by Susie Gayle
“But Sharon’s in jail.”
Sarah takes the paper from me, folds it in half, and swats me on the shoulder. “I’m not saying that Sharon started the fire, dummy. I’m just saying it’s seems strange that her brother would end up dead, doesn’t it?”
“I guess. But stranger things have happened—”
“Will, he was found in a place he had no business being. You told me that Patty said the doors were locked.”
“True…”
“And the fact that the police aren’t releasing details?”
“What’s odd about that?” I put my hands up to defend against another potential swat from the newspaper.
“If he was killed in a fire—say, smoke inhalation or something like that—why wouldn’t they just mention it outright? But instead they’re ‘not releasing details.’ Seems fishy, doesn’t it?”
I shrug. “I guess so.”
She slaps the paper down again in exasperation, startling me for a second time. “Come on, Will! A man dies under unknown circumstances, and he’s related to a murderer, and you’re not the least bit interested in this?”
“No, Sarah, I’m not. Look, I’ve got enough on my mind without yet another investigation—which is none of my concern anyway—so I’d really like to just let the cops handle it. Unless I have a personal, vested interest in it for some reason, no, I don’t care.”
“Okay then,” she says softly. “Forget it.” In hindsight, I could see how saying I don’t care that a man died is pretty callous of me.
“I’m sorry for snapping.” I take her hand. “I’m just under a lot of stress, and not just with the pet shop. You know, even though it’s been almost a year, this thing you and I have still feels new. Karen is back in my life, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. I can’t make a decision about taking classes because the idea of going back to school scares me, and…”
“And your big secret?”
“Yes. And my big secret. It’s a lot. And I don’t really want to take on more right now.”
She squeezes my hand. “I understand. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put anything on you. Let’s just focus on the shop right now, yeah?”
I smile. “Yeah.”
I go back to my duty of tagging clearance items on a rack near the register. Sarah ties her green apron on, and as she does I hear her murmur, “It’ll be interesting to see what the town council is going to do now.”
I pause. “What was that?”
“Oh, nothing. Just musing.”
“You said something about the town council?”
“Yeah. Mario Estes was on it.” She puts her hands on her hips. “That’s in the article. Did you actually read it, or did you gloss over it?”
“You could say I skimmed.”
She rolls her eyes. “Will, how many times have I told you that as a business owner, you should really be more involved in what’s going on locally?”
“Around three hundred and fifty or so.”
“That’s right. Anyway, both Sharon and Mario Estes were on the Seaview Rock town council.”
Well, now I can’t help but be interested. “You don’t say…”
CHAPTER 6
* * *
I just want to go on record here and say, I don’t think that Sammy has anything to do with this. I refuse to even entertain the possibility. There’s just no way.
Probably.
Let me reason this out for a second, because if I don’t, I’ll be just as lost, if not more so, than you might be.
While Sarah helps customers and restocks the pet supplies, I do a little online digging on my phone, suddenly glad I sprang for a data package even if I don’t use it that often. See, even though Sarah has most of the answers I’m looking for, I can’t ask her too many questions or else she’ll become suspicious and, because she’s smarter than me, probably realize that my big secret has something to do with the town council.
By checking out Seaview Rock’s website, I discover that the town council is ordinarily comprised of five members. Sharon Estes was one, and now she’s in prison. Mario Estes was another, and he’s deceased. Tom Savage still is one—the used car dealer that Sammy has in his pocket. My new friend Ezekiel Birnbaum is the fourth, and the last one is someone that I don’t know named Rachel Stein, though the name rings a vague bell from somewhere.
So that’s two of five out of the picture—and by reviewing the minutes of a few previous council meetings, I can see that Sharon hasn’t yet been replaced. Finding out why is the hard part. I could probably read the town charter, but it’s lengthy and boring and I don’t really want to do that.
Under the pretense of helping her lift some bags of dog food, I casually tell Sarah, “You know what? You’re right. I really should be more involved in what’s going on around me.”
“Yes, you should. Lucky for you, I actually enjoy going to those terribly boring meetings.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have to shoulder that on my behalf. I’m the owner; I should be more proactive. So, um, when is the next meeting?”
“Tonight, actually.” She hefts a bag of dog food onto a shelf and then raises an eyebrow in my direction. “Are you saying that you want to go to it with me?”
“I do.”
“It’s a date, then.”
I load a few more bags of dog food, and then, again trying to sound as casual as possible, I ask, “Um… so how does one become a town council member?”
Lucky for me, Sarah doesn’t have a newspaper, because she’d probably swat me right then and there. “Will Sullivan! Are you telling me you don’t even vote?”
Right. They would be elected. That makes sense. “I, uh… no.”
She shakes her head. “Town council members are elected by the townspeople, and they serve a two-year term. So the new elections will be November of this year.”
“Uh-huh. But what happens with someone like Sharon or Mario? Are they replaced?”
“The town charter states that the council should be five members, but when something happens—like resignation, or death, or in Sharon’s case, imprisonment—the council can still function as long as it has at least three members until the next election.”
I gulp, though I don’t mean for it to be a gulp; there’s just a big lump in my throat. “And if it falls below three…?”
“Then they hold what’s called a ‘snap election’ to fill the spots back up to at least three until the next election.” She shakes her head at me again. “Seriously, I can’t believe you’ve lived here all your life and you don’t know this.”
I ignore her jab and continue stocking dog food, gears turning in my head. If anything happens to another person on the council, just one more, then the town would hold a snap election—an unexpected election, one in which no one had time to campaign or prepare. Which… would basically make it a popularity contest, wouldn’t it?
And as much as it pains me to say it, there are few people in Seaview Rock more popular than Sammy Barstow.
But like I said, there’s no way Sammy is involved. Just no way. Probably.
If he got on the council, with Savage already on his side, they would have a majority vote in every decision the council makes.
Or… what if they do already? What if there’s someone in on this that I’m not aware of?
“Hey.” Sarah snaps her fingers in front of my face. “You okay? You have that faraway look again.”
I force a smile. I seem to be doing that a lot lately. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… entertaining the impossible.”
Sarah laughs softly. “Hey, nothing’s impossible if you have the ambition.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. That’s kind of what I’m afraid of.
CHAPTER 7
* * *
Before you even ask, I can probably guess what you’re thinking. Why not just go to Sammy and ask him directly, right? Well, I’ll tell you why. When I went to him before with the bit of information I had, he was very carefu
l not to say anything at all that would confirm or deny any of my suspicions—basically, he wasn’t willing to incriminate himself in any way, even to me.
Secondly, even if he wanted to talk to me, to tell me if he had any involvement in this, he’s smart enough to know that wouldn’t be wise. I’m not a snitch or anything, but there’s no way I could keep something like that to myself. The guilt would eat me alive. Best friend or not, there’s a line in the sand, and being involved in someone’s death doesn’t just cross it; it vaults over it like an Olympic long jumper.
Let me be clear here: I’m not thinking that Sammy killed Mario Estes. But it’s time to be honest with myself; I’d be foolish to think that he can’t know anything about it.
I decide that I have three things to do. I need to learn more about this Rachel Stein. I need to find out if anyone else is involved in the scheme, or if it’s just Tom Savage. But first and foremost, I need to find out what actually happened to Mario Estes… and I think I know where to go.
I wait until about twelve thirty before I suggest to Sarah, “Hey, how about some lunch? My treat.”
“Hmm.” She thinks for a moment, tapping a finger against her lips. “I think I could go for Chinese.”
“Sesame chicken with pork fried rice and a spring roll?”
“You know me so well.”
“Back in twenty.”
I start to untie my apron when, behind me, she says, “Why not have it delivered?”
I turn slowly, blinking my eyes in mock innocence. “Hmm?”
“We always have Chinese delivered.”
“Ah. Right. But… I also have to… stop at the… pharmacy…”
Sarah crosses her arms and gives me “the look.” Ladies—you know darn well what look I mean. It’s a simple look, but it says, I’m going to give you one chance to tell me the truth, and if you don’t, I promise that you will regret it dearly later.
“Fine,” I submit. I tell her quickly, “I’m going to inquire about the nature of Mario Estes’ death because after thinking about it, I agree with you; it does seem very fishy.”
“Now was that so hard?”
I pull on my jacket and head out the door. As I go, I hear her call out behind me, “Don’t you dare forget my food!”
***
I drive my SUV down Main Street toward the suburbs. Thanks to being a member of the fire department, even a reserve, I have access to all of the firefighters’ phone numbers and addresses through the alert app that Patty made us all download.
Allison Morris is a lifelong Seaview Rock resident, much like myself; we weren’t really friends growing up, but she was only a grade behind me in school. Nowadays she lives in a two-story colonial-style house on Falcon Drive with her husband and a young son. I know from working with her during my brief training stint that she’s a stay-at-home mom, so before I even get there I expect her to be home, even in the middle of the day.
I also know that as the deputy fire chief, she’s unlikely to give me any useful information, but I have to start somewhere.
Her Jeep is in the driveway, so I knock on the door and wait. When she answers, she smiles pleasantly, but frowns quizzically with her eyes.
“Will, hi. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, Allison. Um…” I really should have prepared better for this. I decide to just go for it. “I want to ask you a few things about the fire from last night, and… Mario Estes.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. She moves aside in the doorway. “Come in.”
I follow her into a tidy foyer in white tile, down a hall and into a kitchen. “Killian is down for a nap, so we have to talk quietly.”
“Sure. How old is he now?”
“Four.”
“Wow. Almost time for kindergarten, huh?”
“Yup. Time flies.” She clears her throat. “Would you like some coffee or something?”
“Oh, no thanks. I’m okay.”
“Alright.” She motions toward the breakfast nook. “Have a seat.” I do, and she folds her hands on the table between us—an idiosyncrasy that, I imagine, she picked up from spending a lot of time around Patty Mayhew. “Now. Why do you think I know anything about Mario Estes?”
“Well, for starters, you found him last night, didn’t you?”
She nods slowly. “I did.” I can’t tell if she’s speaking so softly because of her sleeping son, or if the memory of finding a body is tough to acknowledge. Maybe both. “And what makes you think that I’ll tell you anything about what I saw?”
“I have no idea,” I tell her candidly. “You’re the only person I know that might give me some information. I can’t exactly go to Patty, you know?” Our chief of police, pleasant as she usually is, has warned me not-so-lightly on more than one occasion about getting involved in open investigations.
“I guess you can’t.” She takes a long, even breath, and then says, “I’m going to get some iced tea.” She rises from the nook and takes a glass from the cupboard. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I don’t think it was an accident.” Using Sarah’s words, I explain, “The newspaper said that the police aren’t releasing information. If it was just a death caused by the fire, why wouldn’t they just say that?”
She pours herself a glass of iced tea and sets it on the table between us, and then sits before she says anything else.
“You’re right, Will. Mario Estes’ death was not fire-related. We have reason to believe… he was murdered.”
CHAPTER 8
* * *
“I know about you,” she continues before I can get a word in edgewise. “You know me and Patty talk a lot. She calls you her ‘bad-luck charm.’”
“Me? Why?” I know darn well why, but I can’t just shrug off a nickname like that.
“Because almost every time a body shows up in Seaview Rock, you’re somewhere nearby. However… she also told me how you’ve helped her in the past.” She takes a sip of her tea. “Is that what you’re trying to do now, Will? Be helpful?”
“Exactly.” Helpful to who, I don’t know. Hopefully helpful to Sammy, in clearing his name—even if it’s only me that knows about that—and hopefully not helpful to the police in arresting my best friend. “Sorry, but can we, uh, circle back around to the part about Mario being murdered?”
She sighs. “You absolutely did not hear this from me, okay?” After I nod, she continues. “I knew something wasn’t right the moment I saw the body. Patty called in the county fire investigator and the medical examiner. The ME confirmed it—cause of death was a broken neck.”
“Sheesh. So, he was dead before the fire even started?”
She nods. “And any evidence was burned up. They couldn’t even tell for sure how long he’d been dead for, but their best guess is that it was only minutes before we arrived.”
“Are they certain it wasn’t an accident, like… I don’t know, a slip and fall or something?”
“Definitely not. He was lying prostrate in the middle of the floor of the art gallery, next to the gift shop.”
“And the fire? Someone started it, right?” I choose to say “someone” instead of “the killer,” but I’m pretty sure Allison knows what I’m suggesting.
“Tracing the cause of a fire is no easy job,” she tells me. “But due to the body and a preliminary inspection, yes, they’re calling it arson.” She stares into the glass of iced tea. “In fact, the leading theory is that the arsonist set fire to an oil painting.”
An oil painting—makes sense. It would go up in seconds, and burn long enough to catch the old wood on which it was hanging.
She leans forward, both hands wrapped around the sweating glass of iced tea. “And here’s the strangest part: If they’re right, then the painting that started the fire was done by Leo Estes.”
“Leo Estes? There’s a third one of them running around?”
She nods. “Sharon was the oldest, and Leo is their little brother, the youngest of the three. He w
orks as the curator of Dalton Manor’s art gallery.”
Aha. Now I understand why Allison is talking to me. “So you think that it could have been Leo Estes that did this, but I’m guessing Patty disagrees.”
Allison sighs. “Leo has an alibi. He was taking care of their father, who is, sadly, practically on his deathbed. Still, you have to admit that if you were going to try to point blame away from yourself, what better way than to torch your own livelihood?”
“I suppose. What about this Ezekiel Birnbaum fellow?” I’m careful not to mention anything about the town council, not even to Allison. “It seemed like he showed up awfully quick, don’t you think? What’s his deal?”
She rolls her eyes. “Birnbaum likes to act important, but really he got lucky. He’s the stepson of Martha Dalton, from her second marriage—and the only one that was left to inherit the family’s estate when she passed. But I can’t see Birnbaum doing something like this; Dalton Manor is all he has going for him.”
I don’t want to point out that her rationale for suspecting Leo Estes could just as easily apply to Birnbaum. And the notion that Birnbaum could have been pressured into something like this is not lost on me. There are just too many factors in play.
A long silence stretches between us, which is broken up by the sound of a child calling out. “Mommy? Mommy?”
“That’s Killian.” She rises from the table. “I hope I’ve been helpful… and I hope you will be, too.”
***
I drive back to Main Street and stop off at Wok This Way, the Chinese food place, and put in our lunch order. While I wait, I pace the floor of the small take-out shop and think.
I had already assumed that Mario Estes was murdered, so that part isn’t exactly a shock. The nature of his death, however, is. It could imply that it was a crime of passion; that his murderer wasn’t prepared to kill him. It could have been that someone made him an offer, and he refused. In the heat of the moment, the frustrated killer broke his neck. And I do know of one sort of offer that might make someone do something crazy—