Secrets in a Still Life

by Kari Ganske

  "Okay, Ms. Lightwood. I'm sure that isn't what the chief was implying," Detective Spaulding said, giving the chief a pointed look. "Can you walk us through the rest of the evening? Your father already gave us his statement, but we'd like to hear your version of events."

  I nodded and described walking Linc, my father, and the chief back to the spot where Missy lay. I drew from my many years on-site with journalists to remove myself from the moment and report the events factually.

  "You recognized the woman?" Detective Spaulding asked when I finished.

  I nodded.

  "How?" Chief Duncan asked. "You haven't been in town in years, and yet you recognized someone in one glance."

  That gave me pause. Should I mention the fight at the salon? It wasn't really a fight, just a few women exchanging words. And insults. Deciding it would only confuse things, I chose to keep it to myself for now.

  "We went to high school together," I said lamely.

  "Almost fifteen years ago!" Chief Duncan leaned forward in his chair and pointed his stubby finger at me. I recoiled backward instinctively even though the table separated us.

  "Clive Duncan!" my mother exclaimed, hands on hips. "I've invited you into my house. If you can't act appropriately, you can leave this instant."

  "I'm asking relevant questions," he said, huffing back in his chair once again.

  "This is sounding more and more like an interrogation. Like you think Alex could possibly have something to do with Missy’s murder. Which is just ridiculous," Mom spluttered.

  Detective Spaulding cut in, "It's much too early in the investigation for anyone to be jumping to conclusions. We simply need the facts, and getting them right away while they are fresh in your memory is best."

  "So answer the question," Chief Duncan said.

  "What question?" I asked, trying and failing to keep the snippiness out of my voice.

  "How did you recognize Ms. Vandenburg after fifteen years?" Detective Spaulding asked. His tone, like mine earlier, was matter of fact, not accusatory.

  "I got my hair done in her salon, Missy K's, this morning," I explained, twisting the tips of a few wet strands in my fingers.

  Chief Duncan snorted again, but wisely kept his mouth shut this time. With that reaction, any residual doubt I had about mentioning my small fight with Missy vanished. I willed my gossipy mother to keep the events to herself for once.

  Dad cleared his throat. "I think any more questions can wait until the morning. It's already really late."

  "Unfortunately, murder doesn't keep regular business hours," Detective Spaulding quipped. "But, you're right. We've got enough for now." He rose from his chair. "Is there a number where I can reach you if I have any follow-up questions?"

  I gave him my cell number. My father stood up from the table to escort the trio of police to the door. I heard him say, "Chief, if you want to ask my daughter any more questions, you can direct them to our lawyer. I'll call you with the number tomorrow."

  When he returned to the table, his face was grim. "I don't like Clive Duncan's tone. He has it out for you, Alex. Be careful what you tell them."

  "Can you blame him, though?" I asked. "I am the anomaly in town. I've already wrecked a town landmark. And Missy and I had words at the salon in front of plenty of witnesses. If I were the murderer, it would wrap all this up in a nice pretty bow."

  "Did you murder her?" my father asked, his face blank.

  "Of course not!" my mother and I shouted at the same time.

  "Exactly. The truth will out. Just don't help Chief Duncan along in his delusions."

  "No problem there," I said and sighed, tired straight down to my bones. "I'm going to bed. It's been quite a day. Quite a week."

  "I meant what I told him. We're getting you a lawyer tomorrow. Better safe than sorry. The only murder Chief Duncan has ever investigated is the one on Law and Order."

  "Thanks, Daddy," I said. I gave him a quick kiss on his bald head. "You know, 'you are oddly attired—for a knight.'"

  My father smiled at the Last Crusade reference. "That's my girl."

  Chapter 8

  As if my time so far in Piney Ridge wasn't crappy enough, karma gave me the middle finger by scheduling my court date the Monday after I found a dead body. Which was why I now stood grimacing at my meager offering of clothes. My wardrobe hit both ends of the spectrum: perfectly acceptable for traipsing around in a foreign country or going out to a night club in New York. Not much in the middle and not a lot that said "responsible adult." I finally broke down and asked my mother to borrow an outfit.

  "I look like Auntie Delores," I muttered forlornly after I tried on the least loud spring dress I could find in my mother's closet—a lavender A-line with dancing flamingos wearing sunglasses. Luckily, the flamingos were small enough that from a distance they looked like geometric shapes.

  At least that's what I told myself anyway.

  "You aren't in a fashion show," my mother said, dismissing my dismay with a wave of a hand and throwing a cardigan at me. "And for the record, your Aunt Delores had impeccable taste."

  I hid my snort behind a cough. Auntie Delores gave Mom a run for her money in terms of outlandish prints. She even liked to mix and match them in inventive ways. According to my aunt, cheetahs and zebras lived together in the same country, so they could live together on her body as well.

  I checked the time. "It'll have to do. I'm running late already."

  "Are you sure you don't want me to come?" Mom asked for the bajillionth time.

  "Yes. I'll be fine. I'll apologize profusely, promise to pay for the damages, and be on my way," I said. Although I wouldn't have minded the moral support, I knew my mother wouldn't be able to refrain from talking. And based on my many years of true crime binge-watching, silence was golden in the courtroom.

  "Call if you need anything," Mom said as I shut the door of her car. She gave a wave as I backed down the driveway and headed to the courthouse.

  I sat in the back row, head lowered, and waited for my turn. Luckily, I didn't have to wait long since there were only a few minor traffic violations and a drunk-and-disorderly ahead of me. The sooner this was over, the sooner I could go crawl back under my rock.

  "Now, Mr. Oliphant, this isn't your first time standing before me," the judge said. Mr. Oliphant hung his head dutifully. "Now I know a man likes to have a cold one or two after a hard day's work."

  Mr. Oliphant lifted his head expectantly.

  "But," the judge continued, "it isn't fair to the citizens of Piney Ridge to have drunkards wandering through town being belligerent. Especially when they aren't wearing any pants."

  Mr. Oliphant hung his head again. "I 'pologized 'bout that," he mumbled. "Not my proudest moment."

  "I would guess not. I'm ordering you to three hundred hours of community service to be served at the businesses along Main Street since that is where you ran amok. If I find you in front of me again, Mr. Oliphant, it will be jail time." The judge leaned forward and added, "Listen, Teddy, just stay home and drink. Lock yourself in the house if you have to. Or call your sister to babysit you."

  "I know, I know," Mr. Oliphant said. "Thanks, Judge."

  "Pick up your order and pay the court fine on your way out." He looked at his docket. "Alexandretta Lightwood."

  I stood and walked to the front of the courtroom, avoiding eye contact with everyone else.

  "Go get 'em, Lexi," a familiar voice whispered as I passed the front row. I snapped my head around, hoping I mis-recognized the voice. But no, Linc sat there with an amused smile on his handsome face. Perfect. I rolled my eyes to the heavens but didn't stop moving. Was he going to be present for all of my misfortunes from now on?

  "Lightwood," the judge repeated. "Any chance you're Connie and George's girl?"

  "That's me," I squeaked. A small laugh bubbled from the gallery. I cleared my throat. Off to a great start.

  "You're the one who knocked over the Welcome sign," he said without even looking down. My r
eputation preceded me.

  "Also me," I said with an apologetic smile.

  "I have the police reports here. It seems pretty cut and dry. Anything you want to say for yourself before I proceed with sentencing?"

  I paled. Sentencing sounded serious. Still, if Mr. Oliphant could run through town pantless and only get community service, perhaps my punishment wouldn't be so severe.

  "I'm really sorry. It was totally an accident. I'm happy to pay for the damages. Although, depending on how much it will be, I might need a payment plan."

  The judge smiled. "According to the estimate from our local woodsmith, the sign itself wasn't damaged. You'll be responsible for replacing the posts and the labor to remount it. Truth be told, I'm surprised a strong gust of wind didn't knock that rotted thing down sooner."

  "Thank you, sir," I said. I'd thought the same thing.

  "I'm also ordering one hundred hours of community service to be served with the fire department," he said.

  I almost opened my mouth to protest, to ask for a few nights in jail instead. The fire department meant I'd have to see Linc. A lot. Well, at least for one hundred hours, much more than I'd planned on spending with him. I tried to avoid awkward situations as much as possible. And things between me and Linc definitely qualified as awkward.

  "Ms. Lightwood? Did you hear me?" Judge Cockran asked. I refocused on him. "One hundred hours community service, and you'll surrender your driver's license for three months or until you complete a driver's safety class."

  "Three months? How am I supposed to get to my community service?" I asked before my brain reconnected to my mouth. When it finally caught up, I backpedaled. "I mean, thank you, sir. That's very kind. I promise to stay out of trouble from now on."

  Finding a body notwithstanding, of course. But I kept that thought to myself.

  "See that you do. Pick up your order, hand over your license, and pay the court fine on your way out," he said. He moved on to the next case as I hung my head and exited the side door toward the clerk's office.

  A little while later, sans license, I was trying to figure out how to get my mother's car—and myself—home as I exited the courthouse into the bright sun of the afternoon. I squinted my eyes, adjusting them from the artificial light of the inside, and ran smack into someone before they could adjust fully.

  "We've got to stop meeting like this," Linc said, holding me by my elbows to steady me. "If I didn't know any better, I'd start to think you liked being pressed up against me."

  I backed up abruptly. "If you weren't always in my way, I'd stop bumping into you."

  "I thought you might need a ride," he said, ignoring me.

  "I'm fine. I can walk."

  "You are not going to walk all the way home. So, we can argue about it for another ten minutes, and then I can drive you home. Or you can just get in my truck now and save some time."

  I glared at him. Part of me really wanted to push by him and walk home anyway. A bigger part, the part that included my feet which were currently drowning in the two-sizes-too-big shoes I'd borrowed from my mother, really wanted that ride.

  I huffed, but said, "Fine. You can tell me all about what I'll be doing at the firehouse for one hundred hours."

  He lowered his sunglasses and flashed his full megawatt smile at me. He was what my mother would call traditionally handsome—like the dashing male stars of the mid-1900s. He looked like if Gene Kelly and Chris Hemsworth had a baby. Throw in a dash of wholesome guy-next-door, and Lincoln Livestrong was every small-town mother's dream. I wondered what all those mothers would think if I told them it was Linc and I who'd let the goats loose in the high school as a senior prank.

  "Are you getting in my truck or are we fighting? One or the other, because standing here with you silently staring at me is unnerving." Linc smirked again. He was perpetually amused at life. Whereas life seemed to be perpetually amused by me.

  "I'm getting in the stupid truck," I said, pulling my eyes away from him. "Where are you parked?"

  He gestured in the direction, then put his hand on the small of my back to escort me. I tried to ignore the wave of heat that crashed through my body at his touch.

  "What were you doing here today anyway?" I asked as we walked.

  "Mondays at the courthouse? Best entertainment in town!" he said with a chuckle. "Lots of craziness happens on the weekends. That bit with Mr. Oliphant—totally worth it. Not to mention the look on your face when Judge Cockran announced you'd be doing your community service at the firehouse. Priceless."

  I smacked his arm. "It surprised me, that's all. And I don't believe you for a second. Don't you have imperative firehouse stuff to do? It is business hours."

  Linc shrugged and stopped beside a beat-up red pickup truck. I recognized it immediately.

  "Holy Moses! You still have this thing? Is it safe?"

  "Perfectly safe," he said, giving the door a loving pat as he opened it for me. It squealed in protest. "Just needs a bit of grease in the hinges."

  "Tell me this is a replica of the one you had in high school," I said, hesitating at the open door.

  "Same frame, new trimmings under the hood. I rebuilt her a few years ago. Lots of good memories in this baby," he added, holding my gaze.

  I swallowed hard and looked away, the heat from his touch now creeping up my neck in a blush. I had some memories in this rattletrap too, only I didn't know if I would consider them good or not. Good at the time, absolutely—no one would argue that a few moments alone with teenaged Linc on this bench seat wasn't good. But good, now, in hindsight, knowing the humiliation that came after? That's where the line between good and not-so-much started to blur. I'd been able to get past those memories by chalking it up to a learning experience.

  Totally past it. Hardly ever thought about it.

  I pushed those memories aside once again and climbed in. Linc shut the door as I settled into the all too familiar seat. It still smelled the same—leather and oil and Lincoln—and as much as I tried to squelch my memories, they persevered. I'd ridden here countless times to and from school, to and from the mall, to and from the reservoir. Of course, that was before the "teach me how to kiss" episode in our senior year. It seemed like a great idea at the time—I didn't want to go to college without having my first kiss; Linc knew how to kiss if Missy's stories were any indication. Plus, he was my best friend. My safe space. Easy peasy, no-brainer.

  Except it turned into a disaster of epic proportions that ended in humility, slobber, and tears—all on my part.

  When he hopped into the driver's seat, I willed the fire threatening to overtake my face to stay put in my gut where it belonged.

  "What are you gonna make me do?" I asked.

  He snickered, and I realized how it sounded.

  "At the firehouse," I added quickly. "For my community service."

  "There's lots of stuff to do. We definitely need help organizing the office. And we need someone to spearhead the calendar shoot."

  I gaped at him. "You don't seriously do a Piney Ridge Firehouse calendar. How cliché. How small town."

  "Whatever works. People love it. We include adoptable pets too. Think you can handle that, Ms. World Famous Photojournalist?"

  I scoffed at him. "A few decrepit firemen and some cats? I think I'll be fine."

  "Who are you calling decrepit?" he asked, feigning offense.

  "Current company excluded. How does Piney Ridge have enough firemen to fill a calendar? This place only has three police officers."

  "First of all, the correct term is firefighter. We have a few women among our volunteers, I'll have you know. Between those of us who are paid, the volunteers, the support staff, and the three police officers, we have enough to get us through September. Then we double up for the rest of the year. I'm usually in two months—"

  "Of course you are," I mumbled. I was actually surprised he wasn't in every month. Besides the mothers in town, half of our high school graduating class would snap that calendar up in a New
York minute.

  "Why do you need my help now?" I asked.

  "Our usual photographer was the husband of one of the volunteers."

  "Emphasis on 'was,'" I noted.

  Linc nodded. "They've recently had a falling out. As in, she caught him falling out of his pants with another woman. So we can't use him any longer. I figured you'd be the perfect replacement. Which is why I sneaked over to the courthouse earlier to finagle Judge Cockran into assigning you the community service at the firehouse. Win-win for both of us. We get a free photoshoot with a professional photographer, and you get to complete your court-ordered punishment doing something you love."

  Well, color me surprised. "That's—that's actually really thoughtful."

  "It also keeps you from having to work somewhere in town where by now everyone knows you were the one to discover Missy's body."

  "Don't remind me." I sulked into my seat at the mention of it. "Chief Duncan thinks I did it. He pretty much accused me of murder last night."

  "Don't listen to him. He couldn't investigate himself out of a wet paper bag."

  Linc turned the wrong way down Poole Avenue, away from my house.

  "Forget the way to my parents' house?" I asked.

  "Nope. I thought we'd make a pit stop first. In my experience, nothing cures a case of the blues like Scoop, There It Is Creamery."

  Chapter 9

  Linc wasn't wrong. I'd yet to visit Scoop, There It Is, affectionately called Scoop’s by the locals, since my return. Mainly, I'd been avoiding the crowds since my infamous road accident marking my return. And now I felt my anxiety ratchet up again. As much as I wanted the homemade ice cream, I wanted to disappear into oblivion first.

  I groaned. "I'll wait in the truck."

  "Nonsense. They've added new flavors in the years since you've been away. How could you possibly know what you want?"

  I crossed my arms and slunk down even lower in the seat. "What I want is to avoid the crowds and gossip," I whined, sounding every bit like a disgruntled teenager and not caring.