Bound and Deceased

by Rothery, Tess

  “And then Una caught the bus at six forty-five. What time did they notice she was gone?” Taylor paced the kitchen, hands wrapped around that hot, bitter mug of coffee. She didn’t want to drink it, but she didn’t want to let go either. She felt safer, holding it.

  “Gracie came home at three in the afternoon. It was a super long day and she brought a pizza. When she got there, Una wasn’t in, but Gracie figured she was at the library. She messaged her and got no answer.

  “Una got to our place at five-thirty,” Taylor mused.

  “And Gracie was in a complete panic by six when I called her. Three hours of not being able to find your eleven-year old is a lifetime. She had already called the sheriff.”

  “Three hours of panic…” It was a terrifying idea. Taylor’s gut dropped at just the idea of her baby sister disappearing.

  “It’s a good thing you got in touch,” Sissy said. “Gracie should be kissing your feet.”

  “I’d like to agree, but man, she was weeping for a solid twenty minutes before she was calm enough to want to lock her child in a tower.”

  “Letting Una stay here would be rewarding her behavior. She can’t do that,” Sissy spoke sadly.

  “Nope. She can’t, but she should rethink sending Una to her Grandparents. I’ve been to Guy’s folk’s house before. It’s isolated as heck. Plus they have a bunch of empty old outbuildings. Fun in the summer, with other kids around. Dreadful in December all alone.”

  “I can imagine.” Taylor shivered. There was something about the primordial rainy forest of the Oregon Coast range mountains. Dark, dripping woods even in the summer.

  “And done!” an excited voice called from the dining room. Una joined them with the box of donuts. She set it on the counter next to an empty mug. “Can I have some coffee?”

  Fawn laughed. “No. You’re eleven.”

  The long lean eleven-year-old was almost as tall as Taylor. She considered how they used to say coffee would stunt your growth and wondered why Una couldn’t have any.

  “How about a glass of milk to go with the donuts?” Una’s smile was charming—the kind of smile that could twist a stepdad, who wanted to be the “cool parent” and a bio-dad who felt guilt about the divorce, around a little finger.

  “Sounds good.” Fawn pulled a new half-gallon of milk from the fridge. “Your mom will be here by noon. Have you figured out how you’ll apologize? I think bending the knee and begging forgiveness is the only right answer.”

  Una accepted the glass of milk and sipped it. “I’m trying to figure out how to make her let me stay.”

  “How can they go to Belize if they’re in the middle of a construction project?” Taylor asked. So many pieces of this story didn’t fit together.

  “Grandpa will supervise,” Una said. “He’s good at it. He’s a retired contractor. They’re just finishing the upstairs anyway. They can turn it into rental if they get it right.”

  “That’s a big conversion.” From reinforcing support beams to adding plumbing, turning an attic into an apartment wasn’t something most people would plan and then skip town.

  “They are only going to Belize for a couple of weeks.” Una spoke with a mouth full of maple bar.

  “Una, why aren’t you going with them?” Sissy asked.

  Una’s face fell a little. “They just need time away together. They get like that sometimes.”

  “Did you see your dad last night?” Taylor asked.

  “Yup. Went over there. You were right,” she turned to Fawn. “Gilly said there was no way on earth I could stay with her.”

  “What about staying with Art and Jason?” Sissy asked.

  Una scrunched her face. “It’s so boring there. I’d rather stay here or with Hannah.”

  “You don’t even know Hannah.” Fawn swatted Una with a towel. “But I’ll beg your mom to let you stay with me. It can’t hurt.”

  Someone thundered down the stairs and it echoed through the whole box-filled house. A bathrobe-clad man trotted into the kitchen and kissed Fawn on the cheek. “Morning.”

  “Hey Monty. Sissy brought donuts.” Fawn’s voice lost the warmth and strength that it had while talking about Una.

  “Cool.” He poured himself a cup of coffee before looking around the room. “What are you all doing in here?” He yawned. “I’ve got to clean this place out today. Go somewhere else.” He stood in front of the fridge, next to Fawn. “I’ve got to get ready for Art to come back.”

  They all shuffled out of the kitchen.

  Taylor winced at the thought of him cleaning the place out. Surely the poison was still there somewhere.

  Sissy, Fawn, and Una all sat on the table.

  Taylor sat, but her legs were shaking. What was he going to ruin with his cleaning? What would he destroy? She popped back up and hustled into the kitchen.

  Monty was fiddling with a radio.

  “I have the morning off.” This was true as the store didn’t even open till eleven. “Do you need any help?” Her words were too loud, too rushed. But she had to protect evidence, whatever it might be.

  He turned. “You’re the detective, right?”

  “Friend of the family. Just helping out.”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” He found a news station on the radio and left it there. “Art won’t want my interference in his stuff and Fawn and Hannah are supposed to take care of Reynette’s business. But I gotta do something, you know? So, I’m going to clean this mess up. Fawn went to the grocery store, but all the old food has to go. And all those boxes need to be emptied into cupboards.”

  “Let me do that.” Taylor picked up a medium sized cardboard box and set it on the table. The weight of it was good, it felt firm. But as soon as she set it down, she was shaking again. She had to find a way to protect the food. “I can fill a cupboard with the best of them.”

  “Thanks.” He gave her a half smile, pulled out a hefty bag, and opened the fridge.

  Every item he dumped in that bag was like a punch in the gut.

  When he pulled the jar out of the back, the kombucha, she almost cried out.

  “Ooh, is that home brewed?” Taylor asked, her voice rising. “I mean it’s kombucha, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t toss it. I’ll take it home. I love that stuff but don’t have a…” Taylor scrambled for the word. Brewing your own kombucha was popular in Portland and half her staff at Joanne’s did it. “Mother.” Taylor almost shouted when she thought of it. “I don’t have a mother and would love some.”

  He screwed the lid off, sniffed deeply, and then made a ridiculously dramatic face. “No way.’” He immediately poured it into the sink. “That stuff has gone bad. Real bad. But Fawn has some back at our place. We’ll get you a mother.”

  The brown liquid slowly drained away. Monty rinsed the jar out and left it in the sink.

  If only she had let Sissy take it home with her.

  Kombucha never goes bad.

  Kombucha never goes bad.

  Taylor’s gut was twisting, and shivers of fear raced up and down her spine.

  She was standing in the room with a murderer.

  She had to be.

  If they brewed kombucha at home, then he knew it never went bad. And he only said that to keep her from drinking it.

  And he’d only want to keep her from drinking it if he’d poisoned it.

  It had to be Monty.

  But why Monty?

  She was staring, she knew it, so she looked down fast at the ground and rubbed the toe of her sensible shoe on the linoleum. This looked just as guilty. He couldn’t know what she was thinking. She had to hide it. She coughed into her fist. He looked up and frowned.

  Why Monty?

  Money?

  The store?

  Maybe he didn’t want to split half of it all with Art?

  Maybe he thought Art would make her shut the store down?

  Maybe he was doing something illegal in the store, like selling drugs or prostitution
and he didn’t need Art sniffing into his business.

  But if so, why kill Reynette?

  She coughed again, which was stupid. She needed him not to look at her.

  But they’d eloped.

  He didn’t know they were getting married.

  He was trying to kill her before…

  A million maybes fought for her attention, but how on earth would she ever prove any of them?

  How could she convince this tight knit family that the doting son-in-law had killed the beloved Reynette?

  His saying kombucha had gone bad would never be enough.

  Taylor was breathing shallow and fast now, and her hands that held a white ceramic plate were shaking. “What’s your favorite?” The words came out stiff and funny and quiet. “Favorite kind?”

  “Of that stuff? I hate it all. Disgusting. Drink a beer for God’s sake.” He laughed. “Tastes the same, anyway. Hoppy. But it won’t get you drunk. And don’t tell me it’s a miracle cure for what ails you because Reynette still had ulcers after drinking it for a whole year. Every day that woman drank that stuff.”

  “You say Fawn drank it too?” Taylor’s teeth chattered, but she forced herself to pick plates out of the box and stack them in the cupboard.

  “Yeah, but I wouldn’t let her drink her mom’s stuff. I swear it was always contaminated. I never smelled anything like what she always had going. Strong. It’s probably what killed her.”

  Taylor never agreed with anyone more. “Did she, um…add stuff to it? Like…oils, essential oils or anything?”

  “I never asked. But maybe that’s why it was bad. Ask Fawn. She and her mom were crazy for that stuff.”

  He knotted his trash bag and hefted it over his shoulder. “I feel like a messed-up Santa.” He chuckled and headed out with the garbage.

  Taylor stared at the sink where the evidence had been rinsed away.

  But the lid was still there, and maybe, just maybe, it had residue on it. She shoved it in her purse and hoped it wouldn’t get contaminated. “Hey Sissy, I need to run. You okay?”

  “What?” A chair scraped the floor in the other room and Sissy joined her. “What do you mean you have to leave?”

  Taylor pointed at her purse. “Emergency text.” Then she mouthed “I’ll text you.”

  Sissy shook her head but didn’t try to stop Taylor. The morning was less dark, and the clouds seemed to be clearing out. Not that it mattered to her as she hustled across their small town to get to her car so she could drive to the police station in the county seat and beg them to consider the lid as evidence of murder.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Taylor came up with a terrible but effective plan as she drove to McMinnville. It was ridiculously easy to execute.

  She entered the sheriff’s office shaking with adrenaline. She swallowed a few times, squared her shoulders and approached the desk. The receptionist was not the one she’d met before.

  She leaned forward, her face very close to the plexiglass screen and began in her loudest speaking voice. “I need to speak to a detective. A real detective.” Taylor used the ‘I want to speak to the manager’ tone that she had heard many times at work over the last ten years.

  “Calm down, how can we help you?” The receptionist gave her a smile she recognized as one she had given upset customers many times.

  “Unless you’re a detective, you cannot help me. I’m here about a murder. A murder, do you understand?” Taylor spoke even louder, bending so her face could be a little closer to the pass-through hole of the plexiglass.

  “I said calm down.” The receptionist’s smile waned.

  “I will not calm down! I refuse to calm down. I need justice. We called and begged you to get murder evidence, but you ignored us, and it got washed up. I have a tiny scrap left and I need an expert to analyze it. I need this.” Taylor didn’t have to fake the crack in her voice. She was every bit as overexcited as she had decided to be. She was scared. She was emotional. She was really freaking out. Faking a freak out to get police attention was a terrible idea and she couldn’t believe she’d gone through with it. Big fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

  The receptionist picked up the phone and spoke softly into it.

  Seconds later an armed deputy was at Taylor’s side. “You need to come with me.”

  A sigh that resembled a shaking sob escaped and Taylor followed him to a room she recognized from when she had begged them to help her with her mother’s murder.

  Now that she had someone willing to listen to her, her plan was to calm down, but she found herself overwhelmed with memories of losing her mom.

  The phone call from home saying there had been an accident.

  The moment Belle said their mom had been killed to get custody.

  The time she was in this room, telling the sheriff’s deputy it had been murder.

  The way the murderer attacked her in her own kitchen...

  Taylor’s breath was suddenly shallow, her head was spinning, and the room was spinning. She gripped the table. She opened her mouth to apologize but it didn’t come out.

  “Hey, you okay?” The deputy’s voice was familiar, but Taylor didn’t know him. Had never seen him before. He wasn’t an old friend made in a similar circumstance who would give her attention not usually given to the average citizen.

  He was a guy who could lock her up for the act she’d just pulled.

  “In my purse.” Each word was a shallow breath. “A lid. My purse. Can you get it?”

  He stared at Taylor, his bushy eyebrows drawn in a straight line over deep black eyes. “You’re hyperventilating. Hold your hands over your mouth like this.” He cupped his hands and held them over his mouth. “Exhale a long time. Then breathe in.”

  Taylor followed his directions. It took many breaths, but soon she could focus a little and the air she did inhale seemed to find its proper place. “I think I found evidence of a murder and it is in my purse and I feel like you should get it out for me, so you don’t think anything bad.” The words and breaths were coming out fast again.

  “Do the thing with your hand, or I’ll get you a paper bag. I’ll get in your purse if you want me to.”

  Taylor was wearing the purse over her shoulder and let it slide to the floor. Then she put her hands over her mouth and breathed. Slowly.

  The death of Reynette was not her problem.

  Why had she made it her problem? Why had she let Sissy talk her into this?

  How had Taylor found herself in that kitchen watching someone named Monty pour poisoned kombucha down a farmhouse sink?

  The deputy picked up Taylor’s purse, opened it and spilled its contents on the table that stood between them.

  “That.” Taylor pointed at the lid from the mason jar. “Reynette Woods died a few weeks ago of, of, of…” She shook her head. She couldn’t remember the word for the stuff in aspirin. She could barely remember Reynette’s name. “Of aspirin overdose. But she didn’t even have any, anywhere. She never took it. I think her kombucha was poisoned, but a guy, he poured it out and that…” The breaths…

  The deputy cupped his hands over his mouth again.

  Taylor mirrored his action.

  “Hold tight, okay?” He excused himself and came back very quickly, this time with an evidence bag and a paper lunch sack that Taylor breathed into with relief.

  As he put the lid in the evidence bag, he began to ask slow careful questions.

  Who had died?

  Taylor told him.

  Why did Taylor think it was murder?

  She repeated the thing about Reynette never taking aspirin.

  Where did Taylor get the lid?

  She told him that too.

  He sat down. “Feeling better?”

  Taylor nodded.

  “I don’t know that there’s much we can do about this.”

  “I know. But we know the cause of death. And I think the murderer was the guy who cleaned out the fridge, her son-in-law.”

  “Why would
he want her dead?” The deputy was being so nice, Taylor couldn’t help but relax. She noted his name tag said ‘Craig.’ She’d only ever known good Craigs in her life.

  “It has to be money. She had a lot of businesses and quite a bit of money from what I could tell. So, he’d want the inheritance.”

  “He would have been smarter to kill her before she got married.”

  Taylor nodded. “What if that was what he was trying to do? He was poisoning her, but real slow. I think the goal was for her to die before she could go through with the wedding, but she eloped. He didn’t have enough time.”

  “That’s pretty dark.”

  “I know.” She slumped in her seat. Murder was the darkest thing in the world.

  Another deputy filled the open doorway. He also looked familiar, but at this point, dressed in uniform the way they were, Taylor supposed they all would.

  “Taylor…Quinn, right?” the deputy asked.

  “Um….yes?” Taylor couldn’t help answering like it was a question. Maybe this was the person she had worked with regarding her mom’s murder. Maybe it wasn’t. Her brain was mush.

  “Reg. Reg Franklin. It’s been a very long time.” He reached out to shake her hand. Taylor let him, but his name wasn’t helping her out.

  “Craig, this lady helped me solve my first murder like…what…ten years ago?”

  Taylor gaped, recognition coming slowly. Ten years ago, she had helped solve a little problem. Not murder… “But that was a dog!”

  “Yeah, technically an animal cruelty case, but you and I know it was murder. How is your friend…let me see. Hold on…Isaiah. I’m gifted with names. How has he been?”

  “You are. He’s okay.” Breathing finally felt normal. Reg….Reg! It had been so long, those ten years. She had forgotten this man existed at all. And ten years ago, when she had been a teen freshly instituted at college, the deputy she had worked with had seemed older than Reg did now. Now they seemed about the same age.

  “Did he ever get a new dog?”

  Taylor hated that she didn’t know the answer.

  “I hear you helped solve a murder earlier this year too.”

  Craig stared at the bag with the lid in it. “Are you saying she makes a habit of this?”