The Eleventh Hour

by Anina Collins

  “She had the nerve to actually walk up to me one time right after the election and tell me that it was high time I stopped calling myself First Lady and start acting like the ordinary person I’d always been. The nerve! My husband’s tenure as mayor of this town was the most successful in the history of Sunset Ridge, and for someone the likes of her coming from the kind of money her family made their fortune with—”

  Eileen Matthews cut her off before the Widow Dunn could jump in and repeat the often whispered bootlegging story that many believed explained how the Woodward family had come into their money. For me, it was the only part of Geneva that had ever seemed interesting, but obviously the women in front of me saw it as some kind of slur.

  “Nevermind about that. How about how she had all that money and routinely refused to contribute not one dime to any town functions or events? I must have asked her ten times if I asked her once to give to the school fund, and every time she sneered at me like I was some beggar she couldn’t stand to be near. All that money and she was as cheap as they come.”

  I finally spoke up and said, “I had no idea she was like that, Eileen. I’d always heard she was one of the town’s prominent citizens.”

  The Widow Dunn snorted her derision at my comment, and Mrs. Scanlon gently tried to bring the conversation back to the day’s planned topic. “We have a number of wonderful plans for the Founders’ Day event this year, Poppy. The one I’m most excited about is the Miss Little Sunset Ridge beauty pageant. I think it’s going to be very special.”

  I pretended to write down the information about the kiddie beauty competition, but I was more interested in taking notes on all the juicy tidbits the ladies had about Geneva.

  “That’s very interesting, Mrs. Scanlon. I’m sure it will be a great success,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could fake.

  “Yes, yes, Sabrina. That’s all well and good, but I know the reason you don’t want to talk about Geneva Woodward. If anyone in this town hated her, it was you,” the Widow Dunn said with a grin.

  The blood drained from Mrs. Scanlon’s face, and she turned to face the widow. “Like I was the only one who would have hated her for that reason. And it doesn’t matter because it wasn’t true. She and Joseph never did that.”

  I sat in shock at the realization that Mrs. Scanlon had just alluded to her husband cheating on her with Geneva Woodward, so surprised that I didn’t even think to jot anything down in my notes.

  Arlene Dunn didn’t stop her needling, though. Intent on bringing all of Geneva’s dirt out into the open, she continued, “I heard otherwise. And I heard that there were quite a few husbands in this town who she’d slept with over the years.”

  Forgetting my journalistic manners, I let the investigator in me take over and asked, “Who were these men?”

  Mrs. Scanlon jumped at the chance to distract everyone from her husband’s possible affair with Geneva and offered several names. “Jacob Dernan, Michael Travers, and John Mitchell are the names I’ve heard. The affairs never lasted very long, though. I think it was just a matter of her retaliating against the wives for some slight she thought they’d made against her. She was that kind of person.”

  My mind spun and my fingers gripped my pen tightly as I wrote the names of each man and a question mark next to each one. Had Geneva Woodward been the mistress of all these men, or was this just some smear jealous wives used to make themselves feel better about not being at her level?

  Mrs. Gerard joined in with her own gossip about the victim. Leaning toward me, she pointed at my notebook and said, “And I know for a fact there were several occasions where the police had to go to her house because there were problems. I bet it was one of the wives who went to confront her. That’s what I would have done if I thought she was messing around with my husband. I would have put a stop to that right then and there.”

  “Do you think one of those women could be the murderer?” Eileen Matthews asked with a look of curiosity in her eyes she directed at me.

  I shrugged, not wanting to say much of anything about the case to these women. I preferred to let them chatter away in the hopes that something they said might help me find out who killed Geneva. Thankfully, the Widow Dunn chimed in with her own answer.

  “If I were the police and I was looking into it, I’d be looking at each of those women. If the rumors are correct, and I personally think they were just the tip of the iceberg, then all three of them had a justifiable right to do that. Geneva Woodward liked to act like she was above everyone else in town, but she was just a tramp.”

  I felt my eyes nearly bug out of my head at Arlene Dunn’s calling Geneva a tramp. The ladies around her didn’t seem as shocked, though. Even Eileen Matthews, my sweet high school English teacher, nodded in agreement.

  What seemed strange was that I’d never heard anything like these accusations against Geneva, even as I’d heard the bootlegging story a number of times over the years.

  Curious about that, I asked, “Was this common knowledge? I’ve never heard of her being anything like this. She seemed to always be alone, as far as I could tell. I mean, she ate dinner by herself at Diamanti’s three or four times a week.”

  “That’s what she wanted everyone in town to think, but from what I hear, she was very busy in her private life,” Eleanor Girard said smugly. That her husband the former mayor would be the last person on earth anyone would want to have an affair with was all I could think of as I watched her look sideways toward Mrs. Scanlon.

  “The First Lady is correct, Poppy. None of us may have ever been present to see the goings on at her home, and we may not have direct knowledge of her activities, but surely we can all agree that behind every bit of gossip is a kernel of truth.”

  Once again, each of the women around her nodded their heads in agreement, and while I didn’t necessarily think she was wrong, I figured I should stay as neutral as possible in case any of them had more information that might be useful. So instead of nodding, I gave her my usual smile that was more polite than committed to anything she’d said.

  “I certainly hope this won’t affect the festivities in June,” I said sweetly, remembering my editor’s warning about how important this assignment was not only to the paper but to my job.

  “Never,” Mrs. Scanlon said confidently. “I won’t allow it. Plus, I have no doubt that our fine police will use all their due diligence to solve this case long before Founders’ Day. I expect they’ll have their murderer shortly.”

  I was sure my surprise at hearing something complimentary about the Sunset Ridge police was written all over my face. Even my father had expressed doubt that they’d be able to catch the killer.

  “That’s good to hear. I believe they’re hard at work on the case.”

  Mrs. Scanlon finally corralled the rest of her committee so we could get back to the topic of my series of articles, and in a flash, the discussion changed from Geneva to how wonderful the yearly celebration of the town’s history would be this time around.

  By nearly four o’clock, I’d gotten all the information I could ever want or need about their plans for Founders’ Day, the decorations they planned to add for next year’s holiday season, and each of their backgrounds, which they believed I should include in the articles, of course. I’d also gleaned a good amount of information about what they all thought about Geneva Woodward. To say it had been a far more interesting afternoon than I’d anticipated was an understatement.

  I hurried over to the police station to see if Derek knew about any of the accusations the committee had made about Geneva’s private life. I found him busy with an older man making a complaint about his neighbors parking in front of his house illegally.

  This was what being a police officer in Sunset Ridge had consisted of, for the most part, for much of the time Derek had been on the force. His calm way of dealing with the elderly gentleman and giving him something to be happy about as he walked past me on his way out was the real key to Derek’s ability. He may not
have instilled confidence in many around town, but I had faith he’d do just as Mrs. Scanlon said and would solve Geneva’s case.

  Just as soon as he saw it for what it was.

  “Poppy, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Come in and tell me you have something good to give me about the case,” he said as he cracked his neck.

  I sat down in front of his desk and flipped open my tablet to the notes I’d taken that afternoon. “I had to meet with the ladies of the Founders’ Day committee today, and they had some very interesting things to say about poor Geneva.”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “The committee, huh? Let me guess. They claimed Geneva was sleeping with all the husbands in town, right?”

  My shoulders hunched from my disappointment. “I hoped to give you a clue you could work with. You know about the rumors already?”

  “Yep. Unless I’ve missed something lately, I’m guessing they gave you the names Jacob Dernan, John Mitchell, and Michael Travers.”

  “Yeah, and Joseph Scanlon too, if what the Widow Dunn thinks is correct. Nothing good there?”

  Shaking his head, he chuckled. “Nope. I already checked out that old chestnut. I know where each of them and their wives were during the time when the murder would have occurred, and they all have airtight alibis. Anyway, I’m not even sure there’s a shred of truth to any of those rumors about Geneva. Did those cranky old ladies give you anything else?”

  I scanned my notes and found what Eleanor Girard had mentioned about the police being called to the Woodward house. Maybe that could be something that would help Derek with the case.

  “The First Lady claims that there were some kind of issues that required the police to go to Geneva’s house. She didn’t go into detail about what those problems might have been, though I got the feeling she thought it had something to do with her sex life.”

  His eyes opened wide in surprise. “Is she saying that someone called the police on Geneva while she was having sex?”

  “No, no. I just meant she acted like Geneva was doing something that would get the police called on her. Did you go out on any of those calls?”

  He typed something into his computer and ran his finger down the screen. “There’s no record of any calls made about Geneva Woodward. Not only that, but according to our records, she never called the police either. We’ve never been over there.”

  I sat back in my chair confused. The First Lady had been so sure of that piece of information. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would Eleanor Girard say that if it wasn’t true?”

  “I have no idea, Poppy. This is the same woman who makes everyone still call her the First Lady, as if she was the wife of the damn president at some point. Her husband lost the election, but she still walks around like she’s Mrs. Sunset Ridge. I think she might be crazy.”

  “But it’s such an easy thing to check. It seems bizarre that she’d lie about those calls if they never happened.”

  Derek waved off my concern about Eleanor Girard’s claims. “This kind of thing happens all the time in police work, Poppy. It feels like most of the time you’re chasing down leads that go nowhere. Thanks for keeping your ears open out there, though.”

  “No problem. I’m going to head home. It’s been a long day of listening to those women. I think I need a drink.”

  He laughed and nodded. “I have days like that too. Don’t get too stressed out about this case, though. Like I said before, I think it’s just a robbery gone bad and Geneva Woodward was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  I stood to leave since there was no point discussing that. I didn’t believe it any more at that moment than I had the first time he said it. “Have a good night, Derek. I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop if I hear anything.”

  “Thanks, Poppy. Go home and have that drink. My guess is after spending time with those women, you deserve it.”

  With a wave, I left him as he got ready to go visit the elderly man’s neighbors about their illegal parking, but I believed I was onto something with my theory of the case. This was no robbery gone bad but a personal attack on Geneva that ended in her death, intentional or not.

  But this being my first case, I needed some help and I couldn’t think of anyone better than a former Baltimore police detective. I just hoped Alexander Montero would be friendlier on our second meeting than he was on our first.

  Chapter Six

  Alexander’s house just south of town on Miller Road was exactly the kind of place I thought he’d live in. Away from other houses with the closest one half a mile away, it seemed very much secluded and alone.

  Just like him.

  A large newer house, it made me think of a cabin in the woods the way it was surrounded by large trees. So different from the older, more traditional homes in town, it still looked as impressive as those Victorians.

  I pulled up to the front of the house and saw it almost completely dark except for one lone light toward the back. His car sat in the driveway, a sweet looking black ’69 Mustang with a hood scoop. Definitely not what I expected him to drive. I hadn’t pegged him for a car guy. As the daughter of a man who loved muscle cars, I knew my fair share about them and couldn’t help but be impressed by Alexander’s choice of wheels. After I admired the car for a few seconds, I turned toward to check out the house, but it looked deserted.

  Curious and wanting to get his opinion on the Geneva Woodward murder, I shut off the engine in my Jeep and hopped out. Maybe he was outside chopping wood or doing something out back since it was just after sundown. I walked up to the front door to knock, just in case in he was inside, but as I guessed would happen, I got no answer. So I headed around back in the hope that I’d find him there.

  All I found was a newly planted garden, some shrubs that sat waiting to be put into the ground, and a garden shovel. Looking around, I couldn’t help but like what I saw, though. The backyard went on for as far as I could see. Lined with trees, it had a contained but welcoming look to it. None of the homes in town had yards this big, and I thought to myself how much I would have loved a yard this size to play in when I was a little girl.

  The sound of rustling leaves tore me out of my daydreams, and suddenly scared, I grabbed the shovel. Holding it up and ready to swing at whatever might be out here, I slowly backed away toward the front of the house only to run into something hard.

  I turned around prepared to defend myself and nearly fainted. There standing in front of me was Alexander, his eyes full of rage and a gun in his hand pointed directly at my head!

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded to know, practically growling at me.

  Stepping back, I gripped the handle of the shovel so tightly my palms ached and stared into his brown eyes so full of anger. Was he angry at me?

  “I’m…I’m sorry. I just…I just wanted to see if you would…” I stammered out as I watched his face grow angrier by the second.

  “If I would what? Why are you out here sneaking around my house? Am I suspect in your little case now?”

  Suspect in my little case? What was he talking about?

  “No. I mean, I was just hoping I could talk to you about it,” I tried to explain, still terrified at the gun pointed at my head.

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone, so just leave,” he said, his voice full of venom.

  Even though it went against every defensive instinct I possessed, I lowered the shovel and forced a smile. “Alexander, if you could just not point that gun at my face, maybe we could talk for a few minutes?”

  As if he was deciding if he wanted to speak to me or not, he softened his expression for a moment and instead of pure anger coming at me, I saw a gentleness that I hadn’t seen in him before. His brown eyes didn’t glare out at me like the very sight of my face enraged him. And his shoulders lowered slightly like he was relaxing.

  But then the moment was over and his eyebrows knitted, telling me he hadn’t reconsidered talking to me.

  He lowered his gun and frowned. “You don’t want to spe
ak to me. I can’t help you.”

  “You might be able to. Derek told me you were a great detective when you were working in the Baltimore police, and while he might just be a local guy, he does tend to have a good sense of people.”

  Alexander practically sneered at me as I complimented him. “I’m not that person anymore.”

  “But you could be again. Great instincts don’t just go away simply because you’re not on the job.”

  He simply stared at me, brown eyes boring into mine like he was searching them for the real reason why I was lurking outside his home at dusk after getting such a cool reception at our first meeting. I saw distrust and hurt in those eyes. I didn’t know why, but I wished I could explain myself better to make him see that I wasn’t the person he’d taken an instant dislike to from the moment we met.

  “I can’t help you. You need to go.”

  He turned to leave, and I gently grabbed his sleeve to stop him and saw that look of anger he’d worn just a minute earlier return when he looked down where my fingers touched his shirt. Never before had I seen a look so full of rage, and I instantly backed away.

  “I promise it wouldn’t take too much of your time. I just have a few questions about some things I thought you could help me with.

  Nearly spitting the words out, he said, “Go home, Miss McGuire. You don’t belong here.”

  For the second time that day I’d been addressed as Miss McGuire, and this time felt no better than the first. The disdain in his voice actually hurt even more than the swipe from the nasty Widow Dunn. I hated the idea that he was no better than some small town, narrow-minded old woman with her judgmental ways and sharp tongue. I wanted to believe he was different.

  Like me.

  But he wasn’t.

  “Fine. I just wanted to get your opinion on some things involved in the Geneva Woodward case, and I thought you might want to help. I’m sorry I was mistaken.”

  He stood there just staring at me after my outburst, but I wanted to be anywhere else in the world than standing there being judged in his backyard. Pushing past him, I dropped the shovel and hurried back to my car as tears welled in my eyes. I hated when I got so angry that I cried. It made me feel weak, and I didn’t want to be weak.