The Gossip

by Nancy Bush

  “And Troi Bevins.”

  Mac wasn’t going to argue with him about Troi again. She’d come to her own conclusions about the man, but there was a chance she was being played by him. It was unlikely, but she couldn’t rule it out entirely.

  “When we’re done with this, I have a couple of things I want to talk over.”

  Taft had driven them all the way to Best Homes, and they were pulling into the parking lot and he was checking the time on his dash. “What?”

  “I don’t have time now.”

  “Give me a sample.” He stopped the car, cut the ignition, and gave her a look.

  “Taft,” she said, exasperated. Annoyed, she kept the information about Rayne and the wine bottle to herself and said instead, “Katy Keegan says she went after Chief Bennihof, not the other way around.”

  Taft gave a derisive laugh and climbed out of the car. Mackenzie scrambled out the other side.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

  “That’s a story she’s telling you. I saw her after he caught her alone in his office. She was making excuses for him, but she was trying to make it right in her mind. It wasn’t good.”

  “She flat-out told me she chased him down.”

  They were walking toward the company offices, and he stopped before taking the two steps that led to Best Homes’s wraparound stamped concrete deck and massive entry doors. “So she lied to me, or she lied to you,” he said. “Which do you think it is?”

  Mac had already considered that Katy might have decided to go after Bennihof after his first harassment as a means to take back her power. “Victims sometimes blame themselves and try to normalize a sexual predator’s attack.”

  “Straight out of cop psych class. And the truth.” He went up the stairs and held the door open for her. “We’re a bit late, Brooke. You ready?”

  “Yes . . . John.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Old Darla sat at Emma’s table, her face contorted with fear. “They took her away. She was tagged to die, so they took her away.”

  Emma looked from Old Darla to Jewell, who was sharing dinner at a separate table with her friends. They were all looking over at Emma and Old Darla as well. Emma wished she were still working at the thrift shop, but they’d closed for the day and she’d just gotten back, walked Duchess, and was now at dinner. There was too much drama going on now. “The cat didn’t sleep with Mrs. Throckmorton.”

  Emma had searched for the cat for a long while, worried they’d lied to her and it was trapped somewhere. But then it had strolled up to the door, meowed, and been let in by one of the old men, who was generally cranky but liked the cat. Emma had been relieved but was still worried for the cat’s fate. Maybe it should’ve stayed away.

  She said to Old Darla a bit louder, “Bob said the cat did not sleep in Mrs. Throckmorton’s bed. Jewell gave the cat a bad reputation, but it’s not true. Mrs. Throckmorton is alive and well and with her family. That’s what Faye said.”

  Bob didn’t like the cat, but he liked telling people they were wrong. And he’d been telling Jewell she was wrong, which had not gone over well with Jewell. He’d also told Jewell, and Jewell had told Emma, that one of the residents had seen Mrs. Throckmorton urging the cat to come inside her room with her. Bob said Mrs. Throckmorton had then forgotten why the cat was there and had gotten scared.

  Old Darla didn’t seem to hear her loud voice. Old Darla didn’t hear much of anything. Now she looked toward the entrance door and squeaked. Emma followed her gaze. There was the cat, sitting in the doorway. Ian wasn’t here tonight. It was Friday and he had the night off. He was the one who usually gave the cat treats.

  Emma tried not to worry for the cat.

  Old Darla suddenly said, “They said Sara’s daughter picked her up, but she’s my daughter.”

  Emma frowned at Old Darla. That was not true. Mrs. Throckmorton’s daughter was Lorena—she’d remembered the name—and her grandson was Thaddeus. Emma had never heard that Old Darla had any grandchildren. Harley had told her that Old Darla had a “loose connection” and Emma thought she was right. Old Darla kept mixing everything up.

  Raising her voice once again, Emma said firmly, “Mrs. Throckmorton’s daughter is Lorena, and she came to Ridge Pointe yesterday and picked her up to take her home.” She purposely left out that Thad was her grandson because Old Darla was too confused about him.

  Old Darla’s eyes fixed on Emma. “That house has too many stairs. All those houses do. I remember when they built them. They won’t take her there.”

  Emma was glad they weren’t talking about grandsons again, but she had seen with her own eyes Lorena helping Mrs. Throckmorton to her waiting car, so they’d gone somewhere. “Lorena buckled her into the car,” she told Old Darla.

  “All those houses have too many stairs,” Old Darla declared, pointing her finger at Emma three times. “It won’t be safe there. That’s why they put her in Ridge Pointe in the first place. She couldn’t do the stairs!”

  “Maybe Mrs. Throckmorton is going somewhere else,” said Emma. She didn’t like Old Darla pointing at her.

  “I tried to fight them but they built them anyway.” She waved her arms around, growing upset, pointing past Emma. “Too close to the trail. They’re monstrosities. The city should have never allowed them!”

  “Monstrosities,” repeated Emma.

  “I fought them . . . I fought them . . .” Old Darla’s face collapsed into tears.

  “But now Mrs. Throckmorton lives there . . . ?”

  “She has my daughter and grandson!” She started wailing and Emma worried she was going to spill the chicken soup in her bowl. She’d hardly eaten any of it.

  “Be careful,” said Emma. She wondered if the administrators had gotten it wrong and it was Old Darla who should go to Memory Care, not Mrs. Throckmorton.

  Scott, a weekend administrator, looked into the room. His gaze zeroed in on Old Darla, and he came over to their table and laid a hand atop one of Old Darla’s that was lying on the table. Old Darla snatched her hand back and wouldn’t look at him. “Darla, are you finished?” he asked, smiling but not really smiling. He was being patient, but Emma knew it was fake.

  Old Darla wasn’t answering, so Emma explained, “Her friend Mrs. Throckmorton is gone.”

  “Yes, she’s gone home.” He flicked Emma a look. Across the room Jewell and some of her friends were looking over, too.

  “My grandson is coming for me,” Old Darla whispered.

  “I’m sure you’ll see him soon,” he said and it was a lie. They did lots of lying around here.

  “Old Darla doesn’t have a grandson,” said Emma.

  “Yes, I do!” she flashed. “Yes, I do!”

  Scott soothed, “I’m sure he’ll come see you soon. Let’s get you back to your room.”

  “But it’s not the truth,” said Emma.

  “I think I know what Darla needs.” He turned back to Old Darla, who was peeking up at him. Her head was down because she was embarrassed. “Looks like your soup’s gone cold. I’ll get you a warm bowl and have it brought to your room.”

  Emma could tell he was kinda mad. She just wasn’t sure if he was mad at Old Darla or her.

  She watched as he helped Old Darla from the chair, to her walker, and down the hallway. They passed the cat, who took a playful swipe at Scott’s ankle.

  “Be careful, cat,” she muttered.

  She thought about Mrs. Throckmorton’s house. She knew those houses that Old Darla didn’t like. Three of them above the trail. Maybe she would pay a visit to Mrs. Throckmorton sometime. Her house wasn’t that far from Ridge Pointe and she might like the company.

  * * *

  “If we see Andrew Best, he’ll focus on you,” Taft said into her ear as they entered the Best Homes offices. “Like Bennihof, he warms to attractive females. I know you can act, so just do what you do.”

  “What do you mean?” Mac pulled away a bit from the warmth of his breath on her ear.
r />   “Before you became a cop, you were in theater arts.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I did my research on you. You have an associate’s degree in—”

  “How long have you been researching me?”

  “Laughlin. Your curriculum vitae isn’t hard to find.”

  “That was a lifetime ago. I changed course to have a career.”

  “Okay.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. Now who was playacting? She wanted to be outraged. She felt used, somehow. No, that was bullshit. He was right, goddammit. She wanted to play this part.

  “Just want you to know, I’m not sure Brooke even wants a Best Home,” she said. “They’re a little on the traditional side and I prefer mid-century modern.”

  Taft rubbed his right hand across his jaw to cover a grin and reached with his left for hers. They walked up to the front desk holding hands and were greeted by a young woman with perfectly coiffed blond hair who told them their appointment was with Racquel, who was ready to show them around.

  “Is Mr. Best here?” Mackenzie asked with a little shrug of her shoulders. “I’d love to meet the owner.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s busy today.”

  “Oh. Oh, that’s right.” There was a horrified gasp hiding in Mac’s tone. “You had that accident last night! I saw it on TV. Awful.” She flicked a look at Taft whose eyes were sparkling with repressed amusement at her performance. “Maybe we should have come another day?”

  “We have that deposit . . .” he said.

  “Right.” Mackenzie nodded and frowned. “We put money down on a home in Staffordshire Estates by that other builder . . . Laidlaw Construction? I do like that one,” she said to Taft.

  The woman at the desk was looking kind of tense. She glanced down a long hallway and said with relief, “Here’s Racquel.”

  Racquel was tall even in black flats, and she was dressed in black pants, a white blouse, and a gold jacket. An iridescent green Best Homes pin with her name on it was tacked to her lapel. She asked, “Are you only interested in Staffordshire Estates, because we have many wonderful properties elsewhere as well.”

  “Oh, no. It has to be in Staffordshire Estates,” said Mac.

  “Well, I can show you some we have available, but we’ve had an unfortunate accident at one of the sites and so it will be limited, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m so sorry. We’re just kind of under a time crunch.”

  “We have money down on another property,” Taft admitted, showing off his dimples with a faintly regretful smile. He’d shaved his beard close to a five o’clock shadow. With his jeans and black shirt he almost looked like a model, and Racquel and the woman at the desk both noticed.

  “I’ll show you what I can,” said Racquel. “Should we go in my car? I’m sure you know that Staffordshire isn’t that far from here. We have two models that we can walk through.”

  “That would be great,” said Mac.

  They followed Racquel outside to a white Mercedes sedan. It was decided Mac would sit in the front beside Racquel and Taft would sit in the back. Racquel chatted of the wonders of buying a Best Home on the short trip, and Taft, reining in his usual bombastic style, asked Racquel a lot of seemingly small-talk questions about Best Homes that she eagerly answered in glowing terms.

  “We’re number one in the area. I know you said you’ve offered on a Laidlaw property, but we really are the best in the business!” she chortled.

  That line could get pretty old, pretty fast, Mac thought.

  Taft said, “I’ve heard that, but are you really?”

  They’d fallen easily into their roles without rehearsing. Mr. Adams was the skeptical male who was the hard-ass on the purchase, the man who needed his hand over the end of the bat to win, whereas Mrs. Adams was motivated by prestige and social climbing.

  “I know it sounds like a joke,” Racquel said, shooting Taft a smile through the rearview mirror, “but it’s the truth. You want a Best home. You really do.”

  “You’ll have to convince me,” Taft said, an answering smile in his voice.

  “Challenge accepted,” said Racquel, her shoulders squinching in as if she wanted to hug herself with delight.

  Mac tried very hard not to mind.

  When they arrived at Staffordshire Estates, Racquel drove them to the oldest part of the development, a ring of houses around a central park with a center gazebo and a play structure surrounded by laurel hedges. The houses themselves were sixties-style ranches, some with added second stories, some with basements.

  “I just wanted to show you these. They’re called the Villages. Victor’s Villages, after the original developer, but shortened to the Villages. They have their own homeowners’ association and the dues are a little more economical.”

  “They seem very nice, but they’re not quite what I’m looking for,” Mac said regretfully.

  “I understand, Mrs. Adams. I just wanted to give you an overall look of Staffordshire.”

  “It’s Brooke. Please.”

  Taft said, “We’re really more interested in your newer plans.”

  “Well . . .” Racquel drove them out of the Villages and farther down a wide, winding drive to a second section of homes, which were mostly finished. The third section was right beside it, and though most of those homes were under varying stages of construction, there didn’t appear to be any work being done.

  “We’ve shut down work today on Phase Three,” said Racquel, “but the houses in this section are of the same design as Phase Two. The models are open.”

  The periphery of the lot of one of the houses under construction that abutted Phase II was staked out with crime scene tape, and a number of vehicles surrounded it. Seeing Mac’s gaze, Racquel added, “There are houses toward the back of Phase Three that are further along, but we’ll have to stay off-site, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s where it happened, isn’t it?” Mac said, expelling her breath.

  “We hadn’t had an accident in over a year.”

  “It was your foreman?” Taft inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “Looks like the police are investigating,” he added.

  Racquel determinedly drove them down another street and parked in front of a white, two-story home with gray shutters. “This is our most popular model.”

  As they got out of the car, Mac asked, “Is this model the same as the one where the accident happened?”

  “No, that’s the second floor plan.”

  “Could we see that one?” asked Mac.

  Racquel’s lips tightened. “Well, since we’re here. Let’s see this one.”

  She walked them through and spent all her time talking to Taft. After they’d toured the second floor and returned to the kitchen, Mac said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but this house plan is too . . . meh for me.” She looked at Taft. “What do you think?”

  Racquel had bristled at Mac’s remark but now she turned to Taft. “The other floor plan may be more to your liking . . .” she said doubtfully.

  “Let’s take a look,” said Taft.

  By the time they were through the second model home, which was a lot like the first although the roof was flatter and offered more room upstairs, it had been full dark for over an hour. The neighborhood lights had switched on illuminating the front yards of all the houses in diffused white circles. Several garage doors were open where family members had returned home.

  “It’s a nice neighborhood,” Racquel said, sliding Taft a sidelong look from beneath her lashes.

  “I’d like to drive through the new section. Phase Three,” Taft told Racquel.

  “Like I said—”

  “Quick drive,” he interrupted, spreading his hands.

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  But she was waffling and in the end Taft got his way. They drove into Phase III, past the house where Granger Nye’s life had ended and through the snaking streets bounded on both sides by structures in varying stages of
construction. Here the lighting was bright bulbs on poles that spread cold white light over the area.

  And as they circumvented the house with the yellow crime tape Mac recognized Cooper Hayne climbing out of his city ride and striding toward a man in a hard hat who could only be Andrew Best.

  Taft drawled, “Looks like Mr. Best is meeting with the River Glen PD.”

  Racquel said, “What?” whipping her head around to gawk as they passed by.

  Mac’s attention was so split that she barely registered Racquel had asked her a question as they circled back and once again passed Andrew Best and Cooper standing outside the house where Nye’s body had fallen from the second story.

  “Brooke?” Racquel asked, as she aimed the nose of the Mercedes out of the development and back toward the Best Homes offices.

  “I’m sorry,” Mackenzie said. “What was it you said?”

  “I was asking which section of the development you—”

  “Hon, I know you probably like Phase Three best, but I’m leaning toward the Villages,” Taft interrupted.

  Mackenzie half turned to look at him. It was dim inside the car but she thought he was hiding a grin. “Well, babe, I’d have to disagree.” She turned back around and said to Racquel, “Why are the police here? It’s rather frightening.”

  “Well, they have to investigate the poor man’s death, and we’re cooperating to the fullest, of course.”

  She was getting kind of snippy, so Mac pushed, “It seems like they think it’s more than an accident. I don’t know how that’s going to play out, for your development, I mean. When someone dies suspiciously in a house, it’s hard to sell afterward, or so I’ve heard.”

  “It was an accident.” She glanced back at Taft and said, “The Villages are hard to get into, I’m afraid.”

  “But what if it was murder?” Mac pressed. “What about the neighbors? I’d be scared to go out of my house, I can tell you.”

  Racquel touched her toe to the accelerator and said firmly, “Well, let’s go back and talk about what appeals to you.”

  She was all business after that, directing everything to Taft and nothing to Mackenzie. She hustled them into an anteroom at Best Homes, one eye on the clock as it was getting into the evening. Mackenzie started to sit down and then said, “The restroom?”