by Lisa Harris
“What, the guy in a grey sedan? Like a million other grey sedans out there? The guy—”
“Not just a grey sedan. A grey Sonata. With the same driver—”
“But you can’t be sure it was the same person. Or even the same Sonata.”
She pressed her lips together so tightly that she could feel them pucker. “Well, I didn’t get the license plate, if that’s what you mean—”
Shane shook his head. “Quinn, I’ll bet if you went outside now, you wouldn’t have to wait five minutes before a couple of Sonatas, grey ones even, passed by. You know how many tourists we get here, driving in from Tallahassee. Rental car companies rent grey sedans out in droves. Lots of Sonatas. And some guy wearing a ball cap? Come on.”
This is pointless. He’s never going to take me seriously unless I drag an actual body in here. “I think that maybe I need to talk to your supervisor, Shane. Because it’s clear that you have a blind spot when it comes to me and this situation.”
“I’ve already spoken to my supervisor.” His tone was flat, but his expression smacked of satisfaction.
“What?”
“When you called me on the way over and told me what you had,” he inclined his head toward the button, “I thought I should let him know, and he agrees with me. You need to calm down and let us do our job. Eventually the guy that broke in will slip up and we’ll catch him and you’ll see that he wasn’t dead and this isn’t some big conspiracy. No one is following you. No one is out to get you.” He squinted at her appraisingly. “I have to ask. You’re not…” He let the end of the sentence trail off, as if she was supposed to catch his meaning without forcing him to verbalize the entire question.
She did catch his meaning and anger flashed through her. “What? Self-medicating again? Drinking again? No, Shane, I’m not,” she said, clenching her teeth.
“It’s just, this sounds a lot like Tampa.”
“It’s not at all like Tampa. But thanks for your concern.” She glared at the mirror. “And you can tell your supervisor the same. It’s time for your shift. I’m gonna get out of your hair.” She shot up out of her chair and he followed suit, walking behind her as she flung open the door and marched back down the hallway toward the lobby.
She was just reaching for the handle to the exit into the lobby when the sound of heavy footsteps lumbering toward them drew her attention. Another deputy was hustling down the hallway. He caught up to them and leaned over, whispering something to Shane. When he finished, the deputy briefly cast a dubious look in Quinn’s direction then went back the way he came.
Shane held Quinn’s gaze, his features like stone, even harder than before if that were possible.
“What? What is it?” Quinn asked.
“First call of my shift just came in. There’s been some trouble.”
“Okay. So why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because apparently you’re the troublemaker.”
“I want her arrested!” Annalise Sardis bellowed, pointing a French-manicured finger at Quinn.
Quinn, Annalise and Shane stood in the driveway of Number Five Bello Breakers, gathered around the driver’s side of Annalise’s Mercedes SUV. Mr. Sardis, exceedingly tanned and dressed in navy shorts and a white golf shirt, stood several feet behind them under the rear entrance portico, choosing at least for the moment to stay out of it. Based on Quinn’s experience with the couple, this was how it usually went, and honestly, Annalise didn’t need any help. She was capable of raising plenty of stink all by herself.
“Look at that! Just look at it!” Annalise swung her arm around like a sprinkler head so that it was pointed at the car. “What am I supposed to do about that!”
Spray-painted across the pristine ebony exterior of the Mercedes Benz in huge, traffic-cone-orange letters were the words:
MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS
“It’s awful, Annalise,” Quinn began, “but I don’t know—”
“What do you mean ‘I don’t know’? This was you. First you berate me in public, insulting me at the top of your lungs, calling me a ‘gossip’—”
Quinn’s mouth dropped. “Now wait a minute—I did not berate you in public.”
“You stood right here last night and when I asked you how you were doing after the break-in, out of concern,” she spat, emphasizing the last words as she swiveled her head to Shane then back to Quinn, “you laid into me like a crazy person—”
Indignation flooded Quinn. “Now hold on, Annalise, I was not acting like a ‘crazy person’ and I did not do this to your car!”
Shane held his palms out at both of them. “Okay, okay, just stop for a minute,” he said forcefully, his volume just shy of a bark. “Mrs. Sardis, is your argument with Quinn yesterday the only reason you think she did this? Do you have any evidence it was her? Did you see her—”
“See her? I heard her. She told me basically to mind my own business yesterday and now,” she dragged a hand through the air across the vehicle, like a game show hostess heralding a prize, “the same thing is painted all over it. Thousands of dollars of damage. Thousands!”
“What about you, Mr. Sardis?” Shane asked, turning to eye Annalise’s husband.
“He didn’t see anything, either,” Annalise replied for him, “And he wasn’t here when she lashed out at me.” Mr. Sardis kept quiet, but nodded in agreement.
It was clear to Quinn that she was not going to sway Annalise so she directed herself to Shane. “Shane, please, come on. You can’t possibly think I’d do something like this.”
But instead of reassuring her with words, or even a subtle glance, he asked, “So you deny having anything to do with it?”
Quinn’s mouth dropped in sheer incredulity. “Of course I do!”
This was beyond unbelievable. Hopelessness hit Quinn hard as she realized exactly how little Shane must think of her if he was actually entertaining the notion that she could have done this. It wouldn’t be long before word of this incident would leak out too, and she would be tried and convicted in the court of public opinion once more. How long before it filters into the Hope Center, to church, to the shops on the Green, Miguel…
She realized Shane was speaking to Annalise and tuned back in to their conversation. “…I can make a report and take your statement, and of course, we’ll investigate, but I doubt much will come of it. Has there been anyone you’ve had a run-in with lately or trouble—”
“You mean besides her?” Annalise interrupted drolly.
“Yes, besides her,” Shane said.
“No. No one,” Annalise answered, glowering at Quinn.
“Well, then let me get some information from you,” Shane replied, stepping toward his patrol vehicle, “so we can fill out an incident report.”
From behind them on the circle came the sound of another vehicle approaching. Quinn turned to see Ian Wolfe pulling up in her driveway in a black Jeep Cherokee.
Another pang of failure struck Quinn as she pulled her phone out.
4:15.
In the aftermath of Annalise’s vandalism report, Quinn had completely forgotten that Ian was coming over. And that she was supposed to make him dinner. Though it was not yet five o’clock, and he was definitely early, there was no way she could manage it now.
She wanted to find a rock and crawl under it as Ian approached, his face scrunched in consternation. “What’s going on?” he said, his gaze moving from Quinn to Annalise, the ruined Mercedes and Shane, then finally to Mr. Sardis on the portico, his arms folded across his chest.
Quinn pulled Ian aside and laid out the basics for him while Shane took Annalise’s statement. After she had filled him in, Ian approached Shane and Annalise. “Excuse me for interrupting. I’m Ian Wolfe,” he said.
“The Little Red Shed, yeah, I know,” replied Shane.
“Ms. Bello’s given me the rundown of what’s going on. I wanted to ask if you needed her for this or if she’s free to go?”
Shane lowered the clipboard, his shoulders s
traightening as he turned toward Ian. “Well, she’s not a witness. But she has been accused by Mrs. Sardis of being involved, so I’ll want to take a statement.”
“Now?”
“Well, not until I finish up with Mrs. Sardis and take some photos.”
“Then would it be all right if we went next door? Ms. Bello has a prior engagement and you may be awhile with the…Mrs. Sardis.” Annalise’s face was twisted in a scowl, her eyes barely slits as she glared at Ian. Apparently she didn’t appreciate him coming to Quinn’s aid. “We’ll be right next door,” Ian said, thumbing at Number Four, “whenever you’re ready to talk to her.”
“What are you, her lawyer?” Shane asked, a note of derision in his tone.
“Just a concerned friend. So we’ll see you in a bit then?”
Shane paused momentarily before nodding, then turned his back to them and continued taking Annalise’s statement.
Chapter Eighteen
“I don’t know what to say,” Quinn remarked as she led Ian inside. She dropped her purse in the foyer and moved through to the kitchen where she turned, leaning against the counter. “Thank you for getting me out of there.”
“No problem,” Ian said, gesturing to one of the bar stools.
“Yeah, of course. Sit,” she told him, then felt her face flush as a fresh wave of sickening remembrance struck. “Dinner! I was supposed to make you dinner—”
“I’m early,” he said, waving her off. “It’s not your fault.”
“But you’re not that early. And the groceries! I never even made it to the store. I was going to. I was going straight there after the sheriff’s department but then Shane got the call about Annalise’s car—”
“Hey, slow down,” Ian said, motioning with both hands for her to put on the brakes. “It’s all good. You don’t have to feed me.” He hopped off the stool and pointed to it. “How about you sit instead while I check things out,” he suggested, rising and nodding at the fridge.
She reluctantly took his place on the stool, as he walked over to the refrigerator. He swung the stainless steel door open, revealing bottles of water, milk, a gallon of sweet tea, a carton of eggs, assorted cheeses in the deli drawer and not much else. With one arm still hanging on the door, he dramatically swiveled his head back toward her. “This is pretty pathetic. No wonder you’re always eating at The Shed.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, tipping her head in acknowledgment, her ponytail swinging. “I never claimed to be Rachel Ray.”
“And here I was thinking I was the reason you were coming into The Shed so much. But it turns out you’re just a lazy cook.” His grey eyes shimmered teasingly as a nervous flutter rippled down Quinn’s back.
He pulled out a bottle of water and plunked it on the counter in front of her. “Drink. It’ll help.”
“Thanks,” she said. And he was right. The chilled water trickled down her throat to her center, refreshing and reviving her.
His gaze passed over the trash can tucked beside the aquamarine sideboard chest. Its hinged lid was still propped open by the smashed flower arrangement, a few damaged white rose and blue hydrangea petals poking out. Ian inclined his head toward it. “What’s going on there?”
“Ugh,” Quinn answered, letting out a hiss of breath. “It’s from my ex. His idea of reestablishing contact.”
“Not well received, I take it?”
“Let’s just say that if I had to choose between coming home to Simon or another intruder in my house, I’d probably pick the intruder.”
“Yikes,” Ian replied, then flicked a forefinger in the direction of Number Five. “So Shane—he’s not taking her seriously, is he? He doesn’t really think you would vandalize that car?”
She ran her thumb over the water bottle’s label, her mouth turning down. “You know, I actually think he might.”
“That’s nuts.”
“Yeah, well, I’m beginning to think he thinks I’m nuts. And apparently his supervisor agrees.”
Ian’s forehead wrinkled. “What are you talking about?”
She motioned for him to follow her to the couch where she plunged into the whole story, including finding the button and the man she thought had been watching her earlier that day at the river take-out point.
“The button is at the sheriff’s department but I took a photo,” she said, slipping her phone out to show him. “See?” she asked as Ian studied it. “It’s exactly the kind that would’ve been on the sort of shirt he was wearing. It’s too bad I didn’t get a photo of the body on my floor,” she said self-deprecatingly, as he handed the phone back.
“Well, you weren’t exactly thinking about documenting evidence when you found him. And you had no idea who else was in here. It would’ve been dangerous to stick around and snap photos. You made the right decision.”
It was a small thing, his affirmation that she had done the right thing that night. But it was nice to hear someone say it all the same. “Thank you,” she said.
He watched her, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a thoughtful smile. “I was really glad you asked me over tonight.”
“You were?”
“Mm-huh,” he nodded. “I wanted to check on you anyway. You still seemed a little out of sorts when you left last night.”
“Oh. Well—”
A loud banging on the back door interrupted her.
“That’ll be Barney Fife,” Ian said, forcing a laugh from Quinn. “Why don’t you finish up with him as quickly as you can while I worry about finding us something to eat. You can tell me the rest when I get back.”
Quinn’s spine went rigid. “What? No, this was my idea. I was going to cook for you.”
“Well, unless you were planning on eggs with a side of eggs, someone’s going to have to run out.” There was another, more impatient knock on the door.
“Fine,” she said, sighing dramatically, both of them rising off the couch and walking to the foyer. As she stretched her hand out to turn the lock on the door, she sensed that he was close, maybe just a few feet behind her.
“You can cook next time,” he said, his words soft-spoken but confident.
For just a moment she froze with her fingers on the lock, grateful that he couldn’t see the grin stretched across her face.
It felt odd, being alone with Shane as they sat down in the living room so she could answer his questions. She couldn’t stop replaying mental images from two nights ago, and thinking about how unsuccessful that exchange had been. She had a bad feeling this wasn’t going to go any better. She took the couch while he took the overstuffed chair across from her, peppering her with questions immediately.
Where had she been earlier in the day?
Had she seen anyone on the Sardises’ property? What about near the Mercedes?
Had she seen anyone in the neighborhood or on the boardwalk behind the homes?
Could she think of anyone who might have a reason to vandalize the Sardises’ property or who might have an issue with them?
And his final, insulting question: Did she have anything to do with it?
Although frustration roiled in her belly, Quinn worked hard to be cooperative and pleasant, at least as much as was possible when she suspected that, on some level, Shane believed she might be guilty. Finally he handed her the clipboard to sign her statement. She glanced it over, looked up and dropped it onto her lap with a thump. “Look, Shane, I know you’ve got your doubts about me, but you don’t seriously think I would do something like this do you?”
He sighed. “Just sign it, Quinn. Okay?”
Shaking her head, she scribbled her name on the bottom and handed it back. He took it and set it beside him, then looked at her with distinct sadness in his expression. The sudden change was unnerving and she tried to ready herself for whatever was coming next.
“Quinn, have you been drinking?”
The question stunned her, and ribbons of cold threaded through her chest. “What? Why would you ask me that? I am one hundred percent so
ber! You are way out of line with this, Shane. This is—”
“I found an empty vodka bottle in your garbage can on the street.”
The cold spread, frost now filling her veins. “Wait…what? No, you didn’t. I didn’t put a vodka bottle in my garbage. I don’t have a bottle of vodka.”
“Well it’s in there.”
“Then someone else put it there because it isn’t mine.” Her bones seemed to be vibrating and a humming filled her head as her heart skipped a beat. Her hand moved to her chest, pressing on it, as if that would alter the pattern. “I dragged it out there this morning. It’s been there all day. Anyone could have thrown that bottle in.”
She wanted to rail at him for digging through her trash, for invading her privacy, but as a lawyer she knew that once she rolled the trash receptacle onto the street—onto city property for collection—she waived any right to privacy she might have otherwise had in its contents. “Where’s the bottle? I want to see it.”
“In my patrol car. Along with the can of orange spray paint I found in there with it.”
Quinn actually guffawed at that news. “You found what?”
“One can of orange spray paint. It matches the paint on the SUV.”
“Of course it does.” Quinn rocketed from her seat and walked toward the porch, staring out the glass doors to the sea beyond. The sun was low in the sky, sending brilliant color across the edges of the horizon and shimmering reflections off the rolling waters. She put her hands on her hips and continued talking without looking at him.
“Do you really think that if I did that I’d be stupid enough to put the evidence in my own trash can?”
“I don’t know what you might do after a few drinks.”
She spun around, her shoulders quivering. This was unbelievable. It couldn’t be happening. Not here. Not now. Not when she was just starting over and getting a handle on things. “I think you should go.”