by Kara Lennox
“He didn’t give me the impression he wanted to fire you.”
“Daniel is loyal. As long as I work for him, he has my back.”
“You think a lot of him.”
“I admire him a great deal.”
“And there’s not a little something else there?”
“Good God, Conner, Daniel is a happily married man. I would never—” She was overreacting. Because Conner had obviously spotted something—a certain intimacy she shared with Daniel from all those years of being privy to every detail of his life. It wasn’t sexual. Even when she’d had a giant crush on him, he’d been more of a romantic, heroic figure to her rather than a potential lover.
“So you don’t have a habit of sleeping with your bosses?”
Okay, now he was just trying to piss her off. He wanted to see her lose her temper, probably because any reaction, even anger, was better than the cold shoulder.
“No. You’re the only boss I ever crossed the line with.”
Did he have the gall to look pleased about that?
Her mother had sent her another text: Free for dinner Fri? I have a guy for u.
Thank heavens she had plans for Friday. She and Celeste were going to the shooting range for target practice.
Can’t Fri and stop fixing me up pls. Hell, maybe she should let her mother match her to some boring, highly eligible man. She certainly wasn’t doing a bang-up job finding good prospects on her own.
It took them ninety minutes to get to Mayall Mill Number One, which was in the northeast corner of Montgomery County. The mill dated from the early 1900s and much of the old buildings and equipment had been preserved. The site had been transformed into a beautiful historic park, a popular location for school field trips, parties and even weddings.
“This is really quite lovely,” she said. “And if the weather stays like this, it will be perfect.” It was seventy degrees, clear and sunny with a slight breeze—ideal picnic weather. The breeze teased her skirt, a rather short, flirty garment with black and white polka-dots, which she’d paired with a soft black top with puff sleeves, a wide red belt and black kitten heels.
She hoped Conner was eating his heart out.
“Want a tour?” Conner asked.
“Sure.” She needed to know the layout and amenities, she figured, and Conner apparently knew this place backward and forward.
A large, open-air shed housed the main attraction, an enormous six-foot-diameter saw blade that was powered by a system of belts and gears, a steampunk dream. A tall, skinny man in overalls and an apron was applying oil to the gears with an old-fashioned oil can.
“Hey, welcome to Mayall Mill Number One. How y’all doing today? Mr. Blake, what brings you here?”
“Bookkeeping,” Conner said with suitable vagueness. “Ms. Baxter here is planning the company picnic. Could you show her around?”
“Be glad to. My name’s Lucas, ma’am. I’d offer my hand, but it’s kind of greasy.”
Jillian smiled, liking Lucas immediately. “No problem. Call me Jillian. I understand you have tables and chairs, and some way to refrigerate food?”
“Yes, ma’am. We have a lot of functions here, school picnics and such. We can put on a pretty good shindig.”
“Excellent.”
Lucas showed her around while Conner went to the office to find the mill’s manager and sort out the problem of the bird’s eye maple. Meanwhile, Jillian couldn’t help but admire the beautiful boards produced by the mill’s antique blade, and a huge planer.
Not all of the equipment was well cared for. Some had deteriorated. Mysterious-looking machines sat around on the grounds, reminding Jillian of great, rusty insects. Conveyor belts ran here and there, and an old steam engine sat on railroad tracks that went nowhere.
The air was redolent with the smell of freshly sawn wood. Jillian found it invigorating.
“What are these little hills all over the place?” she asked. The hills, covered with grass and some with flowers, dotted the landscape and surely weren’t a natural part of the terrain, which was otherwise dead flat.
“Under those hills are big piles of sawdust. Back in the day, they would just let it collect here and there, then cover it up with dirt. Nowadays we recycle the sawdust. The cellulose is useful for a good many products—pressed wood, of course, but Mr. Blake has been experimenting with making fabric. He has this idea for cheap, disposable clothing that could be turned into fuel after it’s been worn.”
Jillian skidded to a halt. “You’re kidding.”
“No, it’s true. You can see some of the prototypes in the gift shop. He’s still working out all the kinks.”
So, the paper dress of long ago had been more than a practical joke. He actually was interested in producing clothes from wood by-products.
“I will definitely check it out.”
Lucas continued his tour. “We’re headed to the drying shed. All of our wood is kiln-dried now, it’s the best way. So the drying shed has mostly been converted into storage. We have a big walk-in refrigerator and freezer, the tables and chairs…well, you’ll see.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Just as they entered the huge shed, Lucas’s cell phone rang. “You can go on in and look around, I gotta take this.”
“Okay.”
She entered the cavernous drying shed, which stored all manner of equipment from an old tractor to bags of balloons. It didn’t seem very well organized, so she just started poking around. She found a closet with at least twenty large folding tables. They looked ancient but in good repair. Another enclosure held folding chairs, all made of wood. She wondered how many parties those old chairs had seen.
She located the walk-in refrigerator, circa 1940. It was small—only a couple of people could stand in here at the same time. Part of the crowded feeling came from an old chest freezer pushed against one wall. That would work great for storing ice cream.
The fridge looked plenty big enough to store drinks and hot dogs and whatnot, except that it already had a lot of stuff in it, stuff that apparently didn’t need to be in a refrigerator—like a pile of old burlap feed bags. Good heavens, what would anyone keep those for? Horses had once been employed to haul milled lumber to waiting railroad cars, but that had to be more than seventy years ago!
She would see if Lucas would mind if she moved them temporarily. She could probably take care of that today. She grabbed the edges of several of the bags, intending to see just how big a pile she was dealing with.
And she uncovered a human hand clutching a silver chain.
Jillian screamed—what else was she supposed to do? But then she remembered herself. She was a Project Justice investigator. She had to get hold of herself.
The authorities had to be summoned, of course. But she couldn’t resist a peek at the rest of the body. She needed to know who it was—and whether this murder had any connection to Greg Tynes. Her heart pounding like a jackhammer, she pulled back another wad of bags.
She knew that face.
Just then the refrigerator door opened and Conner burst in. “Jillian. What’s wrong?”
“D-dead b-b-body. It’s Mark Bowen.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“HOLY SON OF A MONKEY!” Conner’s first instinct was to get the hell out of there. But then he realized Jillian was frozen in place, just staring at the man’s face.
He came up beside her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Who is Mark Bowen?”
“A reporter.”
Conner had heard that name recently. Wait—the email from Brazil, referring to an Inspector Bowen. The reporter must have been asking questions.
“Okay. Drop those bags and let’s get out of here and call the police.”
She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away. “Conner. Look what’s in his hand.”
Conner didn’t want to get any closer to the body than he had to. For one thing, his self-preservation instincts dictated that he not risk dropping any miniscule particle of his DNA near the bo
dy. But he could see something silver clutched in the dead man’s grip, and he took a couple of steps closer.
Oh, God. “That’s my Saint Christopher medal.”
“Uh-huh.” Jillian was shivering violently now. The refrigerator was close to freezing and she wore only a thin top, a short skirt and bare legs.
“You don’t think that I—” Oh, hell, they could sort that out later. She was either going into shock or suffering from hypothermia. He pulled the burlap bag out of her hand, dropped them on the ground, and all but dragged her out of the refrigerator.
A couple of small tables and chairs had been set up near some vending machines. He guided Jillian there and pushed her into a chair even as he tugged his cell phone out of his pocket.
The 9-1-1 operator sounded suitably impressed. “I’m sending help now,” the woman said. “Are you sure he’s dead?”
“Oh, he’s dead.” Unless live people turned that ghastly shade of green.
“Someone from the Montgomery County Sheriff’s Department should be there in about twenty minutes. Please stay on the line with me until they get there. And don’t touch anything.”
“No, we won’t.” He put the phone on Speaker and laid it on the table, then took Jillian’s hands between his and chafed them. They were cold as ice cubes. “Jillian? You okay?”
“I… Yeah, I think so. I just never found a dead body before.”
“Me, neither. And I hope to God I never do again.”
The operator was yammering at them again, trying to get as much information as possible out of them. But Conner was too freaked out by seeing his Saint Christopher medal clutched in a dead man’s hand.
That reporter must have been getting too close to the truth. Someone had killed him and framed Conner—undoubtedly the same person who had clumsily framed Stan Mayall.
“Sir?” the operator said. “Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“Does it look like foul play was involved?”
“The body was hidden in a refrigerator under a stack of bags. I don’t think he got there by accident.”
“Are you in immediate danger?”
“Who the hell knows?”
“How did the man die?”
“Look, I don’t know, okay? I didn’t spend time studying him. I just got the hell out of there.”
“He had a chest wound.” Jillian broke her silence, sounding more normal than she had a couple of minutes ago. “And powder burns on his shirt, like he was shot at point-blank range.”
“And who am I speaking with?” the operator asked.
“This is Jillian Baxter. I’m an investigator for Project Justice.”
Conner doubted the wisdom of revealing that bit of information. These days most everyone had heard of Project Justice. The bad news was, not everyone approved of the foundation’s goals. Some people—especially those in law enforcement—thought it was all about getting criminals out of jail. Project Justice, by its very nature, made law enforcement and the criminal justice system look bad for wrongly convicting innocent people.
“Well, I’m sure that qualifies you to determine cause of death,” the operator said in a snooty voice.
“Excuse me for living,” Jillian murmured.
They didn’t have to deal with the operator any longer. Two uniformed sheriff’s deputies arrived, along with a plainclothes detective.
Well, plainclothes was a misnomer in this case. The man who identified himself as Detective Sergeant Hudson Vale wore a pair of faded jeans and one of the loudest Hawaiian shirts Conner had ever seen—along with a tie sporting a pink flamingo.
“They let you dress like this for work?” Conner asked. “Seriously?”
“Conner, let him be,” Jillian said, extending her hand to Vale. “Detective Vale, I know you by reputation. I understand you were a big help when our investigator Billy Cantu was working on the Mary-Francis Torres case. I’m Jillian Baxter.”
“Pleasure’s mine. So you’re working a case?”
“Yes. Stan Mayall is accused of killing one of his employees. I’m supposed to passively gather information about the company, but this has gone way beyond anything I expected to find.”
“Let’s see what we got.”
Vale and one of the two uniforms entered the refrigerator. A few minutes later, a lone crime scene investigator arrived, and he squeezed in, as well. They left the door open, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to Conner and Jillian.
“So,” Jillian whispered as they both stood in front of the vending machine. “Should we tell them who the Saint Christopher medal belongs to?”
“We won’t have to,” he said grimly. “It’s inscribed on the back. ‘To Conner, come home safe to me, Chandra.’ So unless you know any other Conners once married to Chandras, I think they’ll figure it out.”
“That’s bad.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“It’s best if we be completely honest with the cops,” she said. “Daniel says any time you lie, even about something inconsequential, it comes back to bite you in the butt.”
“This isn’t exactly inconsequential. Jillian, what did you do with the medal?” Realizing it sounded like an accusation, he quickly added, “I don’t think you killed the guy and framed me. But whoever did had to get hold of that medal somehow.”
“It was still in the console when I drove home that Friday morning. I put it in the top drawer of your desk.”
“I never saw it there.”
“So someone took it on Friday or over the weekend. But I locked the office door. I’m sure of it.”
“Lots of people have keys. You broke into Cuddy’s office easily enough.”
She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I’m trying to think if I saw anyone loitering nearby in the past few days.”
He took her hand. “You don’t think I did it?”
“Conner, of course not. I’m not going to pretend you’re my best friend right now, but I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, no way on God’s green earth you’re capable of murder.”
He was so moved by her faith in him, he didn’t know what to say. He squeezed her hand. Their gazes met. In the span of a heartbeat, they came to an understanding, and he knew she would take his side. Regardless of their quarrels and misadventures, he could think of no one who would be a fiercer champion. Even if sometimes she wanted to see him skewered and cooked slowly over an open flame, she would stand up for the truth.
He was deeply afraid he was falling in love with her.
“Excuse me, Mr. Blake?”
Conner whirled around to find Detective Vale standing just outside the refrigerator door, holding a plastic bag with his Saint Christopher medal inside.
“‘To Conner, come home safe—’”
“Yes, it’s mine. And no, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even know him.”
“You’re sure? You didn’t look closely enough to see the gaping chest wound, but you studied his face?”
“Actually, no. Jillian recognized him as a reporter, Mark Bowen. I’ve heard his name, but that’s about it.”
Vale focused on Jillian. “You know him, then?”
“I met him just once. He’d been talking with Greg Tynes, the victim in the case I’m working on. Greg was a potential whistle-blower. He told Bowen he knew something was going on at Mayall Lumber, something illegal that would take the company down. But Greg died before he could tell Mark what it was.”
The detective looked thoughtful. “So you think the reporter might have died for the same reason—he found out about some illegal activity…here? What could be going on at a historic park?”
“There might be a connection,” Conner said. “That’s why I was here today, actually. The mill manager has been receiving substandard grades of wood from timber operations managed by Greg Tynes before he died. There’s something going on—I haven’t figured it out yet. He was either deliberately sabotaging the company, or…selling off the best wood
on the side.”
“I’ll want to hear all about it. You won’t mind coming with me to headquarters for a little chat?”
Oh, boy. This didn’t feel good.
“Is that really necessary?” Jillian asked. “He didn’t do it. He’s been clumsily framed—just like Stan was for Greg’s murder.”
“If that’s the case, we’ll sort it out,” Vale said mildly.
Jillian took out her phone and made a quick call. “Daniel. Can Raleigh come to the Montgomery County Sheriff’s Department right away? Conner needs a lawyer.”
Vale made a face. “Raleigh Shinn? Really? With one phone call you got enough clout to summon her?”
Conner didn’t know if clout was the right word, but Jillian certainly had the ear of the almighty Daniel Logan. He felt a stab of jealousy even as his heart swelled. He was lucky to have Jillian in his corner.
Despite the terrible things he’d said about her yesterday.
He just hoped to hell her faith would be enough, because if not, he was in a heap of trouble. He’d been questioned in Greg Tynes’s murder, mostly because the guy had worked under him. Despite the gossip mill, the cops hadn’t seriously entertained him as a suspect—the Houston police had already marked Stan as their man.
But now, the fact he’d been questioned at all would look bad.
* * *
“DO YOU THINK I KILLED that man?” Jillian blurted out the moment Vale’s butt hit his chair. She’d been so intent on proving Conner’s innocence, it hadn’t occurred to her that she might be a suspect, as well.
But as soon as she’d arrived at the sheriff’s department, she’d been taken to an interrogation room. She’d waited there, alone, while Vale questioned Conner in another room, Raleigh at his side. Two hours later, Vale and Raleigh had joined her.
Vale had the nerve to look faintly amused. “You knew the deceased and you discovered the body. I would be a dunce if I didn’t at least question you. So, Ms. Baxter, how did you come to find that body? What made you go into the refrigerator and start digging around in a pile of old feed bags?”
“I was planning the company picnic.” She went on to explain that she was checking out the food storage facilities.