Bed and Breakfast and Murder

by Patti Larsen

“How many victims?” Dad must know. But Pamela was here to ask.

  “I’ve tracked down over twenty,” she said. “All out of state, and not one of them willing to contest the signatures. Even the three out of town lawyers I spoke to said the paperwork was legal.” She paused then, looking a little embarrassed. “If your grandmother’s wasn’t, what changed?” Good question. “I meant to bring all of this to your father despite the consequences.” Her eyes flickered to me when she said it, pushed on like I wasn’t supposed to pay attention to her slip or ask her what she meant about consequences exactly. I let her have her subterfuge. “And then he retired when Iris died and I just don’t trust the new boy yet.”

  That made two of us. Or did it?

  “So we both agree there’s a loose thread here,” I said. “If Pete was targeting out of towners to ensure no one found out, why change that now? Mr. Jacob was pretty well known around here. Surely Pete would expect someone to find out he was taking advantage of a local. And to go after Grandmother Iris after Dad had a case built against him…”

  “But your father’s case fell apart,” Pamela said. “For reasons I believe had nothing to do with John’s police work, no matter what Crew Turner says.” Loyalty to my dad made me agree. “Still, you’re right. I’m thinking whoever Pete has on the inside acquiring the signatures has their own agenda now. For whatever reason.”

  “Ruth?” It made the most sense.

  “Indeed.” Pamela stared at the paperwork in her lap. “As for the Jacob’s, well, I had thought Simon was into other things. And perhaps that’s kept him silent.” She flinched then as if she’d said more than she wanted.

  “Like?” Yeah, worth a shot.

  She just smiled then. “I can take this to my lawyer friends if you want. Compare the signatures.” She seemed eager now. As if she’d been waiting a long time to be able to act.

  I shook my head, taking the papers back from her while she sighed her disappointment. “Now that I have reason to suspect this isn’t Grandmother Iris’s handwriting, I can take it from here.” I had more I could tell her, but did I dare? Instead, I went fishing. “For all we know, it was Aundrea Wilkins, the wife, who helped him with this.” That was logical too, wasn’t it?

  The look of sheer shock and skepticism on Pamela’s face made me pause. So, was she instead maybe the reporter’s source? Part of the consequences she mentioned? That would make sense, especially since Pamela lurched to her feet and offered her hand, suddenly in a hurry to get away from me.

  Bullseye.

  “Thank you for your trust in me,” Pamela said, handing me her card. “I’ll be in touch. Fee.” She paused one more moment, hand squeezing mine. “I’m here to help.”

  I watched her go, hugging the papers and her information to my chest while my mind churned. Suddenly the interior of the B&B was just too much for me. I lurched for the front door, needing air, Petunia pattering along beside me. When I paused to look down into her face, I sighed as she hooked me with those brown eyes.

  “Fine,” I grumbled, reaching for her harness hanging by the door. “But I’m not carrying you this time.”

  She grunted her agreement. Such a liar.

  Five minutes later, while I stared across the street at the front door of Jacob’s Flowers and considered my course of conversation with Terri, I hesitated. It was Simon I needed to talk to. He’d been the reticent one. But would he tell me what happened? His wife seemed to be in the dark about what really went down. What kind of deal did Simon strike with Pete Wilkins to keep the flower shop? Or, like Grandmother Iris, did he uncover the signature was a fake?

  I was about to cross, a small pack of tourists brushing by me with their cell phones snapping endless pictures, when I spotted the alley door of Jacob’s pop open and Simon exit. He looked around as if hoping no one would see him in the afternoon bustle before disappearing down the alley into the next street over.

  Impulse moved my feet, hurrying me across the asphalt with a wave for the car that pulled to a stop to let us go by, Petunia huffing along beside me. Because dragging a lazy pug along while I followed a suspect was about as sneaky as I got.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Simon was in a hurry and I did end up hefting Petunia a time or two so I could keep up. I was sweaty and frustrated by the time we reached the other side of town, about ten blocks of swearing at the pug for not being more athletic and waving off the occasional dog fart.

  I almost lost Simon twice, though Reading was small enough it was easy to take a side street and catch up again. He wasn’t exactly trying to hide his movements, but he kept his head down and seemed like he was a man on a mission. I had no idea why it felt important to follow him, except I guess I was just so frustrated by my lack of answers and all the questions hanging around me a bit of an adventure—fruitless and a waste of time or not—made me feel like I was at least accomplishing something.

  When he crossed the street at the end of the block, heading for a small, seedy spot, I grunted and set Petunia down, pissed at myself for the whole waste of time. A bar. So he was a drinker, big deal. I’d hustled all this way just to watch Simon Jacob have a beer.

  Except he didn’t go to the front door of The Orange with its aptly painted entrance. Instead, he entered the side alley. I eased my way down the street and kept an eye on him, watching as he paused next to a young man loitering in the narrow way. And started. I knew that kid, had almost bumped into him at the nursing home. The two spoke for a moment, something changing hands. And then, without further conversation, Simon knocked on a side door that swung open a moment later, the dull gray hiding whoever stood behind it and let him in.

  I watched a long time but nothing else happened. Dozens of scenarios crossed my mind, but the most obvious had to be the truth. I’d seen enough drug exchanges on the streets of New York to know one when I saw one. No, I’d never made a buy myself. Not that I was uninitiated. Ryan and his friends had enough weed around I got stoned some nights just from breathing the air in the living room. But it wasn’t my thing, not by a long shot. Not with a sheriff for a father, though I’m sure some would think rebellion would drive me in that direction.

  Pamela mentioned Simon was into other things. This was clearly one of them.

  But there was no way of knowing for sure unless I talked to the young man who made the supposed sale. Hand firm on Petunia’s leash, knowing it was stupid and likely dangerous, I gathered my nerve and inhaled to take a step forward. Just as the small econobox pulled up and the blonde girl from the Wilkins’s house got out.

  The same girl from the staff photo at the nursing home.

  I held still, Petunia happy to be sitting tight, and watched as the young woman spoke to the young man with her head close to his and an unhappy expression on her face. I don’t think, in retrospect, I could have been more obvious, staring at them the way I did and with really no excuse to be standing there for so long if I wasn’t spying. But neither seemed to notice me, carrying on a heated conversation far too quiet for me to make out over the infrequent cars that drove past. The girl then turned her back on the young man and climbed into her car, driving away while he lit a cigarette and looked up, meeting my eyes.

  I hurried away, dragging Petunia behind me, kneejerk reaction to being caught. But something was clearly going on and I intended to find out what.

  I stopped in to my parent’s house on the way home on impulse. I really had to talk to Dad, even if he wasn’t telling me anything himself. Mom greeted Petunia with a kiss for her squish face, a bowl of water after tsking at me for letting the poor beast get dehydrated—I’d carried her most of the way, so I was the thirsty one, but whatever—and a banana all to herself.

  “John’s not here,” Mom said, the last of the mushy fruit disappearing down the dog’s throat while she pathetically gazed at my mother like she was starving and wouldn’t she share just one more bite?

  Of course he wasn’t. That would be too easy. “Where is he?” I f
elt like I had proverbial ants in my pants. I needed to dump what I’d seen and Dad was the only person I could think of who might do something about it, sheriff anymore or not.

  “The pub,” Mom said with her long suffering forced joviality. “With the boys. Probably playing darts.”

  I thought of The Orange and its—no pun intended—seedy appearance. But that wasn’t Dad’s hangout. The Harp and Thorn was an Irish rip off the locals called authentic where the old boys liked to hang out. I scooted home, left Petunia in Daisy’s tender care and immediately headed for the pub in question.

  Talk about a tourist haven, from the excessively Tudor exterior to the high ceilings and all wood interior, the giant bar and the girls dressed in green. I spotted a few gents in the back tossing darts, but not the hulking form of my dad.

  A quick inquiry with the bartender gave me a chill.

  “Haven’t seen John all day,” Patrick Huss said, slurring slightly, his hazel eyes watery, red veins standing out on his nose. Sampling the wares a bit too much, was he? Not my problem. He owned the place, so if he wanted to drink his profits that was his business, quite literally. And the fact he’d been a bit of a booze hound in high school didn’t make this realization a stretch.

  It was a long, slow walk despite only being a few blocks to the B&B while I pondered the truth. Dad told Mom he was at the pub. Dad wasn’t at the pub. Dad told me the night Pete died he’d gone fishing with the guys. If I cornered any of them, would they give me the same story? Or was he lying about that, too?

  The sullen Jones ladies of Petunia’s were gone when I arrived back, and just as well. I hadn’t had much in the way of conversation with either of them the last few days, both of them with their heads down doing their work and staying out of my path. Fair enough. Seemed love wasn’t lost in either direction.

  Daisy fled as soon as I gave her the go ahead, waving at me and blowing a kiss for Petunia whose farts now distinctly smelled of bananas. An improvement, I guess. I fed her dinner, fielding a few calls from new visitors and stocking up a guest or two with towels and—what was wrong with these people and their digestive systems?—toilet paper before retiring with a cup of coffee in the back garden to think.

  I didn’t get to sit on the white wicker bench in the far corner and enjoy my drink. Not when I spotted someone poking around, a distinctive someone who had absolutely no business being in my place.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Four

  My coffee mug spilled sideways as I slammed it down on the side table and huffed my way to the koi pond where Vivian French peered into the water like she’d find the answers I’d been looking for.

  “Vivian.” She squealed and spun at the sound of my voice. One high heel stuck in the soil, digging a big hole as she turned and jerked her foot free, shaking mud from her shoe with a look of disgust. “What are you doing here?”

  “Fee.” She clasped one manicured hand to her chest, fluttering her fake lashes at me while she tossed her ice blonde hair. Today’s outfit consisted of a pale pink suit that fit her like it was made for her and brought out the faint tan of her skin. “I brought the bread order, didn’t Daisy tell you?”

  That sickly sweet tone told me she’d done nothing of the kind and was only here to satisfy her morbid curiosity. Petunia, meanwhile, chose that exact moment to do something she never, ever did. With a soft grunt and a fart of epic proportions, she stood up on her hind legs and pawed at the front of Vivian’s suit. Two long, dirty paw prints stretched down the length of her skirt, claws hooking into the knee of Vivian’s hose and tearing a giant hole in her stockings before the pug landed on all fours again with a satisfied groan.

  “BEAST!” Vivian vainly swiped at the muddy prints, making a bigger mess than Petunia had. I almost laughed, so very close. The dog knew better. Grandmother Iris trained her pugs to stay down off the guests, to be polite and quiet and endearing to everyone. For whatever reason, Madam Petunia the Fourth either lost her mind for a moment or felt exactly the same about our unwelcome visitor as I did.

  “What a shame,” I said. “Guess you should run along home and change.”

  “This is a Grace Fiore suit,” Vivian snarled.

  “And this is my property,” I shot back. “Since I don’t recall inviting you, you can leave. Now.”

  Vivian’s eyes narrowed, nasty smile pulling at her overly full lips. “That’s not what I heard,” she said, hissing spite putting a snake to shame. “Maybe I need to talk to Jared about acquiring this dump from him. So I can bulldoze it and turn it into a respectable hotel.”

  How the hell did she…?

  Vivian’s expression turned to delighted disdain. “Word gets around, dear Fanny,” she said, flicking her fingers at me.

  It wouldn’t have taken much, just a quick shove, really. A lurch forward and two hands on her shoulders and she’d be in the pond. That thought froze me in place. Was that how Dad felt? When he pushed Pete? But no, I didn’t know for sure it was my father, did I? So, the killer, manslaughter or premeditated or whatever. Yes, it would be that easy.

  I’m not sure what came across my face that made Vivian seem suddenly so uncomfortable but instead of continuing to prod me she paled and eased sideways onto the path, her dirty high heel trailing mud onto the stones. I looked down to find my hands in fists at my sides, Petunia staring up at me in studied silence, and figured I had to look like I’d killed Pete Wilkins with my bare hands.

  Probably not the best expression to have on my face at that moment, not when a familiar voice interrupted.

  “Ladies.” Crew appeared beside me, frowning at me before nodding quickly to Vivian.

  Her face instantly brightened, her fear gone, a look of proprietary hunger crossing over her before she settled on that prom queen perfection she’d managed to cultivate since childhood.

  “Crew.” There was the eyelash flutter again, the sultry tone of voice, the hip cock despite her dirty state. “How lovely to see you.”

  “Vivian.” I fought a smirk at how uncomfortable he sounded all of a sudden. “How are you?”

  Small talk? So there was something between them, but it didn’t end well. Or was still devolving, at least in his estimation if not hers.

  “You didn’t call me last night.” Her duck lips made her look more ridiculous despite the clear attempt to make him feel guilty for breaking her heart. “You promised.”

  “I’ve been busy with the case.” Why did he look guilty when he met my eyes? So they were dating.

  “You still owe me a dinner,” Vivian said. “I’ve been ever so patient.”

  Ah, the truth came out at last. No date, but she wasn’t quitting. Fascinating, in a stomach clenching kind of way. And about as much as I was willing to take.

  “Vivian was just leaving.” I turned my body sideways, gesturing for the kitchen door. She glared at me as if I’d interrupted her best laid plans before deciding she’d lost this round and tossing her head one last time.

  “I’ll be back,” she said to me, teeth vicious in her grin. “With Jared. Crew.” Amazing how she could shift herself like that, from pit viper to alluring seductress faster than I could take a breath. But she managed it somehow before drifting past, backside swaying in a way that was likely meant to keep Crew’s attention. And when I glanced his way, I sighed to find she’d done her job there, at least.

  He flinched when she disappeared and caught me watching him. “She’s…”

  “A pain in the ass and not someone you want to trust.” I strode past him for the kitchen door, checking to make sure she’d really left and wasn’t snooping around. Nope, from the sound of her car driving off she’d really gone. Good.

  Crew followed me inside, the ticking of Petunia’s claws hiding the sound of his footsteps. I was halfway downstairs to my apartment before I froze, remembering the box on my kitchen counter. The very box I’d dug up from the crime scene and hadn’t told him about. Crew bumped into me with a soft sound of surprise before I sprinted the rest of
the way down and hopped up on the counter, my butt hiding the box which I tucked ungracefully into a nook, sliding a bowl of fruit to one side to shield the rest of the view.

  Crew’s frown of concern was more this chick is nuts than she’s hiding something, so I took that as a win.

  “You’re here for a reason?” I’d just seen him not so long ago. Petunia sat at my feet, looking back and forth between us as Crew sat on a stool and shrugged, elbows on the counter, muscular forearms showing where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his tan uniform shirt. He had a tattoo on his right wrist, looked like an anchor and a skull. How interesting. And irrelevant.

  “I did my best,” he said, “but I figured after you came to me today I should at least warn you.”

  That didn’t sound good. “Of?” Hiding the box was silly, really. He had no proof I dug it up from the back garden. And there could be something waiting in there that might help the case. Grandmother Iris had proven a smart cookie. Should I just pull it out and get him to help me open it?

  “State troopers are getting involved.” That froze me in place and all thoughts of sharing went out the window. “Because of your father’s old investigation, they’ve decided they need to look into Pete’s death personally.”

  Was that a bad thing?

  “Fiona.” Crew swallowed. “If either of you had anything to do with the murder I can’t protect you.”

  Silence for a moment while I processed that. So, he really did think Dad killed Pete. A trained investigator, a sheriff. Thought Dad was a murderer. The same thing that had been bouncing around with increasing difficulty to ignore in my own head.

  “We don’t need your protection,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster. “Because neither of us had anything to do with it.”

  Crew’s mouth opened and for a long time he looked like he was going to protest. And then he shrugged and stood like this was my last chance to come good and he’d been disappointed by my lack of admission of guilt.