by Amanda Lee
It was that smirk that sent me over the edge. I leaned forward and licked my lips. “What makes you think I’ll need truth serum?” I asked in a hushed, sexy voice.
“You c-can’t go into a prison and . . . be . . . seductive!” Detective Nash practically yelled. “Are you out of your mind?”
I snapped my fingers, and Angus trotted over to sit by my side. I scratched his head. “I’m going to get to the truth about all this. I’ve worked too hard to let a shadow hang over this shop—or over me.”
Chapter Six
Later that afternoon, I was unpacking the Halloween products that had arrived that morning. The scarecrow designs were adorable. There were also cross-stitch cards with characters and sayings. A cross-eyed bat was combined with the phrase “You drive me batty.” A mummy said, “I’m all wrapped up in you.” A black cat declared the card’s recipient “purrrfect.” Yeah, corny; I know. But the cards really were cute. And if I got a card like one of these, I would adore it. How nice it would be to know someone thought enough to actually make me something, especially for Halloween.
There was the most adorable haunted-house project. Darling little ghosts peeped out of the windows, and a black cat sat on the porch. Of course, a full moon loomed overhead, with a bat flying nearby. Two tombstones stood by a bare-limbed tree. The tombstones had names and little epitaphs: I told you I was sick! and Ima Goner. There were other suggestions on the back: Myra Mains, Emma Ghost, Will Knott Rest, and Yul B. Next. I absolutely had to have one of these haunted houses of my own, and promised myself I’d start it as soon as I finished my tote bag. Okay, or the MacKenzies’ Mochas logo. What can I say? I like to multitask.
I heard the bell over the door jingle and called, “I’ll be right there!”
“That’s all right,” Sadie said. “I’ll come to you. What are you doing?”
“Getting ready to stock these Halloween kits.”
Sadie picked up a kit depicting a teddy bear wearing a pumpkin costume. “How sweet!”
“Do you want it? I owe you after all the free coffees you’ve given me.”
“Do you think I could do it?” Sadie turned the kit over to read the back. “It looks a little hard.”
“You totally could. Have you ever done needlepoint?”
“No.”
“I’ll teach you. It’s easy, and it goes really fast.”
“Good. I like fast.” Sadie gave me a pointed look. “At least, I usually like fast. What was with you making eyes at Ted Nash today?”
“I did not make eyes at Ted Nash. I merely wiped that arrogant smirk off his face.”
“Well, you certainly did that. But I think you might’ve melted his shoes, too.”
I laughed. “No, I did not.”
“I, uh . . . thought you liked Todd.”
“I do like Todd.”
“And?” Sadie prompted.
“And what?”
“What was Ted Nash doing here on his day off?”
I shrugged. “He called me last night and asked if he could come by. He said he said he wanted to take another look around.”
“On his day off.”
“I hadn’t realized it was his day off. But I’m serious, Sadie, I want to get to the truth about this whole Enright /Trelawney/Four Square thing.”
“I get that, but—”
“But what?” I put my hands on my hips.
“There appeared to be some serious sparks flying between you and Ted today, that’s all.”
“He’s investigating me for murder. That’s such a turn-on.”
“It’s just that Todd likes you, and—”
“And what? I’m acting like a tramp? I’m sorry. Please pass my apologies along to whomever else you think needs one.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Marcy. I’m just saying that if Todd likes you and you like Detective Nash, I’d appreciate your not leading Todd on.”
I went back to my box of embroidery kits. “I need to get these put up. I’ll see you tomorrow when I get back from the prison.”
“Oh, so now Blake, Todd, and I aren’t going?”
“Why would you want to? I might lead Todd on.”
Sadie huffed, pitched her bear pattern back into the box, and left.
I finished putting up the kits. I did like Todd, but he and I had not even been on an official date. It’s hard to get to know someone when you’re usually part of a foursome or—in the case of the grand-opening party—a crowd. And there was something a little exciting about wiping that smirk off Ted Nash’s haughty face . . . the way his full lips parted slightly when I leaned closer to him, the way his eyes darkened, the way he caught and held his breath. It was a powerful feeling. Maybe I did like him a micro bit. Maybe not having had a date in more than a year was getting to me. Maybe I should “get thee to a nunnery.”
I blew out a breath and looked down at Angus, who was lying on his bed. He looked up at me without raising his head. He was so adorable when he did that. I bent and kissed the top of his head.
“I’d never go to a nunnery without you, Angus.”
“I hope you don’t go to a nunnery at all.”
I stood so quickly, I nearly fell. “Hey, Todd. I didn’t hear the bell.”
“No wonder. It seems your thoughts were a million miles away.”
“Not a million, but they were wandering.”
“To a nunnery, no less.” He grinned.
I bit my lower lip. “Long story. Sometimes I’d like to simply run away and disappear.”
“One of those days, huh?”
I nodded. “Sadie and I had an argument.”
“Have you made up yet?”
I shook my head.
He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly closing time. Come on.”
I looked down at the almost-empty box.
“It can wait until Monday, can’t it?” He cocked his head and looked at me with those milk-chocolate eyes. “Please?” He smiled. “I was looking forward to the four of us going to the prison tomorrow.”
I laughed. “Yeah, it’s not every day you get to do that.” I put the box into the storeroom, grabbed one of the teddy bear pumpkin kits off the shelf, and began shutting off the lights. “Come on, Angus.”
I turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED and locked the door behind us. As we were walking next door to MacKenzies’ Mochas, Sadie stepped out and started toward us.
“I was coming to apologize,” she said.
“Me, too.”
We hugged.
“So, we’re still on for tomorrow?” Todd asked.
“Oh, heck, yeah,” Sadie said. “Nobody’s going on a prison road trip without me.”
What does one wear to a prison? I asked myself, my inner voice reminding me of Lovey Howell from Gilligan’s Island. As I looked through my closet, Angus lay on the floor, chewing an eco-friendly bone that was supposed to make his breath smell minty. I hadn’t yet broken the news to him that he couldn’t join me on my field trip to the prison and that he’d have to stay in the backyard all day. Don’t get me wrong; Angus loves his little fenced-off piece of real estate, and he especially enjoys lounging on the back porch swing. He has plenty of food, water, and toys out there to keep him occupied. It’s just the way he looks at me when he knows I’m going somewhere without him. Guilt, guilt, guilt.
I turned my attention back to the closet. If only I had an orange jumpsuit . . . or maybe an orange minidress like that girl on Pushing Daisies wore. No. It would be my luck for them to throw me in jail for contempt or something.
I opted for a floral-print skirt, pink V-neck sweater, and taupe platform pumps. I curled my hair, which makes me—in my opinion—look more polished and professional. I usually let it do whatever it wants, and it looks kinda wild. I like it, though; it’s fun and funky, casual and relaxed. I did a quick scalp check—no sign of roots yet. Roots suck. They tell everybody who’s thinking That couldn’t possibly be her natural hair color that they’re right. When really it’s none of their b
usiness in the first place that my hair is naturally a dull, mousy brown.
I sat down at the vanity to put on my makeup. “What do you think, Angus? Should I take Mr. Patrick a box of candy? Is that sort of thing allowed?” I turned to look at him, but he completely ignored me. He knew something was up. It was the hair. I should’ve explained things to him before I curled my hair.
I was putting on my lipstick when the doorbell rang.
“Coming!” I checked the clock. They were early.
When I opened the door, I was surprised to find Ted Nash there. He was back in his suit, with his badge clipped to his belt. “Good afternoon, Ms. Singer. May I come in?”
“Of course.”
He noticed me looking at the street beyond him. “You’re expecting someone?”
I nodded. “We’re going to the prison today.”
“Oh, that’s right. I honestly think you should reconsider that. It’s not a wise decision. And if Chief Myers finds out, he’ll be livid. He hates it when civilians interfere with our work.”
“What brings you by?” I asked.
“Bill Trelawney was killed by a .38-caliber slug. Would you happen to own a gun, Ms. Singer?”
“No, I don’t, but I’ll happily submit to a search.”
His lips twitched. “I can look at you and fairly conclusively ascertain you’re not concealing a weapon.”
“I meant the house. Feel free to search the house for any sort of . . . artillery.”
“Not necessary.”
Blake’s van pulled into the driveway beside the detective’s black cruiser.
“Looks like your ride’s here,” Detective Nash said. “If you insist on following through with this, be careful, all right?”
“I will.”
He turned and waved in the direction of Blake’s van and got into his car. I held up one finger to let Blake know I’d be there in a minute. As I went to the kitchen for Angus’ provisions, Sadie came inside.
“Need help with anything?” she asked.
“No. I’m gathering up a few things to keep Angus busy today, that’s all.” I knew her real question was why Detective Nash had been here, but I was still miffed enough about yesterday not to tell her.
I filled Angus’ food and water bowls, and I put his teddy bear on the porch swing. He had other toys out there already. I called him, and he came moping into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “It’s only for a while.” I could’ve sworn I heard Glenn Frey singing about my lyin’ eyes.
I opened the back door. Angus took his bone and went out onto the porch, giving me an admonishing glance over his shoulder before I closed the door.
Honey, you can’t hide your lyin’ eyes.
“Shut up, Glenn,” I muttered.
“What?” Sadie asked. She was nearly bursting with wanting to ask why Detective Nash had been here. I could read it all over her face.
I smiled. “I’m ready.”
Sadie and I went out and got into Blake’s cream-colored van, which bore the MacKenzies’ Mochas logo on both sides. I was in the back with Todd.
“Hello there, Marcy,” he said, grinning. “You look sensational.”
“Thank you very much.”
“When we got here, I was afraid I might have to engage Ted Nash in fisticuffs.”
“Fisticuffs?” I giggled.
“Yeah. I thought maybe he was trying to haul you away.”
“Wouldn’t that be ironic?” I asked. “Getting all dressed up to go visit a jail and getting dragged in for real? Lucky for me, I don’t own a gun.”
Sadie leaned around her seat to look at me. “You mean, he came to ask if you own a gun?”
“Yeah. I even told him to search the house if he wanted to. I don’t have a .38. Do you guys know anyone who does?”
“We do,” Blake said. “I keep it in the safe at the shop.”
“What?” I asked. “Why?”
“Any number of reasons. Bears, for one thing. I mean, it isn’t often they come into town, and I would hate to have to shoot one. But I’d protect Sadie, myself, and our staff if I needed to.”
I had a feeling he wasn’t talking about bears exclusively now.
“I have a .38 I keep locked up at the pub,” Todd said. “Why was Ted so interested in a .38, anyway? Lots of people have them.”
“He said that was the kind of gun used to kill Bill Trelawney.”
The prison was big. It was clean, too, and had a hospital-like, industrial-clean odor. It wasn’t that I had been expecting the prison to be dumpy and dirty, but I simply hadn’t thought it would be as big or as clean as it was in actuality. And the acoustics! Blake sneezed when we first walked in, and it echoed as if we were in a canyon.
Guards wearing blue latex gloves went through Sadie’s and my purses and had the men empty their pockets. Then our belongings were sent through the X-ray machine as we individually passed through the metal detector. We were given the okay to venture on ahead.
A guard sitting behind a podium beyond the security checkpoint stood and unlocked the doors leading to the visitor’s information desk. He then closed the doors behind us, and I could hear his key turning the tumbler in the lock.
I tried to remind myself that this was a minimum-security, rather than a maximum-security, prison, but somehow that reminder—combined with the fact that I was now locked up inside this facility—didn’t bring me much comfort.
The visitor’s information desk was basically a large steel countertop. Guards checked our driver’s licenses, presumably to make sure we weren’t wanted for anything. We were then asked to state the reason for our visit.
“We’d like to speak with Mr. Norman Patrick,” I said.
“Is Mr. Patrick expecting you?” one of the guards asked.
“No.”
The guard radioed someone else and told this person to see if Mr. Patrick would agree to see Marcella Singer, Sadie MacKenzie, Blake MacKenzie, and Todd Calloway. While we waited for an answer, I wondered if we’d completely wasted a trip.
Within a few minutes, the guard’s radio crackled and a voice said, “Patrick said to send them back.”
I was pondering if that meant “back home” or “back to where Mr. Patrick is waiting” when the guard instructed us to sign the logbook and to once again indicate the purpose of our visit. After we did that, the guard opened a set of doors and led us down a hallway to what amounted to a snack bar. The room was filled with vending machines and small round tables and chairs bolted to the floor. I fleetingly wondered why there were no pictures of any kind in the hallways or common areas.
Our guard nodded to one of the other guards stationed throughout the snack bar, and then he left us. There were a handful of other inmates sitting at the tables. Two sat alone, another two sat together, and the other three had visitors.
Sadie and Blake were already acquainted with Mr. Patrick through the coffee shop. They strode over to the beefy man with square-rimmed glasses and a ready smile. Todd and I followed. I recognized him from the photos I’d seen in Riley Kendall’s office.
“Sadie MacKenzie,” he said. “You’re looking as lovely as ever.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Patrick.”
“I’m afraid the coffee in this place is nowhere near the caliber of yours.”
“When you get home, come by the shop for a cup on the house,” Blake said.
“I’ll take you up on that,” Mr. Patrick said. He squinted past Sadie. “This pretty little sprite must be Marcella Singer.”
“Marcy,” I said, holding out my hand. “Please, call me Marcy.”
“Pull up a chair, Marcy,” he said.
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir. They’re bolted to the floor.”
Mr. Patrick laughed and slapped his thigh. “What a peach.”
I did sit down across from him. Sadie took another available chair.
“I’m Todd Calloway.” Todd reached across the table to shake Mr. Patrick’s hand. “I own the Brew C
rew. It’s on the other side of the street from MacKenzies’ Mochas.”
“Don’t know that I’ve ever been there,” Mr. Patrick said. “But it’s nice to meet you.” He turned his attention back to me. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Blake and Todd sat at the table beside us, since there were only four chairs at Mr. Patrick’s table.
I leaned forward. “I’m here to ask you about Timothy Enright. Did you know him?”
“Sure did.”
“I suppose you heard he died in the storeroom of my shop.”
Mr. Patrick nodded. “Riley told me about it. Brought me the newspaper, too. I hate that for Tim. I really do.”
“So do I.” I bit my lower lip. “His wife thinks I somehow did him in.”
“You, Little Bit?” Mr. Patrick laughed. “Why, you couldn’t hurt a fly. You remind me of Tinkerbell.”
I joined in his laughter. “I’m only sorry I can’t muster up some fairy dust and fly away from Lorraine Enright. She hates me!”
“I don’t doubt that. There aren’t many people Lorraine Enright does like, and that included her husband.” He reached out and took one of my hands in both of his. “She won’t be happy when that will is read.”
“Why won’t she be happy with the will?” Sadie asked.
“You’ll have to take my word on that one. Attorney-client privilege and all that. Let’s just say she won’t be shopping at Saks.”
“But that’s a given, isn’t it?” I asked. “Mrs. Enright said her husband went bankrupt because Mr. Trelawney wanted to bring in new businesses . . . like mine.”
Mr. Patrick grinned. “Tim didn’t go bankrupt.”
He still held my hand, so I felt entitled to ask him whatever I wanted. “Was Mr. Enright involved with Four Square Development?”
He made a sucking noise. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he scratched four square fifth w on my storeroom wall before he died.”
His mouth spread into a wide smile, and he suddenly reminded me of the shark Bruce in Finding Nemo. “Hard to say, Tinkerbell. But it’s probably best you leave all this alone. Concentrate on your shop. How’s that going? Doing well?”
“Very well, thank you,” I said.