by J. C. Kenney
“I like the sound of that.”
I poked him in the belly with a mixing spoon and winked. It had been a long, tiring day of travel, but the good news made me feel as if I’d just woken from a long night’s sleep on the most comfortable down-filled mattress ever created.
With the festive vibe in full swing, I cued up Brent’s favorite musician, jazz saxophonist Kamasi Washington, and got to work on the cookies. And the wine. It was a celebration, after all.
It was past midnight, and way past my regular bedtime, when I put the last of the three-dozen cookies we’d take to Mrs. Napier into a plastic container. She’d insist on sharing them with her staff, so my guess was they’d be gone in two days.
As I slipped into bed and snuggled up against Brent, with Ursi purring at my feet and Sammy snoring in his doggy bed under my bedroom window, I smiled. We had our own little family, and maybe, in the not too distant future, we’d be able to make this arrangement permanent.
First things first, though. I had an old friend and hero to congratulate. I drifted off to sleep rehearsing what I was going to say to Mrs. Napier when I handed her the cookies. She was a special woman, and I couldn’t wait to tell her what she meant to me.
Chapter Two
“Will you relax?” Brent pulled on a purple polo I’d given him for his birthday. “I’ll be ready to go in a minute. Besides, it’s not like I have to punch a clock or anything. I’m volunteering. We’ll get there when we get there.”
I forced my foot to stop tapping. I’d been ready to leave for fifteen minutes. Waiting on someone was something I wasn’t accustomed to. “I know, but I want to get there before the library opens. I was hoping on having a few minutes alone with Mrs. Napier.”
He tied his shoes, tan chukka boots he’d polished while I’d been gone, and slapped his hands against his thighs. “Let me put Sammy in his crate and we’re outta here.”
The dog seemed unsympathetic to my eagerness to get going and kept dashing behind furniture pieces until Brent corralled him in the bathroom. Ursi wasn’t any help as she observed the entire affair from her favorite spot, a seat cushion atop an end table placed under a living room window.
Despite my eagerness to get going, I couldn’t help laughing at the sequence. It was right out of a Looney Tunes cartoon. “Does he fuss that much all the time?”
While Ursi didn’t love it when I put in her carrier, she tolerated it and never fought me. Then again, I always showered her with praise and kitty treats while I maneuvered her into the carrier. She was no dummy. When the potential for snacks was involved, my kitty’s behavior was exemplary.
“No.” Brent sucked in a few deep breaths. The great golden retriever chase had left him winded. “He probably thinks since you’re here, we should be going for a walk. He’ll be fine.”
I went to the crate and tossed a doggie biscuit to the poor canine, who’d looked at me with the saddest eyes. “We’ll be back soon and I promise to let you out as soon as we come through the door. Then we’ll go for a walk. How about that?”
Sammy gave me a woof and started gnawing on his biscuit. With his tail now flipping back and forth like a fuzzy metronome, the insult of being crated while Ursi had the run of the apartment was evidently forgotten.
“Feel free to call me Madame Dog Whisperer from now on.” I gave Brent a wink, grabbed the container of cookies, and headed for the door.
I got into his truck and immediately started bouncing up and down in the passenger seat like a kid on the way to see Santa Claus. Once I’d come to grips with Mrs. Napier’s decision, I’d become truly happy for her. And eager to give her my best wishes.
Sure, it was a surprise, but the woman had dedicated her life to Rushing Creek. She deserved to enjoy retirement while she was still healthy and active.
The truck’s engine rumbled to life. It reminded me of her connection to Brent and her recommendation to have Brent succeed her. I smiled at the thought. If I was going to lose my favorite librarian, getting my favorite guy to replace her wasn’t a bad deal.
As we headed north on Washington Boulevard, the main thoroughfare through Rushing Creek, my phone buzzed. It was an e-mail from one of my authors, asking for my thoughts on a new story idea. While I was reading the e-mail, the truck slowed, and we turned into a parking spot in front of the general store.
A peek at the clock confirmed the library opened in fifteen minutes. Before I could protest, Brent put his hand on my arm.
“I’m going to get a card. That’s all. I promise I’ll be fast.” Leaving the engine running, he was out of the truck and entering the store in the blink of an eye. With his long, lanky frame, he could cover a lot of ground in a short amount of time when motivated.
I was still typing out my reply when he opened the door and handed the card to me. “Told you. Dash, that kid from The Incredibles, has nothing on me.”
“You’re such a dork.” I took a pen from my purse and chuckled as I looked at the funny farm animals on the front of the card.
“True, but I’m your dork.” In seconds we were back on our way.
We’d arrive at the library before it opened, as promised.
One of the great things about Rushing Creek was that you could get from one end of town to the other in ten minutes if you were traveling by car. That was why a mere five minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of the Rushing Creek Public Library.
Two vehicles were already there. I recognized Mrs. Napier’s silver SUV, but the red pickup next to the SUV wasn’t familiar. As Brent signed the card, I asked him about the truck.
“It’s Porter Rasmussen’s. The guy who cleans the restrooms and takes out the trash.”
“Gotcha.” With the minor mystery solved, I got out of the truck, eager to see Mrs. Napier.
When I lived in New York, many of my colleagues were convinced I must know everyone in my hometown on a first-name basis. I understood the logic. After all, when one came from a community of 3,216, how hard could it be to get to know everyone in town?
My colleagues were partially correct. Outgoing folks like my mom and Angela Miller, Rushing Creek’s mayor, not only knew everybody, they knew what was going on in the lives of their fellow citizens.
That wasn’t the case with me. Growing up, I had a small circle of friends and when I left Rushing Creek, it was more than a decade before I came back for good.
Every May, my dad used to take Luke, Rachel, and me to the garden center to pick out flowers to give Mom for Mother’s Day. Porter Rasmussen had owned Rushing Creek Hardware and Garden Center. Sometime after I headed off to college, Porter sold the business to a chain of hardware stores and retired. From what I’d heard, he’d spent his years in retirement with the local garden club and helping at the library.
“That’s some serious dedication to the library. If I was retired, I’d try to find a more fun way to help out.” As we neared the entrance, I glanced at the container. Should have asked Brent to get a bow I could stick to the lid. I’ll make her some more before she leaves town.
“Porter’s got an ulterior motive.” Ever the gentleman, Brent opened the door to the library with his key fob and stepped aside. “He brings Vicky flowers every week. He’s got a crush on her.”
Thunderstruck, I stopped just inside the threshold as memories of recent visits to the library filled my mind. At least a dozen times, I’d asked Mrs. Napier where she got the flowers she displayed on the checkout counter. She always gave me the same answer.
A secret admirer.
I shook my head. “All this time and I never knew. I am such a dunce.”
“You’re not a dunce.” Brent dropped his messenger bag behind the checkout counter. “Vicky liked to keep it on the down low. She doesn’t exactly have the feelings for Porter he has for her.”
“Speaking of which, where is she?”
He creased his eyebrows and f
rowned. Normally, Vicky was at the checkout station no later than five minutes before opening time. Above us, the fluorescent lights gave off a low hum. Other than that, all was silent.
We went to her office. Nobody was there. The restrooms were empty, too.
“Maybe they went to get coffee?” Brent’s voice wavered as we headed for the stacks.
“Not a chance.” I broke out in goose bumps as we crossed from the nonfiction section to the children’s area. His concern wasn’t lost on me. Something was off. My pace quickened as my anxiety increased.
“Vicky? Porter? What’s up with the hide and seek?” Brent’s voice echoed off the cinderblock walls. When nobody answered, he pointed toward the staff break room.
We raced to the door. Brent pushed it open without breaking stride. I plowed into him when he stopped cold two steps into the room.
“Oh, my God.”
With his huge frame frozen in place, I had to squeeze past him to see what the problem was.
“Oh, no. No.” The cookie container slipped from my hand and a wave of vertigo plowed through me as I processed the scene before me.
Mrs. Napier lay on the floor as if she’d collapsed. A pool of vomit was congealing around her head. The remains of a teacup, shattered into a million pieces, was inches from her hand.
Porter Rasmussen was on one knee, hovering above her. He looked at me, eyes wide and mouth agape. Sweat glistened on his paper-white forehead.
“I, I…” He blinked but said no more.
With his green pallor and slack jaw, Brent was going to be no help, so I went to the stricken woman’s side. I placed my fingers on her neck, praying I’d find a pulse. Adrenaline dumped into my system when I found one.
But it was weaker than a newborn kitten’s.
“Call nine-one-one.” I tossed my phone at Brent then cleared Mrs. Napier’s airway.
My phone clattered to the floor. I yelled at Brent, which got him moving for a moment, at least. I blew out a long breath and began chest compressions as he relayed the situation to the operator.
“She’s unconscious…I don’t know what happened…Allie Cobb’s giving her CPR…Hold on, I’ll ask.” Brent tapped me on the shoulder, breaking my rhythm as I labored to keep my hero alive. “Does she have a pulse?”
I pressed my fingers on the carotid artery and held my breath. After counting to twenty and getting nothing, I went to Mrs. Napier’s wrist. Still no pulse. In a move of utter desperation, I put my head to her chest. A tear ran down my cheek and landed on her paisley patterned blouse. Nothing.
With a tidal wave of tears building, I sat back on my haunches and wiped my cheeks with my sleeves.
“Allie?” Brent placed his hand on my shoulder, as gently as a leaf landing on the ground after it fell from a tree.
The words were there, but it took three attempts before I could get them out.
“I think she’s gone.”
Chapter Three
I was still by Mrs. Napier’s side when two paramedics in navy blue uniforms burst into the room. They were as graceful as ballet dancers as they eased me out of the way and got to work on Mrs. Napier. My hopes for a miracle were dashed when they stopped work mere minutes after their arrival.
My mentor, my friend, my hero, Vicky Napier, was dead.
Tears filled my eyes as the paramedics put in a call for the coroner. And for the police.
Brent took me in his strong arms when the police arrived, followed shortly by the coroner. The Rushing Creek Chief of Police, Matt Roberson, who also happened to be my ex-brother-in-law, guided Porter, Brent, and me out of the break room and sat us down at a round table near the nonfiction wing.
“Can I get any of you something to drink? Water? Coffee?” The gesture was a kind one. It let us know Matt didn’t consider us potential suspects in a murder scene.
Not yet, at least.
He was relaying our orders over his collar microphone when Officer Jeanette Wilkerson joined us.
“The scene’s been secured, Chief. If you don’t object, I’ll get started on evidence collection right away.” Jeanette turned her attention from her boss to me. “I’m sorry for your loss, Allie. I know how much Vicky meant to you. And to you, as well, Mr. Rasmussen. Brent.” She nodded to us and strode toward the break room.
“Evidence collection? Isn’t that a bit much, Chief?” Porter’s tone was defiant, but he wouldn’t make eye contact with Matt. Instead, he kept alternating between smoothing the sleeves of his oxford shirt and running his hand over his bald head.
“Standard procedure when the coroner’s involved.” Matt pulled one of his standard small notebooks from his shirt pocket then popped a piece of gum in his mouth. “Can each of you tell me what you saw when you arrived on the scene?”
I didn’t buy Matt’s standard procedure comment for a second. Maybe it was true. The way Matt was standing at attention while he chomped on the gum he used when stressed out made me think something else was going on, though.
Given the trying circumstances, I didn’t want to let Porter gain an upper hand. Before the older man could open his mouth, I jumped in and recited everything I could recall from the moment Brent and I entered the library.
After scribbling in his notebook, Matt eyed Brent and me without saying a word. It was a classic Chief Matt Roberson interrogation technique. He wanted to use the silence to make us squirm. We had nothing to hide, so I engaged Matt in a stare down.
Our battle of wills came to an end when a Latino police officer with closely cropped brown hair strode up and distributed our drinks. I’d met Officer Gabriel Sandoval the previous autumn when a high school classmate of mine had been murdered. Gabe was a nice enough guy and gave me a little smile as he dropped a couple of sugar packets on the table in front of me.
The grandson of Guatemalan immigrants who came to Indiana as migrant farm workers, Gabe was fiercely proud of his Latino heritage. He’d once confided in me that being one of a handful of brown-skinned children in a community dominated by white-skinned people was a challenge growing up. Because of his appearance, he’d often felt like an outsider.
Being an outsider was something I identified with. Growing up, I’d never hung out with the cool kids. When Gabriel confided in me, it created a bond between us. I trusted him. And gave him a heartfelt thank you for the coffee and sugar.
When the interruption was over, Matt flipped to a new page in his notebook with a grumble and looked at Brent. “Anything you’d like to add?”
“No.” Brent took off his glasses and rubbed them with a cloth. “Vicky was fine last night. Well, maybe a little on edge…” He shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“Last night?” Matt kept his tone neutral, but his right eyebrow shot up. “What about last night?”
“I was here at closing time. We left the library together. She was telling me about her plans to get her house on the market as soon as possible. She seemed antsy.”
“When was this?”
“Regular closing time is eight, so about eight fifteen. I got home and had taken Sammy for a walk by the time Allie got home—”
“Which was a little after nine,” I said.
Matt gave me a stony look, but if I could help Brent by butting in, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
“What do you mean by antsy?”
Brent glanced at the white ceiling tiles above us and blew out a long breath. “Like something was on her mind, bothering her. I figured she was worried about getting her asking price for the house.”
“Had she hired a realtor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she say why she was selling the house?”
Brent and I exchanged a glance.
He nodded. “She told me she was retiring and planned on moving to Florida. She has a sister there.”
“Did she mention anything else th
at was bothering her?” Matt’s stare held Brent with the focus of a surgeon performing heart surgery.
“Not that I can remember. Sorry. I was wanting to get back to the apartment in time to give Allie a nice welcome home.”
“Uh-huh. Did the two of you spend the night together?” The corner of Matt’s mouth curved up as Brent’s cheeks turned ruby red.
“Nice try, Chief. Yes, in fact, we did. We never left each other’s sight.” I leaned back and crossed my arms, resentful of the implication, even if it was in jest.
Matt cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. “Mr. Rasmussen, what time did you get here this morning?”
“I clocked in at eight forty. You can verify it.” The older man began breathing like he’d just finished a trail run with my bestie, Sloane. With trembling fingers, he took a drink of his coffee, spilling a few drops on his faded blue jeans.
“We’ll do that. Now, can you tell me when you got here?” Matt’s tone was neutral, but he was gripping the pencil so tight, his knuckles were white. The tension among us increased as each second ticked by.
“I don’t know. A few minutes before that. Vicky’s car was already in the lot. I always say good morning to her before I gather the trash. When she wasn’t in her office, I went looking for her. And…” He slurped another drink. This time, he managed to get it all in his mouth.
I couldn’t help wondering why he chose that moment for a break. Was it a delay tactic to give him time to concoct more to his story? Maybe Matt could tell if it was, but I couldn’t.
“And?” The question had an edge to it. It was as if the chief was triple-dog-daring Porter to lie to him.
I’d been on the wrong side of the table for a Matt Roberson interview. It was an unnerving experience. The man was a master of the short, open-ended question.
“First, I checked the store room, then the stacks. Sometimes she’s out on the floor shelving returned books when I arrive. When she wasn’t there, I went to the break room. I opened the door, and there she was, on the floor.”