Sheryl snorted. “Yeah, at least sonny boy didn’t accuse the sheriff of killing her.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure he did, but Alf Reed probably knows better than to put a direct accusation like that in print unless they are ready to put Cord in handcuffs. He’d be an idiot to turn the county sheriff against him. He won’t take sides until more votes are in.”
“Who’s Alf Reed?”
Allie gestured at the newspaper. “He’s the reporter who wrote it. An old-timer there.”
“Is he going to take over now that Cornelius is dead?”
“God, I hope not. It’s bad enough there now.”
Sheryl raised her eyebrows. “Dissatisfied already.”
Allie looked away.
“You don’t have to work there, you know. You don’t have to work anywhere. You have plenty of money.”
“Money isn’t everything, Sheryl.”
Sheryl snorted.
“It isn’t,” Allie insisted. “I almost went crazy those first few months when I came back from Europe.”
“You didn’t give yourself time to get used to it. Being filthy rich takes practice.”
Now, Allie snorted. “You couldn’t stand it, either. You just think it sounds good because you’ve never had the chance to do it. You worked when you were married to Ernie, didn’t you?”
Allie saw pain flash across Sheryl’s face. “Yeah, it was the only way we could afford our house,” Sheryl said.
The house where Ernie was now living with his new wife. He had divorced Sheryl, his childhood sweetheart, after six years of marriage and moved on to more fertile ground. At least Ernie hoped the new ground was more fertile. When Sheryl failed to produce kids after what Ernie deemed a decent interval, he dragged Sheryl to the doctor for a battery of tests. The tests were inconclusive about why there were no babies. Ernie blamed Sheryl, and she let him. As she said, by then, they didn’t much like each other anymore. Now, Ernie was remarried and lived in his and Sheryl’s dream home with wife number two, who had yet to produce the requisite child.
“You make it sound like some kind of contest,” Sheryl said.
“What?”
“The sheriff and the newspapers.”
Allie blew on her coffee and took a tentative sip. “Right now, it’s a swearing contest. Randall Arbutten’s word against his father’s.”
“No one will believe his shit,” Sheryl said angrily.
Allie glanced at her over the rim of her cup. “Don’t kid yourself. There are a lot of people out there who want to believe the worst.”
“Not about someone like the sheriff.”
“Especially about someone like the sheriff. Not everyone feels like you do about him. I’m sure he’s stepped on plenty of toes in his career. There are probably lots of people out there who would love to see the mighty man fall.”
Sheryl narrowed her eyes. “Not you.”
“No, not me,” Allie said, putting her cup on the table. “I barely know the man, but I know how much my aunt cared about him.” She caught herself. “You know, as a boss. I mean, she worked for him for more than twenty years. She wouldn’t have hung around so long if she hadn’t respected him—a lot.”
It came out lame, but Sheryl was distracted. “The Medical Examiner already said it was suicide, but if people start thinking the sheriff did it…” She stared down in her cup. “He said he was in the garage when the shot was fired. I told you the weapon was his old service revolver. It’s bound to come out that he was getting a divorce, and that crap about her refusing to go along with it.” She looked at Allie. “That’s one hell of a motive, not to mention means and opportunity. What are we going to do, Allie?”
What could they do? Sheryl was biased, and Allie wasn’t an investigator. For the first time, she realized Sheryl was in uniform. “I’m not sure, but right now, it looks like you’re going to work, and I’m going back to bed.”
Sheryl looked at her watch. “Holy shit! I’m late.” She gulped down the rest of her coffee and started for the door. “Funeral’s at two.”
“I’m not going to the funeral. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Sheryl stopped and turned. “Do we have to go through this again?”
“I don’t think it would be right, Sheryl.” Allie hated the whine in her voice.
“Well, one of us has to go, and I drew the straw for the viewing, so I have to cover for those going to the funeral.” When Allie didn’t speak, Sheryl said, “Do it, Allie. For the sheriff.”
Allie stood staring at the front door for a long time after Sheryl left. Do it for the sheriff? That wasn’t enough motivation, no matter what he’d said the night before about appreciating their support. What did she owe the sheriff? Nothing really.
“Please.”
She barely knew the man.
Please, honey.”
Finally, she turned and went into her bedroom to catch a bit more sleep before the funeral. For my aunt, she silently amended.
***
Services were being held at the funeral home where they’d had the viewing, the graveside ceremony at the cemetery next door. It was the same cemetery where her aunt was buried, but Allie wasn’t very familiar with it. She’d only been there twice, once right after she returned to Cape Canaveral to visit her aunt’s grave, and then a few months later when she’d returned Cord Arbutten’s gun to him. She didn’t need to visit her aunt’s grave to feel close to her. Not when she was carrying on almost daily conversations with her in her head.
As she started out the door, the phone rang. She considered letting it go to the answering machine, but what if it was Sheryl checking up to find out what she’d decided? If Allie didn’t answer, she’d probably put out an APB on Allie’s car.
She glanced at her caller ID screen after she’d picked up the receiver. Only then did she notice the Atlanta area code. It was too late to slam it down. “Hello, Mother.”
“How did you know it was me?” her mother asked then answered her own question. “Oh, yes, you probably got caller ID. Finally.”
Allie propped the receiver on her shoulder. “Actually, I was just headed out the door. I have a funeral to attend.”
“Whose?”
“The sheriff’s wife.”
“That woman who was murdered down there? I heard about it on the news.”
“I believe it’s been ruled a suicide,” Allie said through stiff lips, “or maybe we’re talking about two different women.”
“No. Albright or Albert. Jean, I think. It sounds like her husband killed her. They always look at the spouses first in cases like this.” When Allie didn’t speak, she said, “Don’t tell me you’re mixed up in this murder, too.”
Allie gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. The media had a field day with the murder earlier that spring. Her mother read about it, and it took all Allie’s persuasive powers to keep her away. Not because she was concerned about her daughter’s welfare. “The notoriety, Allison. How could you have gotten involved with those kinds of people?”
Allie brought her attention back. “I’m not mixed up in anything,” she told her mother truthfully, “but she was the sheriff’s wife, and Aunt Lou worked for the sheriff’s office most of her life.” It was the wrong thing to say.
“Well, it doesn’t surprise me that she would associate with people like that, but you weren’t raised that way. You need to spend more time around your own class of people, Allison.”
Allie was tempted to remind her mother that her Aunt Lou had been raised by the same class of people who’d raised her father, but it didn’t seem worth the effort. Suddenly, going to a funeral sounded like a good idea. “I’m running late, Mother,” she said when her mother took a breath. “Was there something you wanted?”
There was a shocked silence. No one cut off the great Vivian Grainger in mid-rant, not judges, opposing attorneys, or least of all, her upstart daughter. She must have decided to let it go, because she said, “Yes, there was. I wanted to know if you decide
d to work for that newspaper down there.” Her voice left no doubt what she thought of “that newspaper down there.”
“Yes, I have. I started a few weeks ago.”
“I just cannot understand your thinking, Allison, not when you could probably get hired by a larger newspaper. Better yet, you could give up this insane idea of living like a beach bum and come back to work for the AJC. I’m sure they’d hire you back. It’s not as if you left under a cloud.”
Allie unclenched her teeth enough to say, “Gotta go, Mother. My ride’s here.” She hung up the phone and dangled her keys in her hand. “It’s parked right outside,” she told the empty room.
Allie could picture her mother sitting at her massive mahogany desk staring at the dead telephone. Theirs was an uncomfortable relationship. Early on, Vivian Grainger had hoped her only daughter would distinguish herself in some way, but getting the first divorce in the Grainger family and having her picture splashed all over the newspapers following a gruesome string of murders clearly wasn’t what she had in mind. Luckily, her brother was there to take up her slack. Len, a junior partner in her mother’s law firm, was everything Vivian had hoped for in a child—worshipful, dutiful. Malleable. Allie had disappointed both her parents, and she had long ago learned to live with the reality.
It took her a few minutes to navigate the construction debris on either side of her house. There should be a law against construction companies blocking residents, but if there was, she was sure Sheryl would have straightened them out long ago. Allie had considered sabotaging their equipment, but she didn’t believe it would even slow them down. Her tires narrowly missed a piece of twisted metal in the street. Much as she hated to admit it, her own personal paradise seemed to be on the way to being lost.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the highway. She had lied to her mother. She wasn’t late for the funeral. She had almost an hour to kill. Because it was on her way, she decided to drop by the newspaper office.
The Brevard Sun building was just off US 1, a low building with all the charm of a self-storage facility. The exterior was unimaginative white stucco surrounded by a half-acre of asphalt that gave off an acrid smell when it softened under the relentless Florida sun. The inside of the building wasn’t much better. The tomb-like lobby was decorated in what someone must have thought resembled modern décor—drab green walls, gray floor tile, inadequate recessed lighting. The palms just inside the front door looked exactly like they had six months ago when Allie first saw them―half-dead. At least they were real.
The lobby smelled of old dust with faint undertones of older cigarette smoke. The dust was real too. Allie had heard they had a cleaning crew, but she’d never seen any sign that they did anything. If she dropped a piece of paper, it remained on the floor until she picked it up. The cigarette smoke was compliments of the newspaper’s receptionist. Myrna didn’t light up her cigarettes in the building, but she smoked so much that her hair and probably her skin gave off a residual odor, like the trail of exhaust behind a badly tuned car. Since the owner’s death, Myrna pretty much ran the newspaper. A board of directors filled the official shoes, and the self-appointed editor, Alf Reed, only worked when he felt like it; but Myrna had seniority over them all, a fact she was unlikely to let them forget.
The newsroom was as drab as the rest of the building. Metal desks stretched across the floor, divided by useless four-foot partitions. Although the activity here had never come close to the excited buzz that was the norm at the AJC, usually at least a few heads peeked over the dividers. Today, it was practically deserted. Only one man sat at his desk near the back wall.
Allie had hoped to find Alf Reed here. He watched her as she entered, his feet propped on his desk, basking, Allie imagined, in his newfound glory. Thin, with a sallow, pinched-looking face, Alf was probably somewhere in his late fifties and wore it badly. What hair he had left was valiantly swept around in a futile attempt to cover his perpetually sunburned scalp. He wore chinos a size too large, and his shirt looked as if it had never been within ten feet of an iron. The smile he gave Allie when he saw her approaching made her skin crawl. Alf thought she was a dumb beginner—which was true—but he made it seem like a terminal condition rather than a correctible lack of experience. She felt like kicking his feet off the desk. The thought startled her. She was spending too much time around Sheryl.
She walked over to the cubicle assigned to her by virtue of its being empty when she came on board. “What are you doing here today?” she asked casually, glancing over her shoulder.
“Killing time until the funeral. You?”
Allie ruffled through a stack of papers on her desk as if looking for something. “The same. I read your story.”
Alf raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? What’d you think?”
If he only knew. “I have to wonder if the sheriff’s son might have bitten off more than he can chew. He was making some really nasty allegations at the viewing.”
Alf chuckled, leaning farther back in his chair. “That he was. Probably lying through his teeth trying to get back at dear old dad for grounding him when he was ten years old.”
Allie looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t believe him?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Or care,” he added, dropping his feet to the floor. “Shit like that sells papers. That’s all I care about.”
It was a minute before Allie could speak. She was only partially successful at keeping her voice level. “You’d print something like that, even if you didn’t believe it was true? Knowing that it could damage the sheriff’s reputation?”
Alf wadded up a piece of paper lying on his desk and lobbed it toward the waste can, missing it by a foot. “Don’t be such a fucking Girl Scout. ‘Even if it could damage his reputation,’” he mimicked in a tight falsetto. He got to his feet. “Don’t whitewash the sheriff, little girl. Anyone who acts as perfect as him, you can bet he’s hiding plenty. Besides,” he added with a grin when Allie continued to look at him, speechless, “if he’s not guilty, he doesn’t have anything to worry about, does he?” With that, he kicked his chair back under his desk. Hitching up his pants, he walked out of the newsroom.
Allie sank into her chair, Alf’s words ringing in her ears. Hiding plenty… doesn’t have anything to worry about. On the contrary, she thought. With people like Alf Reed and Rand Arbutten around, the sheriff had more than enough to worry about.
Chapter 6
Although the parking lot at the funeral home was almost full, the interior held none of the carnival atmosphere of the night before. The services were being held in the large room that had housed the viewing. Chairs draped in white had effectively transformed the space into a cross between an auditorium and a chapel. Flowers were tastefully arranged around the perimeter of the space. At least their smell had faded somewhat. The table with the pictures was gone, replaced by a flower-draped casket and, behind it, a podium.
The seats were almost all taken. Allie slipped into a chair at the back of the room, feeling out of place. She saw Alf Reed enter the door seconds behind her and take a seat, pen and pad at the ready. Hoping for a bloody battle to erupt between father and son?
People sitting around her turned and twisted in their chairs to see who was sitting nearby or carried on conversations in hushed tones. Soft music played in the background. It was all very tasteful and probably more chilling for that.
The sheriff stood off to one side with several other men in uniform, Sidney Finch a predictable six inches away. How could the sheriff stand it?
Near Cord was the wheelchair-bound woman from the viewing. She was dressed much as she had been at the viewing, in clothes more appropriate for someone half or maybe a fourth her age. Her place beside the front pew identified her as a relative, although judging from Rand Arbutten’s lack of attention, not a very close one. The sheriff looked over at Allie and gave her a slight nod of acknowledgment.
Allie’s attention was pulled away when a stooped man garbed in black enter
ed the room from a side door and walked directly to the podium. The sheriff moved to take his seat, with Sidney Finch inches from his elbow. At a whispered word from the sheriff, Sidney nodded and took a seat in the row behind. People turned in their chairs to face front and began to fan themselves with whatever they had available. It seemed the show was about to begin.
After an initial squawk from the microphone, the minister’s voice came out thin and reedy. “We are here to honor the life and mourn the passing of Jean Arbutten.” His eyes swept the room as he spoke. “There are no words to describe the sense of loss one feels when a loved one passes, but when that passing is sudden and violent, the loss becomes even more painful and confusing. We might find ourselves plagued by questions that can only be answered by the Good Lord himself.”
The minister’s gaze came to rest on Rand Arbutten, but Rand appeared oblivious to anything except the floor in front of him. His gaze never wavered. Allie wasn’t even sure he blinked. Was he a devastated son, or was he hiding less noble feelings?
The minister’s voice droned. Instead of listening, Allie watched the Arbuttens, father and son, and the mystery woman in the wheelchair. Rand Arbutten never acknowledged the woman’s presence, even though she was less than three feet away. Maybe it was the sheriff’s mother. The woman certainly didn’t look upset. She seemed more concerned with a loose thread on her handbag than with the service going on around her. Or perhaps she was merely senile and unaware of what was taking place.
At one point near the end of the service, Allie saw Rand Arbutten rise and slip out the side door. It seemed like a good idea. She felt oxygen deprived. She stood and tiptoed out, winding her way through the hallways until she found the front door. She stepped outside and took a deep breath. It was like sticking your head in a clothes dryer and inhaling. The temperature must already be in the high nineties. Still, it was better than inside.
OK, she had done her duty to the sheriff, Sheryl, and her aunt. She could leave with a clear conscience.
LIVE Ammo (Sunshine State Mystery Series Book 2) Page 5