by Patti Larsen
He didn’t do so immediately, the scent of his body spray wafting over me in a wave of noxious fumes I was positive had to be radioactive. That vile upper lip covering had thickened as if taking on sentient life, crawling as though alive as his mouth twisted into a sneer.
“Good luck proving her innocence, Fanny.” He hiked his pants, the belt buckle barely held in place by the oversized hole in the leather that clearly wasn’t intended to carry the kind of load he’d forced it to support. “We have video footage of her entering Geoffrey’s office minutes before the doc says he died. And she was the only one to come or go in that window.” He seemed very pleased with himself and while I usually didn’t take anything Robert said as gospel, it did sound rather damning, didn’t it?
“The doc’s TOD wasn’t precise enough for that kind of accusation, Robert.” Unless he’d come up with a pinpoint he hadn’t told me yet.
“I’d like a look at that footage.” Liz’s calm drawl always triggered my need to grin, for some reason. Like she was bored or underwhelmed and fully in control of every situation and if the bumpkin in front of her would just step aside she’d save the day.
Apparently she intimidated him. I had no idea. But the clear flicker of nervousness wasn’t hard to miss, the way his tongue snaked out and licked his lower lip—that disgusting mustache rippling from the motion, now oiled with his spit and making me gag from the view—was impossible to miss.
A moment later, he caught himself, clearing his throat, macho attempt at throwing his shoulders back making his belly bounce. “This way, Agent Michaud.” Oh my god. The way he said her name. Was he attracted to Liz?
The poor thing. I just. I just couldn’t.
She didn’t seem to care, brushing past him, while Rose’s own flicker of emotion told me she was acutely aware her Robertkins had a thing for Crew’s ex-partner. And immediately my evil mind went to work on ways to use that to our advantage while secretly apologizing to Liz for even thinking such a horrific and revolting thing.
Still. Hmmm.
I waited for Rose to follow Robert, trailing Liz to his desk, and watched a moment as she sat with firm authority. Hard to miss his hand attempting to settle on her shoulder, Rose batting it away, Liz ignoring both of them while Jill, her jaw set, joined me.
“Fee.” She swallowed, hands on her gun belt, looked down, then up again. “Just shoot me. Please. I’m begging you.”
Poor Jill. I wanted to hug her but knew any sign of weakness wouldn’t be welcome. “I’m sorry I’m in the middle of all this again.”
She shrugged, gestured for me to go to Olivia as she followed. “Not your fault,” she sighed. “But I’m wondering how Crew lasted as long as he did.” She stiffened as we stopped on the other side of the bars and she focused on Olivia who stared at me, not giving Jill a moment’s notice. “No thanks to you, either, Ms. Walker,” she said. “Fee, you married a saint.”
“I did everything I could for Crew Turner.” Olivia shook, her voice vibrating with it, only her grasp on the bars seeming to keep her from flying apart. She pulled herself together visibly, wiping quickly at sweat on her upper lip before her grip on the metal in front of her resumed. This was the second time I’d seen her worked up this way in a very short period of time and I wondered if life outside the mayor’s office was taking its toll worse than life in it.
Not my problem.
“I didn’t kill Geoffrey.” She said it like she needed to defend herself. Thing was, I knew she didn’t. It would take a lot to convince me otherwise. Video footage could be tampered with, the doc’s TOD was too wide for anyone to use against her, and I wasn’t putting anything past Marie Patterson or Blackstone.
“You admit to being in his office.” Not a question. Jill waited but again, Olivia didn’t give her an instant of attention, hyper focus on me and me alone.
“I knew about them, Fee,” she hissed, leaning in until her forehead pressed against the bars. “I admit it. I knew the Pattersons were up to something. And I looked the other way. On purpose.” She drew a trembling breath. “I had to play their game. To put this town on the map. I was sure I could stay out of whatever it was they were doing. Even when they asked me to…” She glanced sideways at Liz, Robert, Rose, then back to me, as if oblivious of the fact the town sheriff stood next to me. Oblivious or didn’t care because Jill couldn’t do anything to hurt her but maybe Rosebert was another story? “They asked me to interfere with certain parts of our town’s governance and I did it. To protect Reading. I’m sorry about Crew.” She shook her head. “He was a casualty of all this. He suffered like no one suffered. Fee, they tried for years to get me to fire him. I protected him as best I could. I even tried to convince him to just quit to keep him safe. But he’s stubborn.” She laughed then, with humor, with respect. “He surprised me. And despite everything, I couldn’t betray him in the end.”
“Which is why Vivian is mayor and you’re not.” I nodded, though resentment welled. I’d known she’d had a hand in the torture my husband went through. I still didn’t have all the details, partly because he would never tell me. But I’d sussed enough and heard bits and pieces I’d pieced together—yes, even from him—about how he’d been professionally maligned and compared endlessly to my father. To me, for some reason. All the Patterson’s bid to get rid of him.
But why? “Why did they want Crew out?”
Olivia glanced over at the occupied desk again, face shuttering dark. She didn’t speak, looked back. And in that moment, didn’t have to.
Jill did it for her, whistling low. “The FBI.” She whispered it, glanced at me. “They didn’t want the FBI poking their noses in.”
“How many times did I deny Crew’s requests for help from state troopers?” Olivia sagged against the bars. “On the Patterson’s orders. Fee, they own this town. And they had Geoffrey killed.”
“And Blackstone?” I prodded her, hoping for more, but the mention of that corporation shuttered her completely.
Olivia backed away, head shaking slowly from side to side, her dark bob swinging its own denial. “I’m not sorry,” she said, voice deep and shaking with emotion. “I’m not. I’d do it again. I saved this town. But I lost, lost the game. And all the pieces are tumbling down.”
She stumbled into the bench at the back of the cell and sat abruptly, shoulders rolling forward. When I prodded her to speak further, she refused, falling silent, hugging herself in her pale yellow suit until I turned away, frustrated and without the answers I’d come for.
“Jill,” I said, “can you spare a few minutes for a walk to town hall with me?”
She looked a little startled, but nodded. I waved at Liz who waved back, knowing she understood I needed her to keep Rosebert occupied when Robert looked up and, before he could follow, the FBI agent reached out and touched his hand.
Got his attention. And Rose’s. Bless Liz for taking a giant one for the team.
We hurried down the street, passing through the main doors of town hall and up the steps. I stopped outside Geoffrey’s office, looked around. Spotted the camera at the end of the hall.
“That’s the source of the footage,” Jill agreed.
I entered, the hinges humming softly as I did, the room quiet and still smelling faintly of death. Okay, I was probably imagining that, but hard not to when the last occupant had died in that very leather chair across the desk.
I hoped whoever got this office next knew so. Could office chairs be haunted? Didn’t matter. Just the thought of placing my butt where his expired one had rested made my skin crawl.
“Jill.” I turned toward the far right, where a door stood ajar. She didn’t seem surprised, waited for me to check it out. The private bathroom on the other side wasn’t offering the exit I’d been expecting.
“There’s no other way out,” she said. “The windows were sealed, screens on for summer.” She followed me into the bathroom, waiting for me to take a good look around before we exited into the main office again. I tugged at the h
eavy, green curtains, velvet of all things, exposing the full bank of windows.
And heard Jill let out a very bad word as I took note the four main glass panels were, in fact windows. But the fifth?
Yeah. That was a door. Unlocked, no less. Leading out to the catwalk and the ground below via an old set of iron stairs.
***
Chapter Twenty Three
“Robert.” Jill was shaking, leaning against the desk to catch her breath. “I actually trusted him to search the room.”
“Which should be an indication maybe he’s hiding something for someone in particular.” I waited for her to get it together and put things into perspective. Patterson perspective.
Jill did so rather quickly, standing to pace the office, her heavy black boots scuffing over the green carpet. “At least we have proof Olivia has reasonable doubt.” She paused, met my eyes. “I feel like I’m losing it, Fee.” She rubbed at her face with one hand. “The old me would have been out there,” she jabbed at the windows, “checking the outside of the building for exits. Not in here, relying on two people,” she said that like they weren’t exactly sentient beings in her estimation, “who have never been trustworthy to have my back.”
“I’m sorry, Jill,” I said. “I wish things had worked out differently.”
“I need to find a way to eliminate both of them.” She halted abruptly, eyes huge, mouth open in an “O” of denial. “I didn’t mean—”
“Considering my history,” I said with a chuckle, “it’s a suitable word even if its meaning might not be clear to anyone else.” I squeezed her shoulder. “I get it, Jill. And you’re right. But it might have to wait until we get this sorted out.”
I left her then, to call in a forensic team and check for prints (yes, I’d used a tissue to open the outside door, I wasn’t born yesterday) and headed for home. Except, I found myself walking the streets of Reading, headache returned, unable to make my brain slow down enough to consider trying to share what I was thinking with anyone else, not even Crew.
Darkness fell and the streetlights came into brilliant glow, lighting the perfectly maintained downtown of the cutest town in America. I glanced in the shop windows, ignoring the buzzing of my phone, just wanting to be alone for a while. I knew Liz and Jill would fill Crew and my dad in on what had happened, so they didn’t need me. When my phone’s continual insistence made me look at last, I fired off a quick message to my worried husband.
I’m fine. Give me a bit.
He sent back, I love you, and left me alone. Because he was that kind of awesome.
The tiny park across from town square seemed a good place to finally sit and take a minute. I stared across the way at the towering statue of Captain Reading still maintaining his watch over our little home. The desecration of the front of his trousers might have come to a regular end, but he still sported a bright yellow depiction of what should have resided under those pants some mornings, as if the artist didn’t want us to forget for one second what s/he/they thought of our illustrious founder.
I would have joined in with gusto if they’d included a rendition of Joseph Patterson.
One of the lights in the park had gone dark, near the bench where I chose to plant myself and while I should have maybe felt nervous sitting there in the near-black, I had no such thoughts. Self-preservation had never been one of my strong suits and despite the fact Peggy Munroe and her evil grandniece, Ruth Wilkins, were still out there and, supposedly, gunning for my life, it was actually relaxing and calming to sit and do nothing with my feet swinging and my head finally emptying itself of the stress of the last few days as the warm July evening enveloped me in the soft sound of nearby crickets.
It wasn’t hard to hear them arguing. Or to be annoyed by their hissing exchange of anger that interrupted my quiet reverie. In fact, I almost stood up and charged toward them to give the fighting couple a piece of my mind, but caught myself as I realized I knew these two and their disagreement might have relevance to the death of the man they supposedly both loved.
“I did everything I could, I swear it.” Martin seemed desperate Hannah Brown believe him, though from the tone of her voice—they were in as much darkness as I, their shadowy outlines visible just ten feet away—she wasn’t buying what he was peddling.
“You were supposed to make him sign the divorce papers,” she snarled. Wait, what? “You had one job, Martin.”
“I know, my sweet.” Desperation dribbled from every syllable. While the truth of the relationship between Gregg Brown’s best friend/documentarian/slaveboy and his oh-so-loving wife who knew how to put on a crying show came to light despite the darkness around us. “I’m sorry. You know he refused. I tried everything.” I heard him swallow it was so loud. “But now that he’s…” he tripped over the next word.
“Dead,” she snapped. “The bastard is dead.”
“Yes, of course.” Martin’s voice trembled. “Now that Gregg is gone, you’re free.”
“You know those brat children of his plan to contest the will,” she shot back. “Thanks to his brother. My money could be tied up for years, Martin. And it’s all your fault.”
“I’ll talk to Walter.” Martin sounded faintly hopeful. “I’m sure I can get him to agree to the terms you were asking for.”
“As long as he doesn’t dig into Gregg’s financials and realize I’ve been funneling money into private accounts.” Hannah sounded about as far from the grieving widow as I was from a damsel in distress. “Take care of it, Martin. Or we’re through.”
Hannah stalked away into the night and I let her go, Martin hurrying after her. I could have followed them, asked questions, poked and prodded. Only to have them refuse to talk and annoy me. Nope, they’d given me enough in their little not-so-private conversation to hand to Liz. Along with the possibility of two more suspects in Gregg’s murder.
Though, honestly, it sounded more likely it was only one suspect. Martin had shot to the top of my list.
What was it with men falling in love with their friend’s wives, exes, girlfriends?
Sigh.
I have no idea how long I sat there, slow, deep breaths filled with mountain air calming me. I’d never actually observed my town at night, not really, watched with detached curiosity as the storefronts went dark, staff leaving for the night, the quiet of a small town shutting down engulfing me in the kind of peace I hadn’t felt since Petunia’s burned down.
Funny that thought came to mind, along with the heated sensation of tears, tightening of my throat telling me a good weepfest was about to commence. Except, as I inhaled to let it out as quietly as I could, I spotted, in surprise, the hunched form of an approaching figure, crossing the park, heading for the statue.
And observed in the silent darkness as that same figure huddled in the shadow of Captain Reading’s imposing presence. The faint hiss of expelled air was all the evidence I needed and laughter replaced tears, thankfully. I waited for the artist to finish, for a passing car to go by, the figure taking time to amble instead of hurry. I didn’t rise from the bench and follow until whoever it was passed me, my sneakers silent on the path.
There were cameras watching Captain Reading’s statue. And, when I glanced at my phone, taking in the 10PM time, that it was still relatively early, to be honest, to be risking sneaking around and painting phalluses on bronze, I wondered at the brazen confidence of the artist.
Only to pause, to stop in the dark at the edge of the park, to watch him—definitely a him—hesitate himself in the light of the streetlamp on the other side of the big maple, turning slightly as though he’d caught the sound of my approach.
I froze, laughter locked in my throat, at the sight of Oliver Watters, fully lit in all his cardiganed glory and looking rather satisfied by his recent success.
***
Chapter Twenty Four
The old historian didn’t notice I was following him, smothering a giggle behind both hands so I didn’t give away my stealthy position, until he reache
d the door to his shop. He had the glass entry pulled partway open, catching my reflection behind him, before he turned to face me down with a scowl tinged with enough nervous anger he knew I’d caught him in flagrante graffiti delicto.
Before he could splutter out any kind of attempt at deflection, I poked him in his narrow chest, grinning openly, then gestured for him to precede me inside the dark shop. Oliver grunted, sighed and finally shrugged at my expression before turning and marching inside, leaving me to catch the heavy door before it struck me.
I listened to the bells overhead stop their annoying jangle as I let the entry swing shut, thudding into place as Oliver huffed his way to the back of the shop. Only the faint light at the counter illuminated the crowded space filled with old furniture, books and knick-knacks that had been here as long as I could remember. Made me wonder if he ever sold anything, including the three books of Reading history he proudly displayed on the glass counter, the rough and obviously homemade covers needing a good photo manipulation.
“You’re wondering why.” His low voice surprised me, the lack of anger in it. When Oliver turned to face me, his thin hands tucking his dark brown cardigan around him, the leather elbow patches worn shiny from age, the anger he’d displayed at getting caught had faded to resignation. “I take it you plan to inform Sheriff Wagner.”
I shook my head, bemused now. The old historian and I had never really gotten along. His terrible attitude and abrasive nature typically set my teeth on edge. Honestly, from what I knew, most people in town found the man obnoxious and, if he had any friends at all, he kept that knowledge to himself. Though, the fact he was a town councilor and had been for some time, said something about his connection to Reading.
Then again, maybe he held the position simply because no one else wanted the job.