by Hillary Avis
“Let me guess. If he told you to come over, you’d have stayed home?”
“Yep.” I scooted to the next row and stood on tiptoe to see if I could get a better view inside the shed, but the interior was too dark for me to make out any detail, especially with Eli standing in the way. Suddenly, he turned around and I ducked behind a bush to avoid being spotted by him, but I was too slow. He frowned and started jogging toward me, and I braced myself for a sheriff-quality scolding. “Listen, Ruth—I should go.”
“Call me later with an update! I—”
When Eli reached me, I panicked and hung up before Ruth could finish her sentence. He eyed the phone in my hand. “Didn’t Ruth tell you to stay put? Those were my exact words.”
“Yeah, but you know I’m not a very good listener. Plus, I deserve to know what’s going on in my backyard. Did you find another skeleton in the shed or something?”
Eli shook his head, his jaw set. “We found Walt.”
“Isn’t that who you were looking...” I trailed off as I realized that what he was leaving out was more important that what he’d said. He’d shouted for the forensics team, which meant...I gasped. “Walt’s dead?”
Eli gave a single nod. “He is.”
My stomach sank. “Oh no—poor Anne!”
“I know, it’s not a good day for her. I called her family to come be with her, but they’re not here yet. Since you’re here anyway, would you go in and sit with her?”
I nodded. “What happened to Walt? Was it some kind of accident?”
“We’re not exactly sure yet, but one thing’s for certain—he didn’t die of natural causes. It’s bad, Leona. Really bad.”
“Do you think he somehow figured out that he was a suspect and...you know, ended things?”
Eli closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. At first I thought he was upset with me for asking, but then I realized that he was just calming his own nerves. I hadn’t even known Eli Ramirez had nerves. He was always the type who laughed at ghost stories and jumped off bridges into icy water for fun. Plus, any boy who could ride in the passenger seat of my car when I was a teenage driver had to have nerves of steel.
A few long moments later, he opened his eyes and looked at me with a frank expression on his face. “I wish I could tell you more, but honestly? You don’t want to know. Trust me when I say that nobody should have to carry the image of what’s inside that shed. I can tell you that Walt Sutherland definitely did not do that to himself. Someone else did.”
My eyes flickered toward the blueberry shed, where Blake was setting up a perimeter of police tape and another member of his team was donning a protective suit. Fifteen minutes ago, I’d been certain that Walt was the only killer living in Honeytree, Oregon, but clearly I’d been wrong. Someone was still killing here—brutally killing, if Eli’s shaken demeanor was any indication.
“Do you think this is about Joe? Revenge for his murder, maybe?” I asked in a quiet voice.
Eli gave a tiny, helpless shrug. “Maybe. Or it could be unrelated. Anne said he’s a gambler, right? Maybe he has debts. Maybe he ticked off the wrong cowboy. Nothing is clear. Well, not nothing. It’s pretty clear that whoever killed Walt hated him. I mean, really hated him.”
I swallowed. As much as curiosity pulled me toward the black maw of the open shed door, on this rare occasion, I wasn’t feeling rebellious. “I’d better go see how Anne’s doing.”
Eli gave a shake of his head, like he was trying to wake from a bad dream. “Good. Good. And hey, Leona?”
“What?”
“Watch your back, OK?”
I nodded, my spine prickling at the warning as I made my way to Anne’s front door.
Inside, the sweet scent of cornbread baking permeated the air. I found Anne pacing restlessly around the kitchen table, her hand over her mouth and her face drained of color. I had no idea what to say to her, so I went to the stove where the canner and a pot of soup were still simmering, a pie cooling on the counter nearby, and turned off the gas so the soup wouldn’t scorch on the bottom. I refilled the empty kettle on the back burner in case Anne’s relatives might want tea when they arrived; I could tell by looking that Anne didn’t. She looked...broken.
“I’m so sorry about Walt,” I murmured, for lack of anything better to say.
She stopped pacing abruptly and looked at me, her eyes narrowed to fierce slits. “I know I should be sad. But I’m not! I’m glad he’s dead. I don’t care if that makes me a terrible person.”
Wow. I was not expecting that from meek, mousey Anne. “Um, I mean—I’m not here to tell you how to feel. You might want to phrase it a little differently for when you talk to Eli, though.”
“No!” Anne smacked her hand down on the tabletop. “I am done phrasing things for other people’s benefit. I’m glad he’s dead, I’m glad he’s dead, I’m glad he’s dead. He’s made my life miserable for the last thirty years, and I’m glad he can’t do that anymore.”
With a jolt, I recognized myself in her words. “You know what? You’re right. He can’t hurt you anymore.” I pulled out a chair and sat down, patting across the table for her to join me. “You’re free, and you’re allowed to be happy about that.”
Anne met my eyes for the first time as she sank into the chair opposite mine and grasped my hands in hers. “Did your husband hurt you, too? Is that why you moved back here?”
“He didn’t leave bruises.” I nodded to the blue bloom on the side of Anne’s neck. “Not like those.”
Anne brushed her hand lightly across the dark marks on her neck. “The physical pain isn’t the worst part, is it?”
“No.”
We sat together in silence for a few minutes, holding hands, watching out the darkening window as the lights from arriving sheriff’s vehicles flicked in and out, red and blue, like neon bruises, until the kettle squealed. Anne rose to take it off the heat. She paused at the stove. “How would you like some pie?”
I grinned at her. “You know what? I skipped lunch, so I’d like it a lot.”
She set two plates of pie and two forks on the table and slid back into her seat. “Want to hear the worst thing Walt ever did?”
I nodded and let the first forkful of flaky crust melt on my tongue.
“He once bet a whole blueberry harvest on a hand of poker, and he lost.”
“Bastard,” I said with my mouth full.
One corner of her lips quirked upward. “That’s not even the worst part. When the bills came due, he pawned all my jewelry to pay them. My wedding ring, my grandmother’s locket, all of it. Like it didn’t even matter.” She touched her necklace and I noticed for the first time that she wasn’t wearing a ring. It wasn’t so unusual for married people to eschew wedding rings around here—they were expensive, for one thing, and they could be dangerous for those who worked with their hands. But Anne must have treasured hers, by the look on her face.
“I wanted to kill him for that”—her expression turned guilty—“but I didn’t, obviously. That had to be twenty years ago.”
“I’m glad you got your locket back, at least. I can tell it’s important to you.”
Anne’s expression flickered. Surprise, wariness? My words had elicited some reaction, some memory. I couldn’t tell what was going through her mind, but I could tell there was more story there. Her face settled into pale, smooth calm. “I’m glad, too.” She pointed her fork at me. “Your turn. What’s the worst thing yours did?”
I barked a laugh. “I can only pick one?”
She nodded and, through a mouthful of pie, said, “There are things we can live with and things we can’t. What was the moment when you knew it was all over? Was it the TV thing?”
I stiffened with surprise, although I don’t know why I’d assumed Anne hadn’t seen the clip. The whole world had seen it live on the America Today show. Then the video clip had gone viral, with over twenty-seven million views the last time I checked. I’d be surprised if anyone in Honeytree hadn’t s
een it. But so far, everyone had the decency to pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened, so it was a shock to hear Anne mention it.
Anne winced at my expression. “You don’t have to answer; I was just hoping for a distraction so I don’t have to think about Walt out there. I’m so sorry.”
Here I was, sitting across from a woman whose husband’s murdered corpse was probably still warm in the shed, and she was apologizing to me for bringing up painful memories. “No, it’s fine. I wish it was the TV thing. I should have walked off the soundstage the minute he brought out those photos of me in my underwear and carved them up with his Sharpie. I was just completely blindsided.”
Anne gasped. “You didn’t know?! I thought you must have had some inkling or you wouldn’t have gone on the program.”
“I had none.” Peterson was there at America Today promoting his new reality TV show called Then to Ten that would document a woman through a yearlong plastic surgery makeover. I was along for the ride to play the part of supportive spouse—or so I thought. But the joke was on me; I was the first subject of his program. I was the walking, talking “before.” The humiliated look on my face when Peterson showed those images is why the America Today video went viral, but that wasn’t even the worst part.
“It was what he said backstage afterward that clinched it. That’s when I knew that our marriage was over.”
Anne leaned forward, her eyes widening. “What’d he say?”
“Well, at first I told him I wasn’t going to do it. He was the one who wanted to be famous, not me. I had no interest in changing my appearance or in having cameras follow me 24/7 for an entire year. I told him to get another subject—one who wanted a makeover. One who didn’t mind giving up her privacy. We lived in LA, for goodness sake, where there are a hundred thousand women who would jump at the opportunity!”
“I take it he didn’t apologize.” Anne looked at me with sympathy and clucked her tongue. “They never do.”
I chuckled humorlessly. “Nope. He told me I was sabotaging his career with my quote-unquote ‘willful indifference about my appearance.’ He said nobody would hire a plastic surgeon whose wife looked like me. He said I was his best advertisement, and if I wouldn’t play along, he wouldn’t either. Our marriage would be over if I didn’t go under the knife.”
“No wonder you walked away.” Anne crossed her arms over her apron. “I hope you took him for all he was worth.”
“Nope. Pre-nup. Signed it when I was young and dumb and believed in true love.”
“Sorry, Leona.”
There she was, apologizing to me again. I’d meant to distract her from her own pain, not garner her sympathy. I forced a smile. “Don’t be. If Peterson wasn’t such a motherclucker, I’d have been stuck eating mediocre blueberry pie at hipster restaurants in LA forever!” I made a big show of shoveling a few bites into my mouth and was gratified to hear her chuckle.
I heard footsteps and muffled voices on the porch outside, and Anne’s face grew serious again when someone rapped gently at the door. I rose and took our empty plates to the sink, hiding the evidence of our enjoyment; for some reason I felt guilty about eating the pie, like we’d been sneaking dessert while the grownups weren’t looking. Anne smoothed her dress and folded her hands in her lap.
“Ready?” I asked, and she nodded silently. I crossed the kitchen, conscious of my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, and cracked open the door.
Eli’s dark eyes met mine as he leaned into the doorframe. “Her family’s here,” he said, his voice low. “How’s she doing?”
“Holding up.” I opened the door wide and saw a few people with Anne’s same wide pale face huddled like pigeons behind Eli. “Come on in. There’s soup on the range, cornbread in the oven, hot water in the kettle, and pie on the counter.”
Chapter 20
I woke in the early hours when it was still dark, not to the sound of Alarm Clock’s crow, but to the sound of my phone ringing. I scrabbled it from the nightstand and held it to my ear.
“What is it?” I asked groggily. I hadn’t gotten to bed until nearly midnight, and my eyes were still glued shut with sleep. “Who is this? Is everything OK?”
“Leona Davis?” A woman’s voice I didn’t recognize was on the line. “This is Stef at the post office. Your chicks are in. Can you be here in a half-hour?”
I sat up too fast and my head spun. I’d totally forgotten about the chicks in all the chaos after Walt’s body was found. I hadn’t even finished setting up the brooder in the barn. Heck, I was still wearing my “Hens Before Mens” shirt; I’d only bothered to take off my shoes and jeans before I collapsed into bed last night. My mother would be horrified that I’d slept in my street clothes, especially street clothes that had been worn while cleaning out a dusty old barn.
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Just hold your nose when you hand over the box—I can’t remember the last time I showered.”
Stef snickered. “Will do. Come around the back of the building to the loading dock. The front door’s locked for a few more hours.”
“Gotcha. Thanks.” I’d already pulled on one leg of a clean pair of cargo pants and, after I hung up the phone and dropped it on the bed, put them the rest of the way on and pulled a clean T-shirt over my head. This one was pink and said “World’s Best Nana” in curly lavender script, a Mother’s Day gift from my twin grandchildren, Isabella-Sophia and John-William, who lived in Chicago.
Well, actually, it was from my daughter Andrea. Isabella-Sophia and John-William were only two years old and hadn’t yet mastered the art of ordering stuff from Amazon. I was pretty sure that I wasn’t the world’s best nana anyway, given that I’d only seen my grandkids once in their lives, back when they were still little pink-and-blue burritos. Andrea’s fancy heart-surgeon husband moved in Chicago’s “elite circles” and the children were already enrolled in a prestigious preschool that cost, if it can be believed, as much as Andrea’s tuition at Northwestern had. The little darlings wore their little uniforms and never visited their grandparents because they couldn’t miss a day for fear of falling behind their privileged classmates. As you can imagine, Peterson was very proud. I just missed them.
When the divorce papers were filed, I offered to move to Chicago to help out with the twins, but Andrea said no. The T-shirt was a consolation prize, I think. That said, it was very nice, thick and soft. Perfect for getting some work done around the farm. I thumped down the stairs two at a time, jammed my feet into my sneakers and a blueberry muffin into my mouth, grabbed my keys and purse from the hook by the door, and barreled out to the Suburban.
I skidded to a stop when I saw the black SUV parked behind my car, “Douglas County Sheriff” glinting on the side in gold letters. Eli’s head lolled back in the driver’s seat. As I drew closer, I saw a string of drool trailing out of his mouth as he slept. He’d clearly been here all night—again.
I rapped on the window. He jerked awake, looking around with a panicked expression until his eyes lit on me and a smile spread lazily across his face. He motioned for me to step back and then opened the door, stretching as he got out into the chilly morning air.
“You surprised me.”
“You need to move your rig,” I said, motioning behind him. “I can’t get out.”
His face grew serious. “That’s the plan. I don’t want you going anywhere without me today. Not with a killer operating in the Flats.”
I rolled my eyes. “I think I’ll be safe on the way to the post office and back. Whoever killed Walt has nothing against me. Move your car, Eli!” I started toward the Suburban, but as I reached for the driver’s door, Eli stepped smoothly between me and the handle.
“I’m not going to let you do that. I’ll give you a ride, though.”
“Give me one good reason why I need a chaperone.” I glared at him and crossed my arms.
The smile dropped off his face and he leaned in close, bending down so his face was level with mine. “Because maybe Walt didn’t kill Hob
o Joe. Maybe he just saw who did it, and that person is still trying to cover up their crime. And you’re the one going around asking questions about Joe’s murder, so now you’re on the killer’s radar, too. Ever thought of that?”
I hadn’t. He straightened up, a smug expression on his face. “I didn’t think so.”
“But nobody knows I’ve been asking—” I broke off and groaned. “Ruth. If she knows, all of Honeytree knows.”
Eli nodded. “The whole sheriff’s department is aware, too—everyone is interested in this case and word travels fast. There’s not a corner of the county that doesn’t know you found a skeleton in your yard, and that Walt might have seen something that morning twenty years ago. I’m starting to think he might not have been Joe’s killer. He might have been telling the truth.”
I leaned up against the Suburban. “Or he might have lied. From what Anne told me last night, Walt was abusive to her for years. He’s a violent man. It’s not crazy to think he was the one who killed Joe. And it’s not crazy to think he was mixed up in some other sketchy stuff that led to his murder—stuff that has nothing to do with me or Joe. Now, my chicks are waiting for me at the post office and I’ve got”—I pulled my arm away from him and checked the time on my phone—“less than fifteen minutes to get there now. Could you please move your car?”
“Nope. I’ll take you there.”
“Fine! But you’re being very silly about this.” I threw up my hands and stormed around to the passenger side of his SUV. I took my seat and crossed my arms over the seatbelt, tapping my foot impatiently while he backed up and eased down the driveway. I could tell Eli was pleased that he’d managed to horn in on my errand, but he was smart enough keep his mouth shut about it.
We rode in silence all the way to Honeytree, until he pulled the SUV up to the curb in front of the post office and turned to look at me. “I know you’re not taking this seriously, but you need to be careful. You didn’t see what I saw in that blueberry shed. Someone very dangerous is at large.”
I glanced out my window and saw the red CLOSED sign hanging in the window of the post office. “Back door.”