by Emily James
“He told Holly that he was trying to help the other girl. He’d seen her doing something that could get her in big trouble, and he wanted to warn her. Holly didn’t tell me how Drew convinced her of it, but he did.”
The urge to smile pulled at my cheeks, and I worked to keep my expression neutral. The fight that seemed to put a big flashing guilty target on Holly actually gave us a lead for who else might have wanted to kill Drew. It could be the other girl, or it could be whoever else was involved in what he saw her doing.
But if that were the case, then one of them had been on the tour with us. Or both of them, since Mark said the murderer was taller than Drew, and none of the women on the tour fit that criterion. “Did Holly tell you who the other girl was?”
Daisy shook her head. “I’m not sure Holly even knew.”
It’d been a long shot. At least I knew where to start.
There’d only been one girl on the tour within the right age for Holly’s friend to have mistaken their meeting for a date. Even though she wouldn’t have been tall enough to stab Drew any more than Holly was tall enough, her father would have been.
9
“Did you tell the police what you told me about the argument?” I asked as Daisy walked with me back to the front door.
“They didn’t ask.” She tugged her sweater tighter around her and kept her arms wrapped around her waist. “Should I have told them?”
The police might not see the source of the argument as a lead the way I did, but they cited the argument itself as a motive for Drew’s murder. “It can’t hurt. They don’t have any other way of knowing Holly and Drew reconciled.”
“I’ll call today and ask to speak to the officer who questioned me.”
I hesitated in the doorway even after I had my coat back on and my keys in my hand. The final thing I needed to do could snap the threads of trust between us. “As Holly’s lawyer, it’s my duty to encourage her to turn herself in. If you know where she is, now would be the time to tell me.”
The corner of her mouth tensed and released as if she were holding back angry words.
If I lost her as an ally now, the chances of getting her back—even with intervention from Nancy—would be slimmer than my chances of becoming coordinated enough to walk a tightrope. Think like a mom, Nikki. What would convince you to admit to knowing where your daughter was hiding out if you thought you were protecting her by lying about it?
“It’s not even about her turning herself in to the police,” I said. “It’s still winter. She’d be better off someplace where she can stay warm and fed. And the longer she stays away, the guiltier it makes her look. If she turned herself in, I could use that to bolster our case that she’s innocent.”
The twitching at the corner of her mouth stopped. “I don’t know where she is, but if she calls me, I’ll let you know.”
I opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The wind nipped at my legs. The temperature seemed to have dropped again.
My own words spun like gears in my mind, connecting and building on each other. The March weather in Michigan was still colder than December in Virginia. Holly couldn’t be camping, and she’d need to eat. The police would be watching Holly’s credit cards for activity. So how was she surviving?
“Did you and your husband check to see if any of your credit cards are missing or if you’re shorter on cash than you remember?”
Daisy leaned a hip against the doorjamb, and creases formed a V between her eyes. “We weren’t home when someone broke in. We both had our wallets with us. The thief couldn’t have taken anything from our wallets.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the person who broke into your house. Holly might have snuck back in during the night and taken cash or one of your credit cards so she’d have something to live off of that the police wouldn’t think to trace.”
Daisy grabbed for her purse. It was the most energetic movement I’d seen from her.
She pulled out her credit cards. “There’s one missing.”
I took the risk and brushed my fingers lightly over her sleeve. “You need to tell the police. If someone breaking into your house wasn’t random, they could have been looking for Holly or for something they think she has. She’s not safe on her own.”
I’d told Russ I wouldn’t be back to Sugarwood for the rest of the day, so I might as well spend my time productively and continue looking into Drew’s murder now that my participation was official. Holly was somewhere alone, possibly in danger from the real murderer, and if the police couldn’t find her, the best way to get her to come back seemed to be to find the real killer. As soon as she saw in the news that someone had been arrested for Drew’s murder, she’d have no reason to stay away any longer.
The problem was, where should I start?
My parents always said that you should never ask a question that you didn’t already know the answer to. Interrogations should be about confirming your suspicions. Anything else told the person you were questioning what you knew and didn’t know. Questions for the purpose of fact-finding gave the upper hand to the opposing side.
Right now, most of the questions I’d ask anyone from the tour would give them the upper hand. If they’d killed Drew, they’d immediately know that I wasn’t any closer to finding the real killer than the police were.
The most likely candidate for the real killer seemed to be George Powers. His daughter Amy was the only one on the tour who fit the description of the young woman Holly’s friend saw Drew with. That meant I didn’t want to start with them. My best option for where to start lay at the other end of the guilt spectrum, with the tourist couple.
Unless one of them was a serial killer—one in seven people was a sociopath, but serial killers are rarer than shows like Criminal Minds make them seem—they weren’t likely to have killed a man they’d only met that day.
I’d been standing behind the husband at the police station when they made us each turn out our pockets and show our hands, looking for blood on us or our possessions. He’d been carrying one of the old-fashioned keys used by The Sunburnt Arms. After my extended stay there when I first came to Fair Haven for Uncle Stan’s funeral, I’d never forget them. The Sunburnt Arms’ vintage guest book had even been the inspiration for the guest book I’d set up for tour guests to sign. The idea of having a record of everyone who’d toured our grounds through the years had taken on a nostalgic appeal for me since I’d grown more familiar with the business and how important it was to the community. I imagined putting the guest books into a maple syrup museum one day.
I headed out from the Northgates’ and across town to The Sunburnt Arms. The bed-and-breakfast rested on what I’d learned was the affluent side of Fair Haven. The homes and businesses there had the best view of the lake. The Sunburnt Arms booked up for the tourist seasons almost a year in advance, and had belonged to the family of Mandy, the owner, for years. I’d once asked her what she called it to shorten the mouthful of a name since you couldn’t exactly go around calling it the TSA. She’d given me the same look that my parents gave to people who tried to call me Nikki rather than Nicole.
Despite that blunder on my part, Mandy was a good friend. I’d found out while staying there that she was an avid mystery reader the same way I was. We’d gotten into the habit of swapping books when we found a new author we loved.
Hopefully, she’d give me the room number of the tourist couple, especially since I couldn’t remember whether their last name was Marshall or Martin.
I parked my car in the nearly empty parking lot for The Sunburnt Arms. Either the guests were already out for the day or the off-season slow-down had begun. If the tourist couple wasn’t here, my trip would be wasted. Either that or I’d have to camp on Mandy’s doorstep until they came back.
The only cars in the lot were Mandy’s ancient Toyota, a navy-blue four-door sedan with a baby-on-board sign suction-cupped to the back windshield and Kentucky plates, and a lipstick-red hearse look-a-like SUV with a tiger-striped dec
al in the shape of a B. The decal was probably for some sports team, but I didn’t know which one. The SUV had Ohio plates.
When I asked everyone where they were from at the start of the Sugarwood tour, the tourist couple had said Ohio. The SUV must be theirs. At least the chances seemed good they were in.
I headed up the steps and straight through the front door to the check-in desk.
Mandy perched on her swivel chair, nose deep in a book, as predicted. The rainbow of light from the nearby stained-glass window cast glitters over her naturally silver hair and made her look like Cinderella’s fairy godmother come to life—or at least what Cinderella’s fairy godmother might have looked like if she were nearly six feet tall, with the build of a lumberjack.
Mandy held up a finger in a be-with-you-in-a-second gesture, then sucked in a sharp breath. She flipped the page, and another half minute passed before she finally looked up.
A smile bloomed on her face. “You have to read this one.” She set the book aside, but kept a hand over it like she was afraid I might run off with it before she had a chance to finish. Her gaze slid down my clothing and her face turned a yellow color. “I didn’t miss the funeral, did I?”
That sealed it. These clothes were going back in the closet, and I wasn’t bringing them out again until I needed to visit my parents. “I had a business meeting.”
Mandy cocked her head to one side, reminding me a bit of an eagle about to swoop down and snap up a tasty morsel. In this case, I had the uncomfortable feeling that the tasty morsel was what kind of business I’d been doing that required my big-city-girl clothes. Mandy saw a conspiracy everywhere. I could almost see her concocting a wild idea that I’d been negotiating the sale of Sugarwood or selling my soul to get Sugarwood syrup into a major chain restaurant.
Thankfully she was only a prawn-sized gossip in the Fair Haven ecosystem. She preferred sharing her theories with close friends rather than spreading them willy-nilly. Last time I’d stopped by, she was convinced that Grant and Mark had switched places for a day just to see if anyone would notice and no one but her had.
“You have a couple staying here,” I said before she could prod further, “and I was hoping you’d be able to give me their room number.”
“You’re not going to try to break in, are you?”
The fact that she even suggested I might spoke to how much work I still had to do on my reputation in this town.
Normally, I could probably tempt Mandy to give up the information by suggesting I was investigating a mystery, but I hadn’t gotten Daisy Northgate’s permission to share that I’d been hired as Holly’s lawyer. Even if I had, I didn’t want to set the rumor wheel spinning by sharing that tidbit. As soon as the town found out that Holly’s family had hired legal counsel, a thousand crazy stories would pop up about why she’d killed Drew. She’d be convicted in the court of public opinion before she ever made it to trial.
The truth was only going to create more intrigue in Mandy’s mind. I’d have to go with a half-truth instead.
I plastered my best hurt look across my face. “I came to offer them either a free Sugarwood tour or a refund of their money. They were part of the tour that got cut short because of what happened to Drew Harris.”
“Oh.” Mandy peeked at her book like she was wondering how much longer this would take before she could get back to the story world. “Well, I can’t give you their room number either way. That would be a breach of privacy laws, I think. I’m not entirely sure, but I’d rather not risk it.”
I drooped against the desk. “How about if you called their room and asked if they’d be willing to see me?”
She pinched up her face. “Oh, I don’t think I could disturb them that way.”
She left me no choice. I’d have to play dirty. Her bookmark sat well past the three-quarter mark, a terrible place to be forced to stop reading anything. I threw an exaggerated glance back over my shoulder at the chairs in the lobby. “If it’d make you feel better, I could pull up a chair and wait for them to come down. I wouldn’t mind a little visit with you anyway.”
“You know,” Mandy reached for the house phone, “I think a phone call would be fine. I wouldn’t be telling you anything about them, and they could always tell me they’d prefer not to be disturbed. What did you say the last name was?”
I had a fifty-fifty chance. “Martin?” My intonation added an unintentional question mark.
Mandy’s gaze skittered to her book and she gave a tiny head shake.
“Marshall. Sorry, I meant Marshall.”
“I do have a Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. Why don’t you wait over there,” she nodded to the far end of the lobby, where I’d have to shout to carry on a conversation with her, “and I’ll check with them.”
I gave myself a mental pat on the back.
Less than five minutes later, Mr. Marshall came into the lobby from the direction of the guest stairs. Now that his hair was safe from the wind having its way with it, he wore it in a comb-over that I’d have guessed was a last attempt at hiding his growing baldness.
He wasn’t much taller than me. He was close enough to Drew’s height that I’d have had to see them standing together to know who was taller. Obviously that wasn’t happening, but if Drew’s attacker were taller than him, Mr. Marshall was definitively off the list of suspects.
He hesitated in the lobby doorway, and his gaze swept right over me.
He must not recognize me all dressed up. When I ran the tour, I bundled up in earmuffs, a scarf, gloves, and an oversized puffy winter coat that made me look a little like a purple Pillsbury dough girl.
I rose from my chair and held out my hand. “Mr. Marshall, I’m Nicole from Sugarwood.” I gave him my best disarming smile. “And yes, I do look a bit different today. Thank you for agreeing to see me. Will your wife be joining us?”
The narrowing of his eyes was so slight it would have been easy to miss, more of a tightening of the muscles than anything else. “She’s resting. I didn’t think she needed to be here to discuss a refund for our tour.”
His booming voice seemed out of place for his small size, almost like it was trying to compensate for his small stature by being larger than life.
Mandy’s gaze was already back on her book, but she hadn’t turned a page since Mr. Marshall made his appearance. Eavesdropper. Though perhaps I should be flattered that she hoped this conversation would be more engrossing than her story.
I swept a hand in the direction of the hallway. “Why don’t we head back to the breakfast room? It’ll be quieter there.”
His gaze flickered around the empty lobby. His expression clearly said quieter than what? but he followed after me anyway.
We settled into a two-person table to the side of the room closest to where Mandy laid out the breakfast buffet each morning. The smell of sausage and eggs and homemade waffles still hung in the air.
I kept my shoulders back and my posture open. All the lessons my parents had drilled into me over the years about body language cues kicked through my mind at times like this.
First, establish rapport, my mother would say. Get them talking about something non-confrontational.
“You’ll see a refund on your credit card statement soon, but I also wanted to offer you a free tour as well. Maybe you can replace the bad memories with some good ones.”
Mr. Marshall rested a hand on top of his head and left it there like some sort of vestigial hat. “I appreciate that, but I doubt we’ll be taking you up on the offer. My wife has a seizure disorder bad enough she’s not even allowed to drive. Meds don’t always help, and stress can trigger ’em. Going out by where that Drew Harris died can’t be anything other than stressful.”
I could see it now in his eyes and hear it in his voice—the way his lips pushed out the tiniest bit like he was tensing his jaw, the etched circles under his eyes too deep to be made by lack of sleep alone. It all spoke to the toll a chronic illness took on the loved ones involved. Even on the best of days, you c
onstantly watched for the signs that the tide of health was about to turn against you. I’d grown up seeing it in the spouses and children and friends who came with their patient into Uncle Stan’s office while I read books in the corner or played with my dolls. I didn’t understand what it meant until I got older.
The sides of my chest felt like they’d tipped inward, pressing on my heart. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife’s condition. My uncle had a chronic heart condition. It’s not easy. On them or on the people who love them.”
Good, build that common ground, my mom’s voice whispered into my mind.
I wanted to answer back that’s not why I did it, but talking to yourself was never a good sign.
He lowered his hand. “You understand then how it’s not worth the risk.” The grin that spread across his face belonged to a guilty little boy rather than a man nearing retirement age. “This is our second honeymoon. We came to Fair Haven for our first, too.”
Most of the time, all those things that go wrong in life aren’t so terrible in hindsight because they make for funny stories later. I’m pretty sure a time would never come when Mr. and Mrs. Marshall would laugh and say Hey, remember that time we saw a dead body on our second honeymoon? I owed them a lot more than a refund and a free tour to make up for that lovely memory, even though Drew’s death hadn’t been my fault.
Instead of saying all that, though, what I said was, “How long have you been married?”
Because as much as I hated to agree with my mom—in real life or when she was only a figment in my head—she’d been right. The more we shared, the better my chances of him being willing to talk to me about what he might have noticed the day Drew died.
“Seventeen years and then this time a couple of weeks.”
This time. My preconceived notions splattered on the floor like a dropped egg.
“I did say it was our second,” he said. “We divorced fifteen years ago because I was an idiot. So you can see why I’m not going to let anything take her away from me again.”