by Patti Larsen
He inhaled, exhaled heavily. “I wish I knew.” One hand rose and wiped across his forehead, weariness replacing his anger. “Fee, I really do. I would tell you everything. Your father and I spent years trying to find something, anything. But they sealed themselves up tight against anyone not related to them. After Fiona Doyle disappeared.”
So this was tied to Malcolm Murray and Siobhan Doyle’s daughter then. But why? How?
Dr. Aberstock clearly didn’t have anything to give me and, as he drew near, grabbing his doctor’s bag on the way to me, he paused only to lay one warm hand on my shoulder, sympathy and frustration on his cherub face.
“I’m so sorry, Fee,” he said. “Please, take care and be safe. The Pattersons own Barry, you know that. They have since day one. I have no idea what they are holding over that boy’s head, but it’s enough to control him. And any investigation he might be part of.”
So if Geoffrey couldn’t have Robert as sheriff as intended, he’d circumvent Vivian’s attempt to level the field by removing my chance to solve the case before my cousin.
“You’re so well-loved,” I said. “This won’t stand.”
He shrugged and sighed. “Maybe. Maybe not. Certainly I can simply continue my private practice. Unless they decide to try to ruin me.” Dr. Aberstock seemed suddenly very old and worn thin. “If they do, I’ll be calling. If I can count on you?”
Like that was even in question. I hugged him then, impulsively, and accepted his warm hug in return, realizing he smelled like cinnamon and peppermints and seriously could the man be more like Santa, red suit and sleigh or not?
And then, with a final sigh but not looking back, Dr. Aberstock slipped past me and out his office door, leaving me to fume and try to wind my mind around the unfairness of all of this while knowing there was nothing I could do from here.
Except solve this damned case, get Jill the sheriff’s office then do my very best to bring the Pattersons down. Because they may have gotten a pass up to now, a step aside and fine, live and let live. Until they started actively coming after the people I cared about.
Big mistake.
***
Chapter Twelve
I didn’t leave Dr. Aberstock’s office for some minutes, collecting my cool so I didn’t march into the morgue and add some bodies to the stockpile behind the stainless steel hatches on those cold, cold slabs that would be a fitting end to Geoffrey and Barry right about now. The fact I relegated most people who irritated me down to the nub of my last nerve to an untimely end was not lost on me.
I’d been around murder too long, it seemed.
Much to my furthered annoyance, as I finally turned and exited the doorway, heading back toward the swinging doors and the morgue proper, I realized I’d timed it perfectly to come into solo contact with none other than the first person I would have gladly added to the funeral home’s list of customers.
Geoffrey Jenkins stopped in his tracks when he saw me coming toward him, that smirk eternal, I think, doing nothing to hide the savage and heartless predator behind those pale blue eyes. I suppose if one were to objectively observe him, one might consider him conventionally attractive, clearly a gym attendee and well-preserved for his age with the middle class corporate white guy metrosexual look going for him. But I knew him, knew the darkness of his soul, had witnessed firsthand his manipulative nature, the way he played people against one another—or tried, at any rate—and would never, ever trust him let alone find him even remotely appealing.
Funny thing was, Geoffrey seemed to feel otherwise and had proven it at least once before, though the few other times I’d thought he’d been kind of sort of hitting on me I’d passed off as holy ew, no way, I was imagining things, please god, save me from my overactive participation in anything to do with thinking such a terrible thought.
Now, I didn’t have solid proof, despite the creepy moments he’d taken, gone out of his way, in fact, to touch my hair (once, at Sammy’s, in passing while claiming I had a flower petal in it), squeeze my upper arm (also once, at a council meeting I attended when he snuck up behind me and made me squeak in surprise, that touch lingering long enough I wanted a shower after), and once both touched me (my shoulder) and my hair (tucked a piece behind my ear, I recall) while getting so close his breath tickled my cheek. That one was the most outstanding, in my opinion, because it had happened during the investigation into Lester Patterson’s murder—and he’d so much as offered me Crew’s job that day on the steps of the sheriff’s office.
I hadn’t forgotten, though I’d wanted to, but when I came to a halt beside him, ready to blast the councilor while knowing it wouldn’t do a scrap of good, he leaned into me, one arm sliding around my waist as he whispered in my ear.
Stunned, frozen in place by his boldness, I held still and listened.
“You’re making a huge mistake marrying Turner.” Geoffrey didn’t rush, his hand tightening on my waist through my coat. “There are smarter moves to make, Fiona, partnerships and agreements that will promise your continuing success in Reading. And that of your family.” And his hand slid down, down, stopped at the curve of my hip.
I could have hurt him. Considered it. I’d been taking self-defense from Jill, hadn’t I? Learned three or four ways to take a man down and have him beg for mercy from this very position. I really, really wanted to. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of getting me fired for assault when I had no witness to his.
Because this was assault of the very worst kind, in my opinion. Not only was he touching me without my permission (physical) he was implying sexual favors (okay, not super clear but close enough so I tagged on sexual, considering the placement of his hand) and threatening me and my family all in one go (I didn’t know what kind of assault that was—mental? Emotional? But it felt like an attack so there had to be a law against it). It was the epitome of privileged white guy who thought he could get away with anything because I was just a woman.
The fact he was a married man and tied into the Pattersons through his own wedding vows? Just made him all the more disgusting to me.
While my furious mind weighed which of the moves Jill taught me would cause him the most pain, my logical brain slowly turned my head, my eyes meeting his, my entire being willing him to sense just exactly what it was I thought of him.
It took a second, but he got it. I watched it register in his gaze, in the downturn of his lips. I didn’t scowl, didn’t frown, even. Just stared, flat and empty and cold, a hunting lioness stalking a shark who’d found his way on land and really should go back to the ocean if he knew what was good for him.
To his credit, he held his ground, neither of us backing down. It took Jill emerging from the swinging door, poking her head out, to look for me apparently, to break our stalemate.
“Fee.” Her low, tense voice told me she suspected something wasn’t right but she didn’t sound worried, mostly just frustrated.
“I’ll be right there.” I didn’t look away, waited for Geoffrey to leave.
Which he did, finally, nodding to me once, slowly, ceding defeat? I doubted that, though, honestly, was that regret on his face? Disappointment he slathered over with that smarmy grin before spinning and exiting out the main door, leaving me with the desperate need to scream at the top of my lungs and punch some(one)thing.
Jill joined me, quiet and still. “Are you okay?”
“No.” I know that came out harsh, but I wasn’t in the mood for tempering my tone. “If we fail, and Robert becomes sheriff, I’m moving.”
She exhaled, nodded. “I think we’ll all need to.”
I’d been kind of joking but when I turned back to meet her eyes, I realized she’d been thinking it, too. Not really a surprise because Jill had almost left us once before, thanks to the nefarious whisperings of Rosebert. I got it, I really did, why she wanted to go back then. They’d undermined her confidence and left her a shell of herself.
This time, though, it wasn’t about quitting, was it? “They won’t let us stay.”
Jill’s shoulders rose and fell, in acceptance, though, not defeat. “So let’s solve this murder and move on,” she said. “Because if one of the two of us becomes sheriff,” at least she was considering the fact I was going to hold up my end of the bargain, “the first thing we’re going to do—”
“Is fire Robert Carlisle.” We said it together, in tandem, and there was no way in hell the Pattersons were going to prevent it.
I grinned at last, punching her gently in the shoulder. “All right, Deputy. Let’s see what their puppet has to say about our body, shall we?”
That made her hesitate, hum and haw a bit before she squared herself, her body between me and the swinging doors. “Can I make a suggestion? Sheriff?” She added that with a grin of her own, though far more serious than good humored.
“I’ll consider your suggestion,” I said, going for haughty as a joke and breathed a sigh of relief when it worked.
“Excellent,” she said. “How kind of you.” Jill laughed then. “I couldn’t joke around with Crew.”
I wanted to hug her but didn’t want to ruin the mood. “Speak, trusty second in command. I’m breathily bated and all that.”
She snorted, then sobered again. “Let me deal with Barry.”
She was right, of course. It made the most sense. Because hadn’t I just been thinking about cramming his useless body into one of the coolers and seeing how long it took for him to suffocate? Never mind the tiny pinch of ego that prodded me. Jill knew what she was doing and I had to trust her completely.
After all, she was going to be the next sheriff of Reading.
“Okay,” I said, keeping my voice down, “done. And.” She nodded as I went on. “We need to find out what the Pattersons have on him.” He’d mentioned money at one time, right? Was that when I was forced to work with him at the Black Woods Hunting and Fishing Retreat last November? Maybe. It was the first time I had any indication the weakling was on the Patterson’s payroll.
Jill’s blue-gray eyes sparked. “I love the doc,” she said, anger making her voice vibrate just a little, “but I can keep my cool. So yeah. I’ll deal with Barry and you dig. Maybe he’ll tell me things he wouldn’t tell you?” She tucked her hands into her jacket pockets after patting the front of her coat. “I have his preliminaries, anyway, so we can go, if you want.”
Meaning I didn’t have to see Barry’s face again today?
Awesome.
***
Chapter Thirteen
I sat behind Dad’s/Crew’s/my desk feeling awkward and uncomfortable and oddly giddy as I did my best not to let hysterical meandering fed by the itching between my shoulder blades that screamed FRAUD IN THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE! keep me from doing the job Vivian entrusted me with.
Instead, here I was, questioning a witness and doing my very best to hold it together while Andrew Isaac, still lost in grief, didn’t seem to notice, thank goodness. Because any second now someone (likely Vivian) was going to storm through the door and demand I get my butt out of this chair that was surprisingly comfortable considering the circumstances and stop playing at being someone who was supposed to be leading a criminal investigation.
Supposed criminal investigation.
Argh times a million.
Shades of my father lecturing me and Crew giving me the third degree lingered in the ether as Andrew blew his nose into the tissue I’d offered him from the generic box on my (gulp) desk, slumped low in the wooden chair across from me.
What was proper procedure here? Get up and comfort the man? Stay where I was and do a Crew and Dad and just let him cry it out? Hug him? Sheesh, I had no idea, though common compassion and her sister, empathy, forced me up and out of my own chair and pushed me physically around the desk to sit on the edge, reaching out one hand to take Andrew’s.
He seemed grateful, squeezing back just a bit before letting me go. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”
Neither could I. Flickers of Crew grilling me about the death of Pete Wilkins mingled with chewing out sessions when I couldn’t seem to mind my own business, crossing over memories of collaborating and then, finally, him breaking his office rule and kissing me right here, in this very spot…
Whoops. Andrew was looking at me expectantly and had (maybe?) asked me a question and I’d missed it. (Right?)
“I’m sorry, too,” I said. “Did Thea wake up not feeling well?” So I’d skimmed over his inquiry, let him figure that one out.
It didn’t seem to bother him, so score. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t until she came back from the church. She had to get her Bible and the paperwork for you and Crew.” He swallowed hard. “She said she started feeling ill shortly after she got there and had been drinking her grapefruit juice to try to ease her throat. It wasn’t helping. I asked her to step aside, let Alfred do the service.” He choked then, coughed to catch himself from sobbing. “If she wasn’t so stubborn, maybe she’d be alive. She was always pushing herself, never happy with what she gave, keen to just give more and more. I kept telling her she would kill herself with her refusal to care for herself first but she wouldn’t listen.” Andrew exhaled slowly, shakily. “Was I right? Does the doctor know what happened?”
I didn’t respond to that. Not because he didn’t deserve an answer, but because someone knocked on my door, Jill peeking in a moment later and gesturing for me to join her.
“Please, excuse me one minute.” I left Andrew there, knowing the deputy would only have interrupted if it was important.
And was it. “Barry got back to me with the full autopsy,” she whispered just outside my door as I eased it closed and nodded to her, peeking behind her to find Robert and Rose watching, scowling. They’d have the same info already, knowing Barry’s Patterson connection. Whatever. His initial report told me nothing that Dr. Aberstock hadn’t mentioned, including the scent of rubbing alcohol. No, it wasn’t lost on me that her husband—the very man sitting in my office right now—was not only the prime suspect because the spouse was always top of the list, but because he’d been using the very stuff on the organ in front of the entire wedding party.
“And?” I didn’t have to prod Jill who went on with that same soft tone that told me she’d had lots of practice, likely having to share things with Crew in exactly this manner to keep Robert out of the loop. Great workplace. Really inspired confidence and team building.
“He said that at one time it’s clear Thea was an alcoholic,” she said. “The damage to her liver isn’t fully repaired. At one point she had cirrhosis but it’s improved, though he said the scar tissue would be with her forever. Likely she quit drinking in the last two or three years from the improvement in her condition.” Huh. Interesting for a woman known around Reading for Bible-thumping (if you’ll pardon the expression) about drinking and drugs. Though not uncommon in reformed addicts. “And she has old, fading needle marks indicating excessive drug use.”
A junkie, too? Awesome.
Oh, Fee. No judging. We all had our addictions. The fact she’d seemed to kick hers spoke volumes about her. But it also made my intuition tingly. Even more so when Jill wrapped up her report.
“Forensics is testing the bottle,” she said, “but Barry’s analysis of her blood gave him an overdose of isopropanol.”
Rubbing alcohol. The doc had been right. And, an ironic way for a former alcoholic to die, right?
“Thanks, Jill,” I said. “Anything further?”
She shook her head and backed off. “I’ll keep you posted.” My favorite deputy waved and turned back to her desk, pointedly ignoring Rosebert while they pointedly ignored her and everything was rainbows and unicorn farts in HappySappyReadingLand.
Grunt.
Time to check in with hubby dearest on the state of Thea’s soul, not to mention her habits.
But when I sat once again on the edge of the desk and very kindly asked him if Thea was drinking, his entire body rejected the idea. In fact, he almost leaped out of the ch
air with a horrified cry and I found myself restraining Andrew with two firm hands on his shoulders before easing him back down into the seat.
“No way,” he said, one hand chopping through the air, definitive. “Thea hated everything about alcohol.” He cleared his throat. “I’m a reformed alcoholic myself,” he said. “It’s part of the reason we fell in love. Because we were both so dead-set against drinking.” He wiped at beads of sweat that had erupted from his upper lip. “The moment we set foot in Reading, she started the preteen and teen support groups at the church, to make sure local kids had what they needed to say no to drugs and alcohol.” I’d heard that, too. “Why?”
“You know she used to be an alcoholic, too, then?” I didn’t bring up the track marks while he nodded.
“She never said as much, but it takes one to know one. And I didn’t miss the old needle tracks, Fee, in case you’re wondering about that.” Figured. I nodded kindly for him to go on, feeling much more confident and like I was finally channeling the persona I needed to feel comfortable in this office, this position, as this suspect spilled his guts willingly.
Hey. Don’t get cocky, Fleming.
“I didn’t push her about it,” he said. “And she didn’t ask about my past, either. We came together in mutual need, and then in love. She was the best thing that ever happened to me.” He burst into fresh tears and I let him cry a moment before handing him the tissue box again.
“How long ago did you move to Reading?” I had a vague number, but I wanted specifics.
“Two years ago,” he said, “next month.” January. Okay. “From Montpellier.” The capital? Interesting move, though for the chance at her own church, it would make sense for Thea to accept. “She wanted the opportunity.” I was so smart. “And my daughter…” Andrew hesitated before looking hopeless. “Katelyn was struggling as a freshman at college. She’s only twenty, lost her mom young, and had me to deal with her whole life.” He sounded like he blamed himself for something. “They didn’t get along very well.” That was said softly, hesitant. “We hoped that the move would give her something to focus on.”