Oil & Vinegar

by Mairsile Leabhair

  She made a trilling sound, probably just to placate me.

  “Fine. It wasn’t just the case I was talking about.” I sat her down on my bed and walked over to the closet, looking for the extra pillow. Frowning, I replaced Hettie’s pillow with the spare. “What would Meredith think about it?”

  Bubbles craned her head at a noise. Then there was a knock on the door.

  “It’s me, Hettie.”

  I looked through the peephole and saw Hettie smiling back at me. Unlocking the door, I stepped back as she walked in. “Everything all right?” I asked, curious about her pensive expression.

  “Sure, why wouldn’t it be?” she asked.

  Having no answer for that, I changed the subject. “I swapped your pillow out with the spare one. Sorry about Bubbles taking over your bed.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “She likes you, you know?”

  Hettie jerked her head up. “Huh?”

  “Bubbles. She likes you or she wouldn’t sleep on your pillow.”

  “Oh, I thought… uh… yeah, that’s nice,” she hedged.

  “You thought I was talking about Angie, didn’t you?”

  Hettie nodded and dipped her hand into her duffel bag.

  “She’s in love with you,” I said brashly before I could stop myself.

  “No, she is not,” Hettie declared over her shoulder. She was pulling stuff out of her bag, looking for something.

  “Whatever you want to believe today,” I retorted sharply.

  “What do you care if she is?”

  “I care… Hettie. I… um…” I couldn’t say it. It was right there, in my heart, and I couldn’t say it.

  Hettie turned to me, holding something in her hands. “I know, Connie. I understand. But I can’t afford to think like that right now.”

  Think like what? What isn’t she saying?

  “I’ve been meaning to give this to you. I swiped it from your house when I was there. I thought you’d want it.”

  She handed me the framed photo of Meredith and me together at our college graduation. My eyes welled up, and I bit my lip to keep them at bay. She knew exactly what would make me happy.

  “By the way, look who photobombed your photo.” She tapped on the photo and then sat down at the table with a hand full of file folders.

  I studied the picture, and my eyes opened wide with recognition. “You? I never notice that before. You were there?”

  “Yeah, I was there, you know, supporting my classmates and all that.”

  “But you didn’t graduate… did you?” I didn’t remember her walking the line and getting her diploma.

  “Oh, sure. I graduated with a bachelor’s in criminal justice. I just didn’t want to put on a dress and walk up to some schmuck that I didn’t know, and receive a rolled-up piece of blank paper.”

  “So, you really were there because…”

  “Because Meredith got me through accounting, and I wanted to show her my support. That, and she was going to propose to you afterward.”

  “She was?” Then why didn’t she? “Oh. Oh, that was the night her father had a heart attack. Instead of going to the party, we sat in the hospital waiting room all night.”

  “I always wondered what happened,” Hettie acknowledged.

  “It was so hard on her. Graduating college one day, burying her father the next. She distanced herself from me after that. It wasn’t until I ran into her mother months later that I learned why.”

  “I’d be interested in knowing,” Hettie said. “I mean, if you’re okay with that.”

  “Like you, Meredith was a daddy’s girl, and—”

  “I’m not a daddy’s girl.”

  “Sure, whatever you say,” I teased. “Anyway, Meredith went through a rough grieving process, afraid to open her heart to be hurt again. By that time, she was working at the bank with my father, who just by being the sweet person he was, convinced her by example that love was worth the heartache.”

  “How lucky for you that you were a part of both their lives, however briefly. I can’t imagine.”

  “I hope you never have to,” I replied softly, tears brimming in my eyes. God, I miss them so much. “Oh, God, Hettie. My mother-in-law. She doesn’t know.”

  “Good. That will keep her safe,” Hettie said decisively.

  “Oh… you’re right.” I was glad about that part of it, but… “I hate the thought of her thinking I’m dead, too.”

  “It won’t be for long. As soon as we find out who’s behind all this, we’ll throw their ass in jail and you’ll be free.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” I stated despairingly.

  “As you young kids say, easy-peasy.”

  “That was in college and like I keep telling you, I’m not a kid.”

  “Sure, kid,” she retorted.

  I smacked her on the arm.

  “Ouch,” she grunted, feigning pain.

  Hettie was an enigma, a conundrum. Tough as nails one minute, soft as a marshmallow the next. And I was falling in love with her. What? No! I shook my head, trying to push out those feelings.

  Hettie was looking at me curiously.

  “So. Um, what are you doing, writing in your diary?” That wasn’t the best segue, but it was the best I could do the way my mind was reeling.

  “I’m trying to compile all my notes and find out what I’m missing.”

  “What are you missing?” I asked, sitting down across from her.

  “I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m making notes.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Uh, sure.” She looked at the folder labeled pictures and covered it up with another folder labeled reports. “This might be a little hard, but if you’re up for it, I’ve got questions. You’ve probably already answered some of these questions but if you’ll bear with me, I need to ask them for myself.”

  “I understand, and I’m not saying I won’t cry, but I want to help.”

  “Okay, good.” She opened the reports folder and took out a tablet and pencil. She flipped through several pages of notes and settled on a page. “We’re pretty sure that the man you saw running from your house, the man I shot in the cemetery, is dead, right?”

  “I’m positive that was the same ski-mask the guy you shot was wearing. I, um, didn’t get a good look at his face.”

  “Oh, that’s right. One of the things I printed out…” she said, picking up the photo folder. She held it at an angle so I wouldn’t see anything. She pulled out an 8x11 picture. “Here’s the guy I shot at the cemetery. Krauss had emailed it to me earlier, along with his identification. Take a look and tell me if he looks familiar.”

  Instantly, I recognized those eyes. Beady, murderous. Those were the last eyes my parents saw before they died. Chills ran down my spine and I shivered uncontrollably.

  Hettie put her hand on my arm. “Connie, if this is too hard, we don’t have to do it now.”

  “No. I have to see it through, Hettie. Please. I can do this.”

  “I know you can do it, Connie. What I’m saying is that you don’t have to do it right now. I brought my eReader with me. Why don’t you read a nice juicy romance… uh… mystery, no, that’s not good either.” She frowned. “Why don’t you play solitaire on it?”

  She made me smile even when she wasn’t trying to. “It’s okay. Really.” I handed her the photo and said, “I don’t recognize his face, but I’ll never forget his eyes. Do you have any information on him?”

  “That’s my girl,” she said proudly, making a note on her notepad. “His street name was Harry the Scar, but his birth name was Harold Peyton. He’s got priors and petty thief convictions beginning in middle-school, when he received that scar from a classmate.”

  “I don’t know anyone with that name and especially not with that scar. It gave him a unique look that I wouldn’t soon forget.” It made him look terrifying.

  “Okay, that was one question,” she said as she slipped the photo back into the folder. Sh
e rested her elbows on the table, interlaced her fingers together, and looked up at me. “I need to ask questions about Meredith that you’re not going to like. Will you answer them anyway?”

  “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because, these are not nice questions, but they’re questions that need to be asked, and they need to be answered truthfully.”

  “I’m not going to start lying now,” I replied, insulted by her insinuation.

  “Was Meredith having an affair?”

  Is that a trick question? Reigning in my anger, I answered, “No, but as I said, she thought I was having one with you before we married.”

  “Talk about missed opportunities,” she teased.

  “Why did you think that Meredith was having an affair?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t, it’s just something I had to ask, like my next question. Before she was killed, did Meredith ever act strange, like she was worried or scared about something?”

  “No. And I would have noticed because we were still in that honeymoon phase,” I answered with a knowing smile.

  “Did she have money problems that were suddenly cleared up?”

  I could feel my face burning as my temper flared again. “Oh, my God. You think she was involved somehow, don’t you?”

  “You said you’d answer the questions, Connie,” she countered.

  I stood up and walked to the window, crossing my arms to curtail my anger. “No, damn it. She did not.”

  “It says here that you honeymooned in Morocco. Who paid for the honeymoon?”

  I jerked around and glared at her. Even when Meredith was murdered, they didn’t ask me questions like this. What kind of sick game was Hettie playing? Why was she being so cruel? “The bank paid for the honeymoon as a gesture of solidarity with the LGBT community.”

  “The bank that your father worked at?” she asked excitedly, rifling through the folder again, this time forgetting to shield me from the graphic photos. I turned and faced the window once more. “The same bank that we suspected of embezzling millions. That bank?”

  “Yes,” I mumbled. “That bank.”

  “Can you tell me who the people are in this photo?”

  “No. I don’t want to play anymore.”

  Suddenly, she was standing beside me at the window. “I’m sorry, kid. I warned you it would be hard. But I think I’m on to something.”

  “What, making me want to slap you? Because I’m about five seconds from doing that,” I snapped, my anger boiling.

  She took a step closer and jutted out her chin. “Go ahead, I deserve it. But then will you tell me who’s in this photo?”

  I was mad, and I wasn’t going to make it easy for her, no matter how enticing her strong jaw made it. “No, you figure it out. I’m leaving,” I snapped and walked to the door. I removed the security chain and put my hand on the doorknob.

  “If you go out there and get yourself killed, your parents’ murderer will have won. Your wife will have died for nothing, and… I would be very…”

  I turned and faced her, my arms crossed, my eyebrows arched in anger. “What, Hettie? What would you be?”

  She walked over, cupping my chin with her fingers. Then she kissed me, roughly, hungrily.

  Chapter Nineteen

  U.S. Marshal Hettie Quinn

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I stammered, taking a step back. Connie’s lips were as tender as she was angry, and it was unfair of me to take advantage of her like that.

  “I’m not sorry,” she countered. “But I am still mad at you.” She grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me to her lips.

  “You have every right to be mad at me,” I muttered as I slipped my fingers through her hair and pulled her head closer.

  She moaned when I slid my tongue inside and touched the tip of hers. Her mouth was molten, and her lips trembled from the hunger. Any lingering shyness was gone as her tongue probed my mouth.

  “Still mad,” she murmured, biting my lower lip, sending a jolt of excitement running down my spine.

  I reclaimed her lips and began suckling them. She groaned, and I positioned my hands to lift her up and carry her to my bed, but my conscience stopped me. My father always told me that to let off the gas immediately if I felt like I was beginning to slide out of control. Now was not the time to lose control. I pulled back and looked at her. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed with arousal, and her lips were waiting for mine to return.

  “Connie, open your eyes.” They fluttered open, and she looked at me with concern. “I’m so sorry. I really, really want you right now, and that’s why I have to stop.”

  She looked shocked at first, then she slapped me hard across the cheek. “Damn you!”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated, rubbing my cheek.

  “Get out!” she shouted and pointed toward the door.

  I had been slapped one other time and I’d learned that until she calmed down, Connie would not be rational. I needed to give her some space, so I grabbed my wallet and gun from the bedside drawer and my jacket from the bed. I picked up my notepad from the table, glancing at Connie’s back as she looked out the window, then I walked to the door.

  Pausing, I said, “It’s not that I don’t find you incredibly desirable, Connie. I do. And when this case is over and you’re safe, I will come to you as a lover and ask to pick up where we left off. But for now, I have to remain a U.S. Marshal and protect you, even from myself.”

  “I said get out,” she snapped.

  I sighed and opened the door. “Please lock the door behind me and don’t let anyone in. I have my cell phone. Call if you need me.” In the hallway, I clipped the gun to my belt and slipped into my jacket. Connie had run away before, from my parents’ house, so I had to be close by to ensure she didn’t try that again. The killers were getting closer and more desperate, and it was only a matter of time before they found us again. As angry as Connie was, I hoped she wasn’t mad enough to take off. Listening for the click of the lock, I walked into the lobby and up to the front desk.

  “I need a room right next to room 101.”

  The clerk checked his computer. “I’m sorry, the first floor has no vacancies at the moment, but I can give you a room on the second floor.”

  “No, thanks. That won’t work for me.” I looked at my watch; it was after midnight. “How late is your bar open?”

  “Until two.”

  “Thanks. If anyone’s looking for me, that’s where I’ll be.” I knew Connie probably wouldn’t come looking for me, but deep down, I hoped she would.

  I left there and walked into the bar, sitting on a stool at the counter. “Can I get a whiskey sour?” The bartender nodded and turned to the glasses behind him. “No, better make that a Bud Light instead.” This was no time for heavy drinking. My brain was already confused enough.

  Trying to distract myself, I pulled out the notepad and reread the last few notes. Meredith’s bank had paid for her honeymoon. The same bank Mr. Yarbrough believed was embezzling funds. Did he suspect something even then? How long had he been gathering evidence before he contacted the FBI? And why would a bank pay for a lower-level employee’s honeymoon?

  The timeline between Connie and Meredith’s wedding and Meredith’s employment at the bank was far too short to warrant a free honeymoon. Unless she was part of the scheme. Meredith was hired right after college graduation. At almost the same time, the two were married. I was drawing a picture in my mind of the chain of events and came to a startling conclusion. The honeymoon was a ruse to transfer funds. That had to be it. Morocco was not only romantic but also a non-extradition country. Any money transferred there could not be subpoenaed. Did Meredith carry money for them? Or stocks and bonds? That would get them past the paper trail. But if it were that easy, everyone would be doing it. What’s the catch? What am I missing?

  “I wrote down the list of names,” Connie said from behind me.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. Thank you. “Connie,” I said, t
urning on the stool. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “I’m sorry, Hettie.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I pushed you too hard and I shouldn’t have.”

  “I didn’t tell you the entire truth earlier,” she said, sitting down beside me.

  “Can I get you a drink, Miss?” the bartender asked.

  “Diet soda, light on the ice, please.”

  The bartender, a burly guy in his sixties, with gray hair and steely eyes, picked up a glass, scooped a small amount of ice into it and popped the lid on a can of cola. Sitting the glass in front of her, he moved to the opposite end of the bar to help someone else.

  “You were saying?”

  She took a sip of her cola and placed it back on the counter. “Meredith and I didn’t go to Morocco on our honeymoon. That country is not gay-friendly and I refused to go and be terrified the whole time. Meredith was not too happy with me at first, but she gave in because she knew I was right.”

  “And what about the bank? How did they take it?”

  “We didn’t actually tell them. Dad said to exchange the tickets for some other destination, and he would take care of telling the bank.”

  “Who at the bank gave you the tickets?” I asked, writing feverously on my notepad.

  “It was the president and CEO, Robert Schmidt, and he didn’t actually give them to us. He gave them to my dad.”

  “The bank was relatively small, right?” I asked, all my theories flying out the window.

  “Yes, the main bank and a couple of branches in the suburbs, that’s all.”

  “Okay, so apparently, I went down the wrong rabbit hole, and again, I apologize for being so rough with you.”

  Her eyes lit up, as if that surprised her. “Thank you. I accept your apology. So, what were you thinking in that rabbit hole?”

  “You won’t like it. I thought maybe Meredith was a courier for the bank. Morocco doesn’t have too many strict rules about stuff like that.”