by J. C. Kenney
“I’d like that.”
While Freddie was placing the flowers next to the others, Brent rejoined me.
“Sorry. When Ms. Hampton started talking about Porter, I had a flashback to yesterday morning. I didn’t want to have a breakdown in front of her.”
By virtue of Freddie’s position on the library board, she’d been Vicky’s boss. And would be the boss of Rushing Creek’s next librarian. It was understandable Brent would want to have his act together in her presence.
“No worries. She knows you and Vicky were friends.” I gave him a quick summary of Freddie’s suspicions. When I finished, a weariness came over me. “I think we need something to lift our spirits. How about a hot chocolate?”
“Best idea I’ve heard all day.”
Creekside Chocolates was another one of my favorite places on Earth. First, the sweets and chocolate-related drinks were absolutely to die for. Second, and more importantly, the store was owned by my friend Diane Stapleton. She was a kind soul who was always ready with a smile to pick me up or a piece of wisdom to help me navigate my way through life’s challenges.
A native of Chicago’s south side, the African-American woman had moved to Rushing Creek a few years ago. She brought an outsider’s perspective to local issues I valued as much as an astronaut valued oxygen. Diane was a good friend, and I often found myself on the threshold of her store, in both good times and bad.
An electronic ding-dong accompanied a whoosh of warm air as I pushed open the door. Diane looked up from a tablet she used to track inventory and other shop-related tasks and waved.
“Hey, guys.” She placed the tablet on a counter and took me in a warm hug. “I’m so sorry about Vicky. She was a real sweetheart.”
“I didn’t know you knew each other.” Despite my unceasing efforts to get Diane to read more books, her reading time was spent on trade periodicals, e-zines, and graphic novels like The Watchmen, which she purchased at Renee’s Gently Used Books. Thus, she wasn’t much of a library person.
“She came in to get treats for her part-timers. She always got a chai for herself. And left a very generous tip.”
Since we had our fur babies with us, Diane told us to take a seat at a table on the sidewalk while she made our drinks. We didn’t talk while we waited. Instead, I held Ursi as she napped on my lap while Brent rubbed Sammy’s belly and told him in whispered tones that he was a good boy.
It was a relief to take a few minutes and let my mind drift. Between the book conference and the craziness since I’d gotten home, my metaphorical inkwell still needed to be refilled.
My moment of quiet came to an end when Diane placed a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream on top in front of me. It was a cure for every ailment I might be suffering from. Peppermint sprinkles gave the topping a festive look and a sweet complement to the glorious confection.
After handing Brent a hot chocolate with cinnamon sprinkled on the top, Diane put a hand on my shoulder and took a seat next to me. “How are you holding up?”
“I don’t know.” I massaged the back of my neck. “We paid the library a visit. When we were there, Freddie Hampton came by.” I told her about my conversation with the library board president.
“Wow.” Diana wiped her hand across her brow. “That’s insane.”
“I know, right? I’m trying to process it all.” I took a drink. “Without much success.”
“Then let’s do this.” Diane put one arm around me and the other around Brent. “Come to my place for dinner tonight. We can talk about it if you want. And if you don’t, we won’t.”
It took us all of two seconds to take her up on the offer. To me, not having to make dinner was as appealing as Rhett Butler was to Scarlett O’Hara.
Despite my desire to forget about the world and hang out at Creekside Chocolates until the end of time, I had to prep for my first intern interview. The walk home would help me set the news of the morning aside and focus on the interview.
Holding interviews in my apartment seemed unwise from a personal safety aspect, so I met my candidate in Renee’s Gently Used Books, which was conveniently located on the first floor of my building, directly below my apartment. The store’s owner, Renee Gomez, was also the owner of my building and had happily agreed to let me hold my interviews in the store. As a lover of books, I couldn’t ask for a better landlord than someone who shared my passion for the printed word. And didn’t mind letting me use her workspace for my job.
Renee, who had jazzed up her usual ensemble of head-to-toe black with a small scarlet brooch in the shape of a bird, was putting price tags on a stack of paperbacks when I arrived.
“Hey, Allie, your interview’s already here.” She pointed toward an area at the back of the store where four plush chairs and a couple of end tables had been organized into a reading nook. Customers were encouraged to sit and read or simply get comfortable and chat with a cup of the Jamaican blend Renee always had brewing.
I accepted the coffee Renee offered with a smile. I adored my hot chocolate, but coffee was the oil that kept my inner gears turning. For me, life without coffee was simply impossible to consider.
When I reached the reading nook, I introduced myself to the candidate, a woman with short, salt-and-pepper hair and large, round glasses. Her name was Talullah, but she insisted I call her Tally as we exchanged greetings.
A sinking feeling in my gut grew as I took the seat catty-corner from her. Something undefinable felt wrong about the situation. On the other hand, Tally and I were both here and I needed help, so I got started.
“On your resume, you indicated you did copy editing work for the Brown County Beacon. Tell me about that.” The Beacon was the local weekly newspaper. While the world of news media was a different animal from the world of fiction publishing, I was confident many of her claimed editing skills could be useful.
“Well.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans as she looked toward the front of the store. “It was twenty years ago, and I worked in the classified ads section for about six months.”
I glanced at Tally’s resume. She’d fudged the length of time she’d worked for the Beacon. Strike one. It also said nothing about classified ads. Strike two.
I took a deep breath as the knot in my stomach tightened and soldiered on. “Can you give me details of what you did in the classified ads section?”
“A little bit of everything. I answered the phone, wrote down what the customer wanted the ad to say, entered the information into the computer, and wrote up the bill.”
There wasn’t much actual editing in her answer. If I tried to stretch it like a piece of bubble gum, I could make myself accept writing down ad copy as editing. I didn’t want to stretch that far.
I asked a few more questions, gently drilling down to the truth of the matter. It took almost twenty minutes, but I finally got Tally to admit she had zero editing experience. Her work at the Beacon had been a temp job while the office assistant was out on pregnancy leave. Once the truth was out in the open, I ended the interview as quickly as I could without being rude.
I wasn’t looking for someone to hang out with. I was looking for someone smart, capable, and trustworthy. The intern was an important position. It was pivotal to the growth of the Cobb Literary Agency.
Tally’s cheeks were pink as we said goodbye. I sensed she knew she’d been caught lying and was happy to finish the interview without me getting angry. Once she was out of the store, I dropped back into the seat with a groan.
“Not who you’re looking for, huh?” Renee topped off my coffee and took Tally’s seat.
“No. It’s not just that, though.” I rubbed my temples. A headache was chugging down the tracks and had me in its sights. “It’s everything else, too. God, I want to run a way to a tropical island and live out the rest of my days in a grass hut.”
“I know.” She gave my hand a reassuring squ
eeze. “You’ll get through this. We’ll get through this, together. Just like we did last fall, right?” When I nodded, she stood. “I just got in some classic editions of Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden. Care to take a look?”
The invitation was like offering sugar water to a hummingbird. I adored collecting first editions and early printings of books. So much so that the bookshelves I’d built when I moved in upstairs were almost full. I’d been toying with asking Renee for permission to have floor-to-ceiling bookshelves installed. That was for another time, though. Exhaustion was enveloping me like a low-hanging cloud.
“Maybe next time. I need a nap.” I gave Renee a hug, headed upstairs, and went straight to bed, stopping only long enough to remind Brent to take Sammy outside for a potty break before we headed to Diane’s.
A few minutes later, or so it seemed, Brent was nudging my arm to wake me up.
“Five more minutes.” I covered my head with a pillow.
“Sorry. We’re due at Diane’s in an hour, and I need to get back to my mac and cheese.”
That got me moving. Brent’s mac and cheese was a gift from the gods. I’d pestered him at least a dozen times to get him to reveal the recipe. I’d been rebuffed every time. He didn’t make it often, so that meant tonight would have a special culinary treat, along with the great company.
Just what I needed to lift my spirits.
Brent and I arrived at Diane’s home a little after seven. Nestled in a tree-filled neighborhood on the north side of town, the house was a single-story ranch with a two-car, attached garage. Solar-powered lights lined the concrete driveway, which gave the brick-sided structure a warm, welcoming vibe.
Diane greeted us with hugs and clapped her hands in delight when Brent gave her the mac and cheese.
“I’ve heard tales about this delicacy. Can’t wait to try it.”
Brent grinned from ear to ear at the compliment.
Since it was only the three of us, Brent and I settled in around the dining room table while Diane turned on an Alicia Keys record. The only thing that divided the kitchen from the dining room was an island with a stove-top insert, so we chatted while she tossed a salad in a glass bowl.
As the weather got warmer, Rushing Creek would see increased tourist traffic. Diane was looking to hire another high school student to help with the anticipated uptick in business.
“Any suggestions, Brent? I was hoping the part-time kids at the library might know somebody.” Diane placed the salad, along with homemade vinaigrette dressing, on the table.
“The library’s opening tomorrow. I’ll ask around.” Using stainless steel tongs, Brent scooped some salad onto my plate, then Diane’s, and finally his. “This looks amazing. Mind if I dig in?”
The conversation stayed on pleasant topics through the salad and into the main course, a barbecue brisket with three sauce options. Brent’s creamy mac and cheese accompanied the tender beef and the spicy sauces so well, I polished off two helpings of both without a second thought.
We moved to the living room for a dessert of melt-in-your-mouth apple pie à la mode and flavored coffee. Decaffeinated, given the hour. As Brent collected the plates, I let out a long breath and patted my stomach.
“That dinner was totally amazeballs. Is there anything you can’t cook?” I’d visited Diane for dinner several times, and every meal she’d prepared had been worthy of a five-star review.
She shrugged. “I’ve never been able to pull off a baked Alaska.”
The response made me laugh so hard I snorted. “God help us. How do you live with yourself?”
“Somehow, I manage.” She chuckled. “I’m sure I sleep better than whoever poisoned Vicky.”
Brent rejoined us. “Speaking of which, the two of you know this town better than me. What’s your take on Freddie’s explanation?”
I recited the conversation, taking my time to make sure I didn’t leave anything out. When I was finished, I looked at Diane. She was smart and had a knack for looking at things through a clear lens.
“It fits the scenario. I’ve seen Porter’s greenhouse. He’s supplied the shop floral arrangements for some of the bigger tourist weekends. He invited me to check it out before I bought anything to prove he’s legit.” Her gaze moved from me to the low pile carpet. “Or was legit, I guess.”
“I always thought he was a little too clingy,” Brent said. “I mean, flowers every week for years on end? Maybe I should change ‘clingy’ to something more sinister.”
“I don’t know.” Something at the back of my brain was bothering me, like a mosquito bite on your back that was just out of reach. “It seems too cut and dried. The Porter that Mom talked about when she came by last night doesn’t sound like a killer. And she’s about as good a judge of character as anyone in town.”
The room became as silent as a crypt in the middle of a cemetery as two sets of eyes stared at me.
After a while, Diane cracked her knuckles, the sound reverberating off the walls like a shotgun blast. She got to her feet and began pacing. “What are you saying, Allie? You don’t think he did it?”
“I don’t know.” I massaged my jaw. The right words were hard to come by because I truly didn’t know what to think. “When it comes down to it, I want as thorough of an investigation as possible. No stone unturned, no interview overlooked. If Porter did it, fine, he needs to go to jail. But what if he didn’t?”
Brent let out a long sigh as his head dropped until his chin touched his chest. “You’re really going to investigate this, aren’t you? Despite everything that’s happened to you in the past.”
My mouth had become desert dry. I took a drink to give me time to think, but I’d made my decision. Matt Roberson as a good cop and a good man, but Vicky was my hero. I wanted her death avenged.
“Yeah.” I looked from Brent to Diane, not for support, but for acceptance of my decision. “I’m gonna catch her killer. If it’s the last thing I do.”
Chapter Six
“Is there any way I can talk you out of this?” Brent glanced at me from the driver’s seat of his truck. His knuckles were white, thanks to the vice-like grip he had on the steering wheel. It was Saturday morning, and we were on our way to the library. He was going to help the remaining staff.
I was going to start my investigation.
“For the last time, no.” I crossed my arms and stared straight ahead. “And stop begging. It’s beneath you.”
On the way home from Diane’s house the previous evening, he’d reminded me of my promise to give up murder investigations. Before we turned in for the night, he’d recapped how I’d ended up in the hospital, twice, thanks to my investigations. And when I’d insisted on accompanying him to the library so I could do some poking around, he’d resorted to preying on my emotions.
It wasn’t going to work.
In silence, he turned into the library’s parking lot and brought the truck to a stop in his usual spot. He put the vehicle in park but didn’t shut off the engine. “Let me ask you one final question. What I don’t get is why you won’t leave this to the police. Don’t you trust Matt? And what about Jeanette? She’s one of your best friends. Don’t you trust her?”
I scratched my ear. This was the question I didn’t want to deal with. Did I trust the Rushing Creek Police Department? The answer was yes.
Matt was an effective police chief. While I considered a couple of the older officers dead weight, the younger officers, like Jeanette, Tommy Abbott, and Gabe Sandoval, were talented and dedicated public servants. They could examine evidence, follow clues, and interview witnesses with steady hands and clear eyes.
It wasn’t a matter of confidence, or lack thereof, in local law enforcement that made me decide to investigate Vicky’s murder. It was a compulsion from within that was driving me to find justice for my childhood hero.
I spread my fingers against the dash and
leaned into it while I tried to put my feelings into words. There was no logical reason to take on another murder investigation, especially given how busy I was with the agency.
Still.
“Vicky’s done”—I swallowed the lump in my throat—“Vicky did so much for me over the years. My gut tells me there’s more here than meets the eye. I can’t stay on the sidelines. It’s the least I can do to repay her for everything she did for me.”
Brent frowned. “The least you can do?”
“Well.” I rubbed my hands together to ward off the morning chill. “Okay, fine. It’s not the least I can do. That would be nothing. You know me. I’m not good at doing nothing.”
Brent barked out a laugh, which broke the tension that had built up in the truck’s cab. In return, I let out a long breath to release the knot of tension that had grown in my gut.
“Promise me one thing.” He opened his door. “If you sense even a whiff of danger, you’ll back off and leave it to the cops. Deal?”
“Deal.” With a sense of purpose residing in peaceful coexistence with relief at having Brent’s support, I leapt from the truck. It was time to get to work.
We had a few minutes before the library was scheduled to open, so Brent gave the staff a pep talk while I took a quick peek in the break room to make sure there wasn’t anything left behind that might upset someone. Then I headed out to where everyone was gathered.
Initially, I thought Freddie’s suggestion that Brent take a supportive, cheerleading role with the staff was odd since he wasn’t a regular employee. His chat with the group proved my concerns were unwarranted.
He’d first come to Rushing Creek twenty months ago to install a genealogy section in the library. The project lasted six weeks. During that time, he got to know the staff. And me, despite some initial concerns he might be a murderer. Since then, as Brent and I grew closer, whenever he came to town, he took time to help around the library, even if it was only for a few hours.