by CeeCee James
Darn, I was right about the manicure. She gave my nails an odd glance.
“Oh, do you paint?” she asked. I really wanted to think her voice held a tinge of judgment, but it didn’t at all. She sounded interested.
“Oh, I just play around. Different landscapes and things.” I smiled, trying to grab my mojo.
“Don’t let her downplay it. She’s an amazing artist.” Frank nudged my shoulder. It was sweet but a little brotherly. I was confused as to where to go with that.
“Anyway,” Frank continued, “Jessica was in the area so she stopped for a coffee.”
“Right,” she said, a little abruptly, I thought. “I’m just going to head out.”
“Okay. Nice to meet you,” I said.
“No, stay. Georgie’s only here for a minute.” Frank said. Then, turning to me, “So, what did you want to show me?”
Was he trying to get rid of me? Trying to squash the insecurity, I passed over a plastic bag with the corner of the case, and the stamp-sized bag in it.
“What’s this?” he asked, lifting over to the window to examine it in the light.
“I found it.”
“I see that. I figured it didn’t fall from the sky like sparkly pixie dust.”
“Haha,” I said dryly. Now for the tricky part. “I—uh— was trying to meet a friend and stumbled across it.”
He set the bag down with a sigh and took a long slurp of coffee. I waited for his reaction. He was delaying, so I knew it was going to be a good one.
“Try again, Sherlock. Your story is about as honest as a purple chicken.”
I bit my lip, then glanced at Jessica. This was going to be embarrassing. “I was looking for Mary, remember her? I went to a place she liked to hang out and discovered this. And something more.”
I eyed Jessica and then slid over the money roll. Frank whistled through his teeth.
“Well now,” Jessica said in a purr. “Isn’t that something?”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “Where did you say you found this?”
“On Mr. Murray’s land.”
He ever so slowly raised an eyebrow. “And why were you there?”
“To, um…” My gaze cut to Jessica who had started to smirk.
“She was there to sell Girl Scout cookies, what else?” Jessica said.
“Hardly anything that innocuous,” Frank said dryly.
My face filled with heat and I stood up. “I had his permission. Like I said, I was looking for Mary. Anyway, now you have it. I’ll talk to you later.”
“We’re not done here,” Frank said.
“I have to get to Cecelia’s. If you need more information, you know where to find me.”
“Apparently not,” Frank said. “Because it seems you’re never actually where you say you’re going to be.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I stumbled out of the cafe, my hands reaching for the backs of the benches to help me along. It was hard to see through the tears of humiliation.
Chapter 16
I left the coffee shop with my humiliation quickly turning into fury. How dare he embarrass me in front of her? At this point, I didn’t care if I ever talked to him again.
I took Old Bella to a “You Wash” car wash. She was grimier than usual and I needed help getting my mind off of Frank. And Jessica! That little smirk of hers! I smashed the sponge into the bucket.
I stood there with bubbles trickling down my arm and tried to get a grip on myself. Focus on what’s important. That poor dead boy and a murderer that is still walking free. With grim determination to stay distracted, I cleaned the bus from top to bottom.
Then I drove to the Baker Street Bed and Breakfast. We were expecting guests that afternoon, and I was here to help flip the rooms. Cecelia was always observant, and somewhere between me organizing the already organized utensil drawer and moving the spices into an alphabetical order in the cupboard, she finally stopped me.
“So, young lady,” Cecelia began. She always referred to me as a young lady when she was about to give me a serious talking to.
I paused, worried.
Her thin eyebrow lifted as she considered me. “You’ve been missing lately.”
“Missing?” I asked. Was there something I’d forgotten to do?
“Yes, missing. You’re not singing anymore.”
“I… sing?”
“You certainly do. Oh, I hardly know what you’re saying because you throw nonsense words in there. But still, you’re always humming some song or another. And it’s just been too quiet lately. And then there’s this.” She reached toward the counter and grabbed an unopened jar.
I recognized it right away. It was raspberry jam from last summer. I’d spent several hours in the hot sun, more than willing to pick them, despite the thorns, the bugs, the sunburn and the humidity. Cecelia’s raspberry jam was to die for. Slathered on a slice of warm homemade bread, or a slice straight out of the toaster, it was better than any dessert you could get at the finest of restaurants.
“Yum,” I said, still feeling confused as to why she was holding it out me.
She shook the jar. “This is brand new.”
“I see that,” I said.
“I’ve had it on the counter for three days now, and you’ve not gotten into it. Usually, it’s half gone by now. I’ve even caught you eating it straight with a spoon.”
“Cecelia, to be fair, I was seven at the time.”
“Seven, shmeven. I’ve seen you goop enough on the bread I wondered if you liked a wee bit of toast with your jam. Now, why haven’t you gotten into it? Something’s up. Out with it girl.”
I groaned, not even knowing where to start. But I knew she wasn’t going to give up so I might as well pour my heart out. “Last night, I found a piece of a cell phone from the scene of Jacob’s first incident. And I learned that a gang tried to jump him at that very spot, only to be chased off by the owner of the land with a shotgun. Not only that, Jacob’s family had been harassed before his death.”
Cecelia quietly nodded as she grabbed a bottle of vinegar. She rumpled a newspaper and poured a splash of the liquid on to it, then began polishing a window. I waited, feeling breathless, for some sort of response to my tirade.
“Go on,” was all she said. But it was all I needed to take off again.
“When I found Jacob, I took a bunch of photos. Unusable, I guess, but when I look at them now, I swear he’d been moved from the original scene. You already know how the police were only interested for a nano-second. Now they’re satisfied no crime’s been committed. Everyone’s telling me that the kid fell down the stairs and to let it go. It’s all very hush-hush.” I shut the cupboard door and opened the next, staring at the cups like they were my enemy. “But it’s not just me who’s suspicious. Mary, the girl who asked for my help, wasn’t convinced. And now she’s disappeared, or at least I’m unable to find her. And the final straw is a big wad of money I found in the cave where she liked to hide. I think Jacob put it there. But anyone who knows anything has disappeared like rats down a sewer.”
“My goodness! That is a lot! Everyone’s disappeared?”
“Even his English roommate has apparently gone back into the Navy. And there’s a girl he’d been with. I can’t find her.”
“A girl?”
“Yeah, he supposedly kissed some girl with a boyfriend and the boyfriend was going after Jacob. There was a time I wondered if that was why Jacob ended his Rumspringa.”
“For a kiss?” Even chaste Cecelia didn’t believe that story. “You don’t know her name?”
“I agree. It is ridiculous, and so far, every road has been a dead end.”
Cecelia started on another window, her eyebrows knitted together. “You might find this interesting. There’s been a bit of gossip around the town about the banker’s daughter. That girl is on the wrong track, for sure. They just got her back from Pittsburgh, and they’ve been trying to get her into rehab.”
My hands froze.
”Really?”
Perhaps Jacob had given the girl much more than a kiss, like drugs, giving her boyfriend a much bigger motive to come after him.
“Her father is playing it off like it isn’t a big deal but he could barely crack a smile when I greeted him today. That poor man is under some serious stress.”
I needed to find his daughter. “What was her name?”
“Amy Carmichael.”
Of course. I knew her father, Scott Carmichael. He was a heavy-set man, going bald, but always with a smile on his face. He was more animated than one would expect from someone who ran the Sterling Bank but the customers loved him. He seemed like a real advocate for the people in this town, funding loans where other places had refused them.
“They live in that big house on the hill, right?” I asked. “He helped get you this place, didn’t he?”
Cecelia nodded and her lips curved into a wide smile. “I’ll see you at six.”
“Six?” I asked pausing in my cup rearrangement.
“For dinner. Yes. I know you have some investigating to do. Now shoo.” She chucked one of the balled-up newspapers at me. I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in a while. Maybe I had a real lead this time.
I headed out, but not before I grabbed a couple of cookies from the cookie jar.
Munching one—pecan snicker-doodle— I hopped into my van and cranked it over. That Carmichael house was right on the peak of White Horse Mountain. I just needed to go find it.
My search engine gave me the address with the same helpful 2.99 tip, and I plugged it into my GPS. I watched the pink ribbon route the way to the girl’s house. There was just one problem.
What reason could I give her when I showed up?
Chapter 17
It took nearly the whole drive there but I finally figured out an excuse to visit the banker. The answer was obvious and I blushed to think it had taken me so long. Mr. Carmichael had personally helped Cecelia buy the Baker Street Bed and Breakfast. There had been another woman who’d tried to block the sale and nearly was successful. But Mr. Carmichael had discovered that woman had secretly bid on the house herself and was able to squash any further roadblocks for Cecelia.
That’s right. He’d really gone to bat for her. It had been three years now that the bed and breakfast had been in business, and obviously, I benefitted from my tour job with her, so it wasn’t too out of the question for me to bring up a thank you card and maybe a bottle of wine, from both Cecelia and me. Sort of a celebration gift that the business was staying in the green, which was something every banker would be happy about.
It meant that I had to return to town to get a card and a bottle of wine but I was happy to do it, and it wasn’t long before I was on my way back up the mountain road.
The road curved sharply a few times, forcing me to slow down. I swallowed hard. The turns were just enough to bring back the memory of Derek. My hands tightened on the wheel as the scene played out before my eyes. His car crashing through the guardrail and rolling, end-over-end, to the bottom of the canyon.
A blasting horn made me jerk just in time to see a semi-truck heading straight for me. I yanked the steering wheel hard to get the van back into my own lane. What was I thinking? Stop!
My whole body trembled from the near miss. I turned into the nearest driveway and stopped the van. I covered my face with my hands, and a sob escaped me. I’d nearly killed someone because of my daydream. When, oh, when would these flashbacks stop?
I knew the answer. Not until I knew what really had happened that day. I couldn’t accept the explanation that the fire chief had given me, that Derek committed suicide. He wouldn’t do that to me, especially knowing I was in the car right behind him. He wouldn’t.
I took a deep breath. Now isn’t the time. You’re here to get information on Derek—No! Not Derek! Jacob! With difficulty, I tried to pull my thoughts from the past and get a grip on the present.
Finally, when I felt like I’d regained some semblance of control, I continued down the road. It wasn’t long before I found the Carmichael’s driveway where I parked a few feet from the porch steps. Grabbing the wine and card, I climbed out and walked to the front door, trying to push away the memory of the truck horn that still blared in my ears. Focus. What kind of answers did I hope to find here?
I rang the doorbell and waited. A young woman, pretty and painfully thin, answered the door.
“Hello. My name’s Georgie. I work for Cecelia Wagner. I was looking for your father. He helped us with some business stuff a while ago and I wanted to bring him this thank you gift.” The words rushed out of my mouth as the young woman half-smiled.
“He’s not here right now, but I can tell him you came by.” She scratched at a sore on her cheek, making me wince.
I shifted a little, trying to think of how to start a conversation. “Oh, I’m sorry I missed him. Do you think I could leave him a note?”
She looked pointedly at the card in my hand.
“Err, this is from my aunt. But I’d like to leave him a personal message of thanks myself if you don’t mind.”
She nodded, her fingers still scratching. “Yeah, sure. Why not. I think there’s a pen in here.” The girl left the door open and wandered down the hall.
I walked after her, glad to be inside. I’d write whatever I needed just to have a chance to talk with her.
The house was a bit ostentatious, with wealth painted in the high dollar lamps, rugs, and artwork. My mouth dropped to see an original Pablo Picasso. The family wasn’t shy about the display of their money.
She led me into one room where an enormous executive desk sat in a corner. Facing forward was a picture of Mr. Carmichael. The heavy-set man was shaking hands with a former president. Humming a little, the girl rummaged through one of the drawers. “He actually gets a lot of thank you stuff like that from people around here.”
Her comment made me feel a little foolish.
She pointed to a bar in the corner. “You can just set it there.”
“That’s nice that he’s appreciated,” I murmured. She wasn’t kidding. On the bar was two potted plants already. And in the trash below was a plate of cookies still wrapped in plastic wrap.
I hurriedly looked away. “So, are you Amy?”
“That’d be me.” Amy came over with a pen. I took it from her, at loss again at how to start the conversation.
“Well?” She nodded to the envelope. “Aren’t you going to write?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” I pulled the envelope over and penned a generic; “Thank you for your help. We really appreciate it.” Each scribbled word brought more panic as my time was running out.
Her phone dinged, and she lifted it to look at a notification.
My eyes flew open. The phone’s screen was cracked, and I couldn’t be certain, but it sure looked like a corner was missing.
“Wow, that looks like it’s been through the ringer,” I said airily, handing back the pen.
Amy didn’t take her eyes from the screen. “Yeah,” she said somewhat distracted. Her thumbs flew over the keyboard and then pressed send. “My new one is supposed to be here tomorrow. Well, actually, yesterday. But you know how those things are.”
“It can’t be easy to use with the screen messed up like that. I know someone who can fix it. But then, if you’re getting a new one, it doesn’t matter.”
“It’s all good. Like I said, should be here tomorrow.” She hid the phone against her belly. But this time I definitely saw it. The corner was missing.
My pulse thumped in my ears. She must have been at the scene. All the questions I’d thought I’d ask her dried up.
She stuck a piece of gum in her mouth and chucked the wrapper to lay next to the wine bottle. “You done?”
My mouth was too dry to answer so I nodded.
“C’mon then,” she lazily waved to me and shuffled to the front door.
Do something! Say anything!
“Uh, I bet it gets lonely up on this hill.” I rolled my eyes at my stupid comme
nt.
“Nah, it’s not too bad. Sometimes it’s nice to be by myself.”
“Yeah. Quiet is nice. Technology and the bustle of everything can be a lot.” My point was stupid as she tapped her phone, but it was the best segueway I could think of for my next statement. “Like at the Amish village. You ever visit there?”
Amy’s eyes narrowed. “Not really.” She walked down the hall.
I followed with slow steps. “Yeah, except there was a terrible tragedy that happened there this week. To a young man named Jacob. You hear about it?”
“Nah, nothing,” she said. Her voice had a bite and she opened the front door with force. “So you have a good day, hear?”
I threw out my trump card. “They aren’t sure what happened to him but it sounds like the police are getting involved.”
She made a startled noise and her hand froze on the doorknob.
My eyes locked onto hers. “Are you okay?” I tried to keep calm even though my own heart was racing.
“What do they think happened?”
I very gently shrugged. “They’re suspecting foul play.”
At those words, all the color left the woman’s face, making the blemish pop out like a blood spot. “They think he was murdered?”
I shrugged again, unwilling to give up any more information. “I might be able to track down more information. I’m friends with—”
She cut me off. “Thank you for coming but you need to go, now.”
I nodded robotically and walked onto the front porch. Before the girl could completely close the door, I spun back.
“You know who did it. Was it your boyfriend?”
The door slammed shut.
I trudged back to the van, half-kicking myself for blurting that out, and half-renewed because I knew I was right. But what did that mean? Right, how?
Chapter 18
Back at home, I printed all the pictures I’d taken from the scene of Jacob’s accident. My investment in the high-quality printer for the brochures for the tour company’s portion of the bed and breakfast was coming into good use, and I felt rather proud when I saw the photos all laid out.