“We don’t know why someone tried to break into the house. Jim Bob’s murderer is still on the loose. And we have the situation with your brother hanging over us. I don’t know how it all fits together.”
“So? I told you guys that was Stefanie. She wants in Jim Bob’s storage unit.”
“You don’t know that.” He dropped my arm. “Eric told me I needed to keep a close eye on you. It’s harder than holding a cat in water. Sometimes—”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I yelled and whirled around. All my insecurities rushed in, battering my mind like an emotional hailstorm. “Sometimes you wish you hadn’t married me. I’m just a troublesome redneck and out of your league.”
“What?” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“It’s true, isn’t it? I’m not good enough for you. Your mother always insinuates it. And now my brother. . .” I couldn’t continue. I felt my lower lip quiver.
“My mother. . .” Max pulled me close. “Honey, please listen to me. I worry about you—a whole lot. I’m worried about everything that’s going on right now, but I have never, ever wished that I hadn’t married you.”
I didn’t feel better.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This has been a bad time. I’m not handling it well. Forgive me, please.”
“Okay,” I said because I had to, not because I was ready to.
We eyed each other with wariness. Max sighed. “It doesn’t feel okay.”
I allowed him to hug me, then I left the room. As I passed the foot of the stairs, I saw movement upstairs. Karen was in the hallway. She had a smile on her face.
Chapter Fourteen
When I woke on Thursday, I had to check the clock to make sure of the time. Everything was grey. It was the kind of morning best spent under the covers, listening to the rain fall and cuddling with my husband. Not that we did much of that with family schedules being what they were, but I could dream. Max had already gotten up. We still hadn’t talked much. He’d spent a great deal of time the night before talking to Karen, then he’d stayed in his office until after midnight.
I sat on the edge of the bed in jeans and T-shirt, wondering sleepily which of my five pairs of slippers to wear and trying to ignore the vague feeling of worry that had now become my constant companion. Along with my purple fuzzies and pink, cross-eyed rabbits, I also had brown leather moccasins, black-and-white cows, and a simple pair of white slip-ons. I was debating between the moccasins and the bunny slippers when the bedroom door burst open, and Max rushed in.
“Trish? Are you awake?”
Obviously. I was sitting up. I frowned at him. His body language didn’t bode well. After last night, I still felt on guard around him. “What’s wrong?”
“Eric is here, and he needs to talk with you.” Max stood in front of me with his hands on his hips. “Trish, did you come straight home last night after you met Lee Ann?”
I felt his anxiety, and my heart thumped. “Yes. . .no. Well, I stopped at Abbie’s first, but she wasn’t home.”
He groaned. “Come on. Get dressed. He’s waiting.”
“Okay, but first I have to brush my teeth.” I went to the bathroom, shut the door, and stood at the sink, staring in the mirror. My hair looked like someone had turned me upside down and used me to mop a floor. My brown eyes were red-rimmed. Not an attractive sight.
“Dad!” I heard Charlie yell. “Did you know there’s cop cars outside again?”
“Yes, son, I know. Go eat breakfast.”
I looked briefly at the bathroom window, wondering how long it would take to remove the screen, make a rope of sheets, and climb down the side of the house. Would Detective Scott chase me, lights flashing and siren blaring? And what would my hoity-toity mother-in-law say when word got around that her crass daughter-in-law was running down the road being chased by the cops? I briefly considered that. It might actually be worth the effort.
“Hey, Dad,” Tommy’s deeper, booming voice came through the door. “What are the cops doing here? Is Mom in trouble again?”
“Would you please see that the little kids eat breakfast?” Max said. “And that everyone gets ready for school?” His voice sounded stressed. “Trish, come on. Eric’s waiting.”
“Oh, all right, I’m coming.” I brushed my teeth then stumbled out of the bathroom. “What does he want?”
“He wants to know where you were last night.”
“Why?” I chose my moccasin slippers, which were a whole lot more dignified than the cross-eyed bunnies.
“He didn’t say, but I don’t imagine it’s good.”
Max hadn’t smiled at me once since bursting into the bedroom, and he had a hard edge that reminded me of our discussion the night before.
As we walked down the stairs, I heard the sound of Charlie’s voice. When we drew closer to the living room, I could finally understand him.
“. . .out from Mysterious Disappearances that a lot of people aren’t who we think they are.”
Detective Scott stood in the living room, along with Corporal Fletcher. Both men were watching Charlie with raised brows.
“Even you could really be someone else, Mr. Detective. That’s important to know when you’re a cop.”
“Charlie, go eat breakfast,” Max said.
“But Dad, they need to look into these people—”
“Son, didn’t your mother tell you we don’t want you watching Mysterious Disappearances anymore?”
“But, Dad. . . ,” he wailed.
My heart went out to him. He was so frustrated. I knew just how he felt.
Max took Charlie’s hand to lead him from the room.
“Why are you still so grumpy, Dad?” Charlie asked. He kept jabbering as they walked down the hall. The sound of his voice faded as they went into the kitchen.
“Charlie reminds me of someone,” Detective Scott said thoughtfully, staring after Max and Charlie. Then he squinted in my direction. “You.”
An astute observation.
“Why do you need to know where I was last night?” I asked.
The detective glanced at Corporal Fletcher then back at me. “Tell me where you were, please.”
Their grim expressions scared me. I sat on the edge of the couch and swallowed hard. “I met Lee Ann at Bo’s Burger Barn. We talked for about a half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. Then I went over to see my friend, Abbie.”
“Lee Ann Snyder?” Detective Scott asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Corporal Fletcher made a note.
“Abbie Grenville,” the detective told the corporal. He made another note.
“What time did you leave Bo’s?” the detective asked.
“I have no idea.” The way the two men loomed over me made me feel ganged up on and vulnerable.
“What time did you get to Abbie’s?” Corporal Fletcher asked.
“I don’t know. I called Max from there. It’ll be on our cell phones.”
Max came back into the room, forehead wrinkled, cheeks drawn.
“What time did you get home?” Detective Scott asked.
“About ten after nine,” Max answered for me.
I waited for the corporal to write that down, which he did.
“What is this about?” I asked again.
“We need you to come with us,” Detective Scott said. “We have some questions to ask you.” He glanced at Max.
He had paled. “Is she being accused of anything?”
The detective shook his head. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything.”
Max ran a hand over his head, disheveling his already tousled hair. “I’d better call a lawyer.”
“That’s your prerogative,” Detective Scott said.
I stood, and my legs felt shaky. “Do I really need a lawyer? I mean, is the situation that serious?”
“I can’t advise you either way,” the detective said. “That’s your and Max’s decision.” He motioned to Corporal Fletcher. “He’ll t
ake you to the sheriff’s office. I’ll meet you there.” Detective Scott strode from the room, followed by Max.
I swallowed and glanced at the corporal. “Can I put on some shoes?”
“Yeah, Mrs. C., you go on and do that.” He was tucking his notepad into his pocket and eyed me. “But don’t be long.”
Corporal Fletcher showed me into the interview room. The low ceilings and white walls were just as oppressive as they were before.
“I should bring plants to decorate since this appears to be my second home,” I grumbled.
“Mrs. C., you need anything?” he asked. “Water?”
I shook my head. “No. I just want to back my life up two weeks and never go shopping at Shopper’s Super Saver again.” I felt his eyes on me, and I turned to face him. “Corporal Fletcher, this has been the worst two weeks of my life.”
He might have had sympathy in his eyes, but Detective Scott walked in, so I didn’t have time to find out for sure.
“Mrs. Cunningham, please have a seat.” The detective motioned to my regular chair.
I obeyed. Max had told me to wait for a lawyer, but I just wanted to get the questions over with. Surely nothing could be so bad that I needed legal representation.
Detective Scott sat in his regular chair and placed his arms on the table. Corporal Fletcher remained standing behind him, but he pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket.
Nobody mentioned a lawyer. I had a feeling the cops didn’t want me to have one any more than I wanted one.
The detective leaned toward me. “Tell me what you know about Peter Ramsey.”
The name sounded familiar. I rubbed my cheeks with my hands. “I don’t know. . . . I don’t remember.”
Detective Scott stared at me. Corporal Fletcher’s raised eyebrows indicated that he thought I’d just lied, which wasn’t good because, of the two of them, I thought he liked me better.
“You don’t know Peter Ramsey?” Detective Scott asked.
“Should I?” I looked at him and frowned. “I know I’ve heard the name, but I don’t remember where. I haven’t been sleeping well and it’s affecting my memory.”
“We have evidence that you do.”
I leaned toward him. “How could you have evidence that I know someone I don’t know?”
“Your name and the address of Four Oaks Self-Storage were in his pocket.” Detective Scott leaned toward me. “You were seen in an altercation with him.”
The light dawned. I recalled why the profile of the man with Stefanie at the dry cleaners had looked so familiar. “Carey Snook. Carey Snook is Peter Ramsey. I knew there was something screwy about him. I mean, that hair said it all, really.”
“Carey Snook?” Corporal Fletcher’s pen-filled hand was in the air above his notebook.
“Trish, what are you talking about?” Detective Scott asked.
I tapped my fingers on the table. “He told me his name was Carey Snook, and he lied to me about being a reporter at the paper. He’s no reporter.”
While the two law officers exchanged glances, I wondered how they’d found out about my argument.
The detective turned to me again. “Tell me about Carey Snook.”
“Well, besides being an obnoxious liar, he’s about your height, big mustache, fake hair. That was the ugliest-looking mess I’ve ever seen. Sort of like a raccoon. He had funny-looking glasses. Big and black.”
“Hmm,” the detective said.
I got mad. “Hmm, what? I hate it when people hmm. Especially you. Don’t do that to me.”
“Tell me more about Carey Snook,” Detective Scott said.
“He’s sneaky,” I said. “I wanted to yank off his ugly hairpiece.”
Corporal Fletcher’s pen flew over his notebook.
“And?” Detective Scott stared at me with his blank expression. He began to tap his pen on the table.
“And what?” I snapped.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
I wanted to break his pen.
The detective scowled. “And what happened then?”
I couldn’t imagine why all this was so important. “He stomped out. Hank, one of our customers. . .” I paused in realization. “That’s how you found out about the fight: Hank. He never did like me when he was my teacher. Did you know that he gave me a D in history? I think it was to get even for the time I glued the pages of his teacher’s book together. I’ve never seen anybody—”
“Trish, please answer my question.”
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
“Well, Hank accused me of trying to beat Carey up, after which Shirl said it seemed like everything around here was going to you-know-where.”
“You-know-where. . . ? Oh.” The detective sighed. “Did you threaten him?”
“What? Threaten him? Sure, Detective Scott. I always threaten everyone who irritates me.” I jumped to my feet. “If you don’t tell me what this is all about, I’m going to leave.” I crossed my arms and tightened my lips. “And I won’t talk to you again, either.”
Before he could answer or argue with me, the door to the interview room opened and a clean-shaven, portly man carrying a very expensive briefcase strolled in. I could tell the gray suit he wore had been made for him. Six years of contact with Max’s family had taught me at least that much. And he was so stereotypical of all of Max’s father’s acquaintances that I knew who he was before he introduced himself.
He placed his briefcase deliberately on the table and gazed at all of us in turn. “I am Calvin Schiller.” His smooth, polished voice made me think of a politician. “I’m here to represent Mrs. Cunningham. She will not answer any further questions without my counsel and until I know if you’re going to charge her.”
I turned around and exchanged glances with Corporal Fletcher. Then I rolled my eyes. I saw the twitch of a smile pass over his lips.
“Mr. Schiller, I don’t mind answering their questions.” I dropped back into a chair.
He looked down his nose at me, with an expression amazingly like my mother-in-law’s. The one that said, Did I give you permission to speak, redneck peon? “Mrs. Cunningham, your husband hired me to give you legal advice. At this point in time, I advise you to say nothing else.”
“But it’s no big deal,” I said. “All I—”
“Why is she here?” The lawyer stepped between me and the officers, effectively cutting me off.
Detective Scott stood. “Peter Ramsey was found murdered early this morning. It appears that Mrs. Cunningham was one of the last people to be seen with him. Unfortunately, they had an altercation yesterday.”
Altercation sounded coppish and made me irritable. I jumped to my feet, scooted around Calvin Schiller, and stared at the detective. “Peter was Carey,” I repeated.
“That might very well be the case,” Detective Scott said.
I was mad. Carey Snook had had the nerve to die with my name and number on a piece of paper in his pocket, putting me on another murder-suspect list. I’d humiliated myself by getting sick in the hallway of the sheriff’s office. Then there was my uppity lawyer who treated me like I was a grease stain on his tie. I wanted a lawyer like Andy Griffith’s Matlock character. A down-home, country person who ate hot dogs and sang folk songs.
“I don’t like Calvin Schiller,” I grumbled at my husband while I sat at the kitchen table, contemplating the toast and jelly on my plate that he’d shoved in front of me. “He’s a snob. He probably went to Harvard.”
“Well, so did I.” Max stood across the table from me. “Calvin is the best lawyer I know. From now on, you don’t set foot in the sheriff’s office without him.”
“I don’t want a—”
“I also took the liberty of calling Dr. Starling. You have an appointment with him in two days, right after work. I’ll stay with Sammie while you’re there.”
“You did what?” I clenched my fists. “Does Harvard have classes to teach the students how to be autocratic? So what’s next? Are you going to start telling me when to breathe?”
His nostrils flared. “If I feel like I have to, I will.”
“Your bossiness is out of control, Max. Besides, I’m feeling better now.”
“I’m out of control?” He snorted and crossed his arms.
I glared at him. He glared back. We were in danger of having another fight. Two in as many days would be two too many. I backed off, stuck my finger in the jelly, and then smeared it on the plate like Sammie does.
“We need to talk,” Max said.
“Can’t talk.” I refused to look at him. “I have to eat. That’s what you ordered me to do. And we have to go to work, you know.”
He ignored what I said. “I’ll go get ready while you finish your toast. I’ll be back, and then we’re going to talk.”
He left the room. Reduced to childishness after spending the morning with pushy men, I stuck my tongue out after him. Then I shoved another piece of toast in my mouth. With the interruption of Mr. Harvard Law School at the sheriff’s office, I hadn’t had the chance to say anything to Detective Scott about Stefanie possibly knowing Peter-Carey, nor had I mentioned that I thought the liar was trying to take over Jim Bob’s blackmail business. To me, that meant the two murders might be related. Did I dare call the detective without first contacting my cultured counsel? I was, as my mother would say, between a rock and a hard place. Help Detective Scott or obey my husband? What I really wanted to do was look at my mystery list, but I didn’t dare do it right now with Max in this mood.
I washed the crust down with my last gulp of orange juice and wondered who would have killed Peter-Carey and why. Stefanie?
Max appeared in the doorway wearing jeans and a work shirt. I wasn’t ready to forgive him enough to enjoy how he looked.
“You done?” he asked.
My plate was empty. My glass of orange juice was empty. My stomach felt okay.
“No,” I said.
He walked into the kitchen and glanced pointedly at the table. “Are you planning to eat the plate?”
“I might get something else.” I didn’t look at him. He ignored my words and sat opposite me.
“Detective Scott isn’t going to like you anymore,” I said. “And you’re not winning any popularity contests with me.”
Murder in the Milk Case Page 13