped back in his chair, mimicking my pose. "I dunno. With so many people traipsing to and from the crime scene, it's been totally flattened."
"I'm sorry." I could see how frustrating it was to follow a lead to a dead end. I'd only just started this new career and I was already thinking in terms of leads and clues and dead ends.
"You had to have known, when you took the photos of Steven, that the woman involved was Sophie Drake." I leaned my head back and gazed up at the ceiling.
"Yeah."
"What would you do? Like, now? Knowing what we know, that it is Sophie Steven is having an affair with. What would your next steps be?"
"I'd go talk to them," he said. Which is exactly what I thought he'd do. "While it's technically none of my business what they do, it wouldn't hurt to give them a little shakeup that a PI is sniffing around, and to have some home truths how their actions are hurting others."
"That's what I thought," I murmured. "That's why you didn't close out the cases. You were tying up your own loose ends. And the Firefly Bay Hotel connection was coincidental after all." I was deflated over that particular fact. I'd felt so sure there was something going on at the hotel that involved all three of Ben's cases. Which reminded me. Pulling out my phone, I squinted at the photos I'd taken of Brett's wall, but the cracks in my screen didn't allow for easy viewing. Instead, I emailed them to Ben's business address, then headed into his office to view them on the monitor.
"These don't make any sense." I sighed. Brett had pinned his work rosters on the wall, highlighted a different staff member’s name on each roster, then pinned a red string from it to a black silhouette of a woman in the middle. On the other side were random people's names scribbled on scraps of paper and given the same treatment. Everything led to the silhouette of the woman, but there was no clue who the woman was. "Maybe she's not a woman but a representation of something," I said out loud.
"It's very odd. And it's also puzzling that Brett didn't invite you to see this for yourself. If it's part of his research." Ben stood behind me, peering over my shoulder.
"The first journal Brett showed me had snippets of conversations he'd overheard while at work. Yet so far, the other journals don't have anything like that in them. Most of it is judging people’s fashion choices and bitching about his colleagues."
"So something changed. Something triggered this latest obsession."
"Latest obsession? Why would you say that?" I craned my neck to look at him.
He blinked at me in surprise. "I don't know," he admitted.
I pounced. "You remembered something!"
"That Brett Baxter is obsessive is hardly a breakthrough," he drawled.
"But you said ‘the latest obsession.’ Meaning you knew he'd had previous obsessions. So you must have known something about him that isn't in his file."
"The question is what? And is it relevant?" He frowned at the computer screen. "And are we wasting our time here?"
I had a thunderbolt of a thought. "What if you turned Brett down, said you wouldn't take his case, and he lost it and killed you? I know he's not the same build as you, but he's male and probably strong enough to drag you into the woods."
Ben shrugged. "It could have been him, I suppose. But then whoever killed me may not be related to my cases at all," he pointed out.
"Yes, but whoever it was, you trusted enough to let them into your house. And you were in your kitchen when you were attacked. Maybe offering them a drink or something?"
"There's a lot of maybes."
He was right. I was guessing. The buzz of my phone interrupted us.
"Audrey Fitzgerald," I answered, not recognizing the number.
"Good afternoon, Audrey, this is the Firefly Bay Helping Hand Facility."
"Oh. Hi." The facility that cared for Ben's dad.
"I'm so sorry to hear about Bill Delaney's son, Ben," the woman continued, "We'd like to pass on our sincere condolences."
"Thank you."
"Also, we did receive word from McConnell's that you now have power of attorney of Bill's affairs?"
I nodded. "That's right."
"Okay, excellent. We've got everything we need from McConnell's, but we do need you to pop in at some stage and provide us with photographic I.D. Just for our records, you understand."
"That's fine, I can do that. I need to come in and visit with Bill anyway. Does he know? That Ben died?"
"He does not. It's highly doubtful he would understand or comprehend it."
"Oh. That's so sad." Alzheimer’s was an awful disease. "So do you think I should tell him?" I chewed on my nail.
"Maybe when you come in talk to one of the doctors?" she replied. "They'd be a better judge of that."
I nodded. "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. I'll do that. Actually..." I glanced at the time. "Could I come in now?" It was almost three thirty. I figured I could drop into the care facility on my way home.
"Of course. Just report to reception. We'll have everything waiting for you."
"Thank you." Disconnecting the call, I looked at Ben, who had moved over to the sliding door overlooking the back garden and was looking outside.
"You wanna come visit your dad with me?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just...prepare yourself, Fitz, okay? He won't know who you are. That can be confronting when it's someone you've known your whole life and they don’t remember you."
I reached out to lay my hand on his shoulder, only of course my hand moved right through him and hit the window instead. "
Shit."
Ben chuckled. "Another thing to get used to, eh?"
"Have you seen Thor? I want to let him know I'm leaving and see what he wants to do." Words I thought I'd never say. Checking in with a cat.
"Not since he shot out the cat door when Armstrong arrived."
Sliding the glass door open, I figured I should at least make an effort to find the feline. "Thor!" I called, stepping out onto the deck, hand raised to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun. I scanned the garden for movement. None. Not even a twitch of a fuzzy tail. I called his name again and stepped down onto the grass, scouted the entire back garden with no sign of the furry terror. "Come on, Thor!" I bellowed. Then I heard it. Percy barking.
"I bet you're next door stirring up the dog," I muttered, spinning on my heel and heading toward the gate that separated the two properties. Sure enough the gate was ajar, a big enough gap for one overweight puss to squeeze through. Pushing the gate open further, I stepped through. Mrs. Hill's back garden was beautiful. Laid out in a country cottage style, with a little hedge bordering a paved area with a birdbath in the center, garden beds full of shrubs in bloom, a yellow birch dominating one corner.
"Thor!" I whisper-shouted. I'd never been in Mrs. Hill's garden before and it didn't feel right being here, despite the fact that she quite frequently used the gate to cross onto Ben's property. Something told me if she knew I was in her back garden she wouldn't be happy. Percy was inside and his barking escalated when he heard me. Damn it, he was going to get me busted.
I darted across to the house and pressed my back against the wall, just in case Mrs. Hill peered out one of her back windows to check what the ruckus was about. But of Thor, there was no sighting. Maybe he wasn't here after all. Maybe he was in the woods and I wasn't ready to go in there yet. I wasn't sure I'd ever be ready; just the thought of it had flashes of Ben's body appearing in my mind—a sight that could never be erased.
"Darn cat." I cursed, tiptoeing back to the gate and not breathing easy until I was back on the other side. I closed the gate, made sure the latch clicked. "If you're over there and ignoring me," I stage whispered again, "you're going to have to jump your lazy ass over the fence to get home." Still no reply and a tinge of worry had me chewing my lip again.
"He'll be fine," Ben said when I went back inside, minus one cat. "He's probably asleep in one of his favorite sunny spots."
"In the woods?" I asked, casting a dubious glance at the woods looming alongside Ben's garden.
"Affirmative."
"Fine." I huffed. "I'll go see your dad and then swing back past here to check on him, see if he wants to come back to my place." There was still plenty of water and kibble in his bowls so I knew he'd be okay, but my maternal pet instincts were kicking in and, okay, I admit, I was worried about leaving him alone in the woods. What if he got hurt? What if some bigger animal figured he was prey? I never cared before because Thor was Ben's cat—I saw him as a nuisance. Now he was wriggling his way into my heart and I didn't know what to think about that.
"Awww, look at you," Ben teased. "You're worried about him. Audrey Fitzgerald, you're turning into a cat person."
"Wash your mouth out," I grumbled, but I smiled, snatched Ben's keys from the bowl in the foyer and headed out.
21
Ben was right. It was heartbreaking to see his dad. Dementia had really taken its toll. His short term memory was completely gone and his long term memory was now affected. Bill Delaney was a sixteen-year-old youth living in a sixty-year-old body.
"You're pretty," he told me as we sat drinking tea in the garden of the care facility.
"Thank you." I smiled.
"What's your name again?"
"Audrey. Audrey Fitzgerald. I'm a friend of your son’s."
William spat his tea back into his cup with a snort of laughter. "That's hilarious." He giggled. "I don't have a kid. Gosh." He leaned forward to whisper to me, "I'm still a virgin. I haven't ever..."
My face heated at having such a conversation with Ben's dad—a man who'd been a second father to me. I took another sip of my tea. I was a coffee girl, but I could choke down tea when the occasion warranted it, and since Bill had insisted on tea because his dad said he was too young to be drinking coffee, we were drinking tea.
"See?" Ben whispered in my ear and I gave a slight nod to indicate I'd heard him. The care facility was nice enough, I suppose, although the locks on every door and gate were disconcerting. But dementia patients had a habit of escaping, so keeping them locked in was for their own safety. I understood that, but it still made me incredibly sad. I'd handed over my ID at the reception desk and had my photo taken so they could upload it to their system. I'd also met with one of the facility's doctors who'd advised me not to mention Ben's death to his dad. He was concerned it would only lead to more confusion and ultimately distress for Bill.
"So what do you want to be when you grow up, Bill?" I asked, trying to move the conversation away from his non-existent virginity.
"A mechanic!" Bill nodded with great enthusiasm, then launched into a monologue on cars he'd like to work on and cars he'd like to own. I smiled and nodded where appropriate, all the while my heart aching.
And then he said something that jarred me alert. "Ben's neighbor had a Cadillac in really great condition, a collector’s piece it was, till that nephew of hers got hold of it." I almost spilled my tea.
"Do you mean Mrs. Hill? Ethel Hill?" I asked, afraid to hope that he'd actually remembered anything.
"Ahhh, Ethel. Always was a looker." He sighed dreamily. "She's older than me by a few years, but that doesn't bother me. An older woman has more experience, you know." He winked.
"And Ben?" I prompted.
"Who's Ben?" He frowned and my heart sank. "Do you mean Brett? Her nephew?" he added.
"Brett?" It couldn't be...could it? The name Brett was pretty common but what if Brett Baxter was Ethel Hill's nephew? "Brett Baxter?" I asked.
"That's him. Looney tune that one." And then he was back into his world of cars, how the girl he liked, Beryl Sanderson, drove a VW Beetle and it was as cute as she was. I grinned. He'd ended up marrying Beryl Sanderson and it made my heart happy that he was at least remembering some of his life and the love that he had for a woman for decades.
I finished up my visit with Bill, then spent ten minutes searching for my car in the parking lot before remembering I was in Ben's Nissan. Ben had decided to visit with his dad a while longer, so I pulled out of the lot and headed back toward Ben's house, pondering how ghosts could travel while I enjoyed my new smooth ride. This thing felt like I was driving on marshmallows, and the steering! Oh my God, it was so light compared to my Chrysler. Not to mention the speakers, and the GPS, and the cruise control and integrated Bluetooth. Ben had critiqued my driving and basically stressed the entire drive to the facility, but now I was alone I got to enjoy the ride, and enjoy it I did, with the volume cranked and the windows down—did I mention they were power windows?—I was almost happy. Until I thought about the source of my happiness and then my mood quickly soured. I loved the car. What I didn't love was the fact that I only had it because my best friend had died. I was going to have to find a way to reconcile these emotions before they messed me up.
Instead I concentrated on what Bill had said, about Ethel Hill and her nephew. Of course, it could have been the ramblings of a man suffering from dementia, but what if he had a brief moment of clarity? The doctor had told me that Alzheimer’s is a common cause of dementia and brief moments of clarity could happen, only it wasn't a frequent occurrence and those flashes were simply that—flashes. He'd warned me that Bill's life expectancy would be cut short due to his illness. The average was six to ten years, and Bill had been living with this for more than three, possibly longer because it went undiagnosed for a period of time. Shaking away the maudlin thoughts, I connected my phone to the Bluetooth in the car and called Mom.
"Audrey, love, everything okay?" she answered on the second ring.
"All good, Mom. Hey, I have an odd question. Is Brett Baxter Ethel Hill's nephew?"
"Why, yes, he is."
Boom! I had my answer. I slapped the steering wheel. Now it made sense. Ben took Brett's case as a favor. It was a bullshit case, but I bet Mrs. Hill pressured him into it.
"Are you driving?" Mom intruded in my thoughts, reminding me she was still on the line.
"Yeah. I went to visit Mr. Delaney," I told her.
"How's he doing?" I filled Mom in on my visit with Ben's dad and we chatted until I arrived back at Ben's. Parking the car in the garage, I let myself into the house. While talking with Mom I'd come up with a sort of plan. I needed to get Mrs. Hill talking and the best way to do that was to get her to make the first move. If I knocked on her door and started asking questions she'd probably slam the door in my face. How to get her to make the first move? Annoy her.
Step one, reverse my oil leaking Chrysler onto the driveway and leave it there—on the pretense of accessing the gardening tools hanging on the rear wall of the garage. Step two, start gardening. I was reasonably confident that whatever I attempted to do gardening wise, Mrs. Hill would have an opinion on it. And it would be that I was doing it wrong. I was the first to admit I did not have a green thumb, and I didn't want to ruin Ben's beautiful garden, so I picked the simplest thing. Rake the lawn. Despite it not being fall and there were no leaves to rake, I set to with the rake, dragging it across the grass. Sure enough, the curtains twitched in the window next door and minutes later she was out the front door and crossing her front lawn. I bit back a smile.
"You should smile more, dear. You don't look like you're enjoying gardening," she said.
"But I'm not." It wasn't entirely true. This was the first time I'd done anything in the garden since I'd lived at home almost ten years ago.
"And it shows, dear. And if you look like you're not enjoying it, well"—she glanced around then leaned in to faux whisper—"it makes it look like you can't afford a gardener."