by Sarah Fox
“Just the woman I’ve been looking for.”
I glanced up to see Joey approaching. “If you’re here to ask for an interview again, my answer is still the same,” I said as he plunked himself down on the bench beside me.
“Even if it’s an interview about something else?”
I eyed him warily. “Like what?”
“This morning. The cops responded to a call from the mill. Word is you had a prowler.”
“If you already know the story, why do you need me?”
“It’s always better to have a quote or two from someone directly involved.”
The truth was that I didn’t mind talking to him about that incident, but I wanted to make sure I got something from him in exchange.
“I’ll talk to you about what happened this morning if you’ll talk to me about Grayson Blake.”
“Bartering for information now?” he said with a grin. “I hope you haven’t got your sights on my job.”
“No need to worry about that. I’ve got my hands full with the pub.”
“Good to hear.” He fished his phone out of his pocket. “So you’ve got a thing for our local brewer, huh?”
“No,” I said quickly.
Joey’s eyebrows rose.
“I just want to know more about him,” I hurried to add. “I like to know who I’m doing business with.”
“Right,” he said, drawing out the word.
I let out a huff of air. “Do we have a deal?”
“Sure. What is it you want to know about Blake?”
“What did he do before he decided to take up brewing beer?”
“No idea. But that’s a good question. If he’ll ever agree to an interview, I’ll ask him.”
“He hasn’t given you an interview about finding Eric either?”
“He provided a one-line statement. That’s it. He said he thought it would be insensitive to you and the deceased’s family for him to say more.”
“Really?” My opinion of Grayson improved slightly until I remembered I suspected him of two crimes. I focused on what else Joey had said. “How can you have no idea? Didn’t you ask about his background when you wrote the story about the brewery’s opening?”
“I didn’t write a story about the brewery’s opening. I’ve done a couple short pieces about awards he’s won at beer competitions, but that’s pretty much it.”
“I just read the article this morning. It was from about four years ago.”
“Ah, but I only moved back here two years ago when my dad’s eyesight started failing. He must have written the article.”
“It said it was written by Joe Fontana.”
“Yep. That’s my dad. He’s Joe, I’m Joey. I can see how that confused you, though.”
“Would your dad know about Grayson’s past?”
“Maybe? He’s not doing so well these days. He’s got problems with his lungs, and he’s almost blind now. Plus, his memory cuts in and out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, my words sincere.
“Thanks. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”
“I’ve heard that he might have some sort of criminal past. Do you know anything about that?”
“Huh. Nope, but I’d like to. Where’d you hear that?”
“From Harriet Jones.”
“Hmm. It might just be a rumor. You’d be surprised by some of the stories that fly around town. Still, it’s interesting.”
“You haven’t given me any information,” I said, disappointed.
“Does that mean you’re backing out of the deal?”
I let out a sigh. “No. I’ll talk about this morning.”
I described the events, starting with the noises that had woken both me and Wimsey. It didn’t take long, since there wasn’t a whole lot to tell. Joey recorded my monologue on his phone, asking a few questions at the end, which I answered as best I could.
“See?” He tucked his phone back in his pocket. “That was painless, wasn’t it?”
I drank down the last of my latte instead of responding.
He grinned as he got up from the bench. “Thanks, Sadie. See you around.”
He set off across the green, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Joey probably wasn’t the only one who knew the police had visited the mill that morning. I didn’t want Aunt Gilda or Shontelle hearing about the incident from anyone but me, so before leaving my spot on the bench, I filled them in via text messages, assuring them that I was spooked, but otherwise fine. By then, the first tourists had appeared on the green, some with kids in tow, so I headed back toward the Inkwell.
As with the night before, I didn’t make it past Creekside Road without stopping. Two patrol cars and an unmarked vehicle had just turned up the driveway to the brewery. They didn’t have their lights flashing or their sirens blaring, but they most definitely weren’t out for a Sunday drive.
Once the road was clear, I jogged across it, heading for the brewery instead of the pub. I tried to run the whole way up the hill, but my latte sloshed around in my stomach, and I had to slow to a walk to fend off a stitch in my side. When I reached the V in the driveway, I paused for a moment. There were a couple of cars in the brewery’s parking lot, but no police vehicles, so I set off along the other branch of the driveway, heading for Grayson’s house.
Before I rounded the last bend, I spotted one of the patrol cars through the gaps in the trees. The stitch in my side had faded, so I picked up my pace again, jogging until I reached the three vehicles parked in front of the gray-and-blue house. The front door stood wide open, and I caught sight of officers moving about inside through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Grayson was out front of the garage, pacing as he spoke into his cell phone. Another man, dressed in black pants and a black T-shirt, stood outside the front door, his muscular brown arms crossed over his broad chest.
I stood near one of the patrol cars, watching as a uniformed officer exited the house, carrying what looked like two swords wrapped in plastic. Grayson ended his call and shoved his phone into his pocket, clearly unhappy. He scowled at the officer, who was now stashing the plastic-wrapped swords in the trunk of one of the patrol cars.
As another officer came out of the house carrying a similar load as his colleague, Grayson’s gaze fell on me. Despite the fact that his scowl was now directed my way, I dodged around the police car and hurried over to him.
“Did you instigate this?” he asked, his blue eyes as cold as ice.
“Me? Why would you think that?”
Grayson jabbed a finger in the direction of the two officers by the patrol car. “They’re seizing my sword collection.”
“I didn’t even know you had a sword collection.”
“I caught you peering in the window at it just yesterday.”
“I never saw any swords!” Even as I said that, I realized the weapons were probably in the display case I’d caught a glimpse of. “Besides, why would I tell the police about your sword collection anyway?”
“Because,” Grayson said, the muscles of his jaw tense, “Eric Jensen was killed with a sword.”
Chapter 14
My recently consumed breakfast churned in my stomach.
“Someone killed Eric with a sword?” I said, my voice fading with the last word.
Grayson grabbed my elbow. “Maybe you should sit down.”
I stared at him, still shocked by the news, and surprised as well by the concern that had replaced the ice in his eyes.
Pulling myself together, I shook my arm free of his grasp. “I’m not going to faint. Why do you always think that?” I pulled my cardigan close around me and focused on staying as steady as possible. There was no way I’d admit to Grayson that I really was a bit shaky. “Did you do it?” I asked him. “Did you kill Eric?” I hated the faint tremble beneath my words.
Grayson’s eyes iced over again. Without answering, he shifted his attention to the muscular man in dark clothes standing by the front door. “Jason!”
<
br /> The man uncrossed his arms and strode over to us. Judging by the way he towered over me, he had to be at least six-foot-four. He spared me only a flick of a glance before focusing on Grayson.
“Problem?” he asked in a deep voice.
Grayson nodded my way without looking at me. “Please escort Ms. Parker from the property.”
“My name is Sadie Coleman, as you know perfectly well,” I said through clenched teeth.
Grayson walked off, not even acknowledging that I’d spoken, disappearing into the house a second later. I glared after him.
“Ma’am?” Jason said, the single word somehow incredibly intimidating.
I shifted my glare to him but couldn’t keep it up in the face of his imposing figure.
Not wanting to get tossed from the property, I started off along the driveway, although not without a huff of annoyance. I walked quickly, but Jason easily kept pace with me, each of his strides almost twice as long as my own.
“He did that on purpose, didn’t he?” I said. “He knows my name.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I eyed Jason as we walked around the bend in the driveway. “That’s a bit immature, don’t you think?”
“He did find you sneaking around his house yesterday,” Jason said, his expression remaining impassive.
Warmth rushed to my cheeks. “He told you about that?”
“I’m in charge of security here.”
I stopped short as something clicked in my head. Jason paused one stride ahead of me, his dark eyes never shifting away from me.
“Nosey Parker? Is that what he meant? Because I don’t think he meant Dorothy!”
One corner of Jason’s mouth gave the slightest twitch. It was enough to tell me I was right.
“That . . .” I couldn’t think of a word sufficient to sum up what I thought of Grayson Blake in that moment. “Oh, for Poe’s sake!”
Jason cleared his throat, and I got the message, resuming my trek along the driveway.
Although I was tempted to rant about Grayson the whole way down to Creekside Road, something stopped me. Maybe it was the fact that I was at least somewhat deserving of the name Grayson had called me, not that I would have admitted that to anybody.
I thought about asking Jason if he knew anything about Grayson’s involvement in the murder, but I figured that probably wasn’t the best move. The guy could easily snap me in two with his bare hands, and if his loyalty to his employer ran deep, he might be in on the crime.
He drew to a stop at the foot of the driveway, and I continued on along the road, casting a sidelong glance toward the green, hoping no one had seen me getting escorted by the brewery’s head of security. Fortunately, it seemed like everyone out on the green was focused on other things. The festivities had started up for the day, and I caught the delicious scent of pumpkin waffles on the air. One of the booths closest to Creekside Road was cooking them up and selling them to hungry customers. If I hadn’t already eaten, and if Grayson’s news hadn’t unsettled my stomach, I might have been tempted to buy some for myself.
I’d known for a while now that Eric had been murdered, and he’d clearly bled a lot from whatever had happened to him, but somehow I found the thought of him getting stabbed with a sword particularly gruesome. And strange. Who the Holly Golightly wandered around a town like Shady Creek with a sword?
Obviously, the police thought Grayson was a strong suspect. I was glad they were thinking along the same lines as I was. Of course, the fact that they were pursuing Grayson as a suspect meant they weren’t fixed on Reggie Stone as the killer. I wondered why that was, but without knowing what the police knew, I couldn’t come up with an answer.
Back at the Inkwell, I kept myself busy by accepting delivery of the day’s vat of soup from the deli and packing the swing-top bottles filled with cocktails into the coolers along with plenty of ice. When Mel arrived, she helped me haul everything over to the tent before leaving me there to get set up for the day. She’d be looking after the Inkwell for the next few hours, so I’d be the one doling out samples to festivalgoers. I was looking forward to chatting with everyone who came through the tent, but I was also preoccupied by thoughts about Eric’s murder.
Grayson and Reggie Stone were both suspects, in my mind, but the police force’s interest in Grayson’s sword collection bumped him up to the top of my suspect list. My thoughts didn’t get beyond that point as I plunked myself down in one of the folding chairs behind the table. Across the tent, the brunette with the ponytail was looking after things at the brewery’s table again. Her name was Juliana, I’d learned since I saw her on the first day of the festival. Knowing what I did, I wasn’t surprised that Grayson wasn’t there himself. I doubted he’d show up at all during the day. Most likely he’d be too busy making phone calls to his lawyer or things of that sort. If he had a lawyer.
I wondered if his dodgy past included a criminal record. If it did, no doubt that would make him an even stronger suspect in the minds of the cops. I drummed my fingers against the tabletop for several minutes, but my mind kept going back to the image of Eric’s blood-covered body lying by the creek, and I didn’t want to think about that. When the tent opened a few minutes later, I relaxed, relieved to have something to distract me.
The tourists started trickling in almost right away, and I gladly got caught up in chatting with them and serving samples of cocktails. A couple of hours later, Aunt Gilda stopped by for a visit.
“I got your text message,” she said after slipping behind the table.” Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m sure,” I said, smiling at three women approaching the table.
I wanted to tell her about the police seizing Grayson’s swords, but I wasn’t about to talk about that in front of the tourists.
“Maybe we can chat later?” I suggested once I’d handed out cocktail samples.
Before Aunt Gilda could reply, Rhonda appeared in the tent.
“Looks like your samples have been popular,” she said with a nod at the three empty bottles sitting atop one of the coolers next to my chair.
“They seem to be,” I said. “I’ll have to head back to the pub soon to get more. I’ve only got a quarter of a bottle left of each cocktail.”
“I can watch over things here if you want to pop over there now,” Rhonda offered.
“There’s a good idea.” Aunt Gilda patted my shoulder. “You should take a break. I can help Rhonda here while you’re gone.”
“Thanks, both of you.”
A group of French-speaking tourists filed out of the tent, leaving it free of visitors for the first time in more than an hour. Juliana set out a sign on the brewery’s table saying she’d return shortly, and then she too left the tent.
“Now that we’re alone, how about a quick chat before you go?” Aunt Gilda said, and I nodded my agreement. “Did you tell the police what happened at the mill this morning?”
“I did.”
“The police?” Rhonda’s eyes widened. “What did I miss?”
I told the story about the noises that had woken me, and the gas can I’d found sitting outside my door.
“That’s awful,” Rhonda said. “Do you really think someone meant to burn down the pub?”
“Either that, or they wanted to rattle me. But after the fire at the antiques shop, there’s a good chance they had worse intentions.”
“Whoever it was, I’d like to wring their neck. How could anyone put you in danger like that? And who would want to burn down that beautiful building? My dad spent nearly a year of his life renovating it.”
“I know it means a lot to you,” I said. “It does to me too. I’m going to look into adding some security.”
“Maybe you should stay with me for a while,” Aunt Gilda suggested, her face pale. “Just until the police find out who’s behind this. What did they have to say?”
“Not much, and they seem to have their hands full lately. Even if there are fingerprints on the gas can, I don’t k
now how long it’ll take for the police to find that out.”
“Do you know if they’re any closer to finding your ex’s killer?” Rhonda asked.
“They’re certainly working on it. As far as I know, they’ve got at least a couple of suspects.”
“Who?”
“Anyone we know?” Aunt Gilda chimed in.
“One of them, yes. The other is from Boston. He works for a loan shark who wanted to collect a debt from Eric. The police took him into custody on an outstanding warrant and found a ring in his pocket. It looked like the ring Eric had planned to give to me.”
“If a thug followed Eric from Boston and stole the ring, that sounds to me like the murder investigation should be wrapped up,” Rhonda said.
“But then there’s Grayson Blake.”
“Surely you don’t mean he’s a suspect?” Aunt Gilda protested.
“I definitely do.” I explained how Grayson thought Eric was planning to steal his recipes and how he’d thrown Eric off his property. “Apparently he was really mad, and it turns out Eric was killed with a sword. Grayson has a whole collection of swords. The police seized it this morning, so they obviously think he’s a good suspect.”
Aunt Gilda shook her head. “I can’t believe that nice man is involved in any way.”
“Nice man?” I said with disbelief. “He’s aggravating and rude. He basically accused me of being in cahoots with Eric in some corporate espionage scheme. And don’t forget about his criminal past.”
Gilda shook her head again. “I’m sure that’s just a rumor. He came in to get his hair trimmed a week or so ago, and I thought he was just delightful. He was raised right, if you ask me.”
“I don’t know . . . ,” Rhonda said. “I’m with Sadie. It does seem like there’s an awful lot of evidence pointing his way.”
“Exactly,” I said. “What else would explain the fact that Eric was killed with a sword? Grayson collects them, and Eric was found at the edge of his property. It must have been him. I mean, really, who goes around Shady Creek carrying a sword?”