by Lucy Kerr
“And now we’re friends,” he said, eyes fixed on mine, steady and warm despite the shadows.
“Friends,” I agreed, and told myself that was exactly as it should be.
“So let me ask you, as a friend . . . why are you looking into Jensen’s death?”
“You sure this isn’t the deputy asking?”
“The friend who happens to be a deputy. I know the hospital is trying to pin this on you, but they’re grasping at straws—they won’t find anything. And don’t give me some song and dance about getting to know your patient—you’re worried about Jensen’s financials, which has nothing to do with his heart.”
“Maybe,” I said, and decided to take a chance on Noah. “Maybe not. I think Jimmy Madigan killed Clem.”
“That’s a big accusation,” he said, folding his arms and shifting firmly into deputy mode.
“You’ve met the guy. He’s a total dirtbag, he blames Clem for the breakup of his marriage, and he’s always looking to make a buck. If Laura inherits Clem’s estate, Jimmy could claim it as joint property, since they’re not officially divorced. That’s how he’s able to sue the hospital too. So he actually gets paid twice—once through the inheritance, and once through the lawsuit. Do you know how much money the hospital could settle for? He could have a million reasons to kill Clem. Literally.”
“That doesn’t prove Jensen was murdered. Just because you’ve got a body and a suspect doesn’t mean you have a crime, Frankie. I know you’re trying to save your job, but running around accusing people of murder—even a jerk like Jimmy Madigan—isn’t going to help you.”
“You think I’m doing this for myself?” I stood, fists balled at my sides. The night air was sharp, but I was so angry I no longer felt the cold. “Clem was murdered.”
“Not according to anyone at Stillwater Gen,” he said. “I talked to the medical examiner, off the record, and he says there’s nothing suspicious about Clem’s death.”
“He didn’t look hard enough.”
“Right. He doesn’t know how to do his job, but you do? Are you going to do my job, too?”
“That’s not—”
“Just because I’m not a city cop doesn’t mean I’m an idiot,” he said. His jaw hardened. “You want to talk motive? You’ve got a pretty good one.”
I gaped at him, but he pushed on.
“Not to kill Clem. Nobody thinks you’re a murderer, but you’re pretty damn desperate to clear your name. We declare Jensen’s death a homicide, and you’re off the hook, aren’t you? You’ll go back to your real life and forget about Stillwater for another ten years.”
He wasn’t entirely wrong. I’d planned to stay until Rowan was safely home, then go back to Chicago. Ten years seemed like a stretch, though. “This isn’t about me. It’s about Clem, and his family, and the fact that a killer is walking around your town this very minute.”
“Then find me some proof,” he said. “I want to believe you. But . . .”
“But you don’t.”
He didn’t argue.
“Fine,” I snapped. “You want me to gift-wrap it for you, too?”
I started back across the yard, but Noah caught up to me in a few easy strides, grabbing hold of my arm.
“Frankie, wait. Can you . . .” He scrubbed his free hand through his hair, a gesture of sheer frustration. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Of what? According to you, Clem died of natural causes. You want me to watch my diet?”
He bristled. “On the off-chance you’re right, whoever killed Clem Jensen thinks they’ve gotten away with it. If they think you’re on to them, they’d have a motive to kill you, too.”
I wrenched away, too angry to acknowledge he might be right. “Thanks for asking around.”
Without another word, I scrambled up the tree and back inside the house, not bothering to check if Noah was still there. Carefully, I slid the window down, drew the curtains, and turned toward my bed.
And stifled a shriek as Riley popped upright, training her flashlight on my face.
“Whatcha doin’, Aunt Frankie?”
FIFTEEN
“Riley!” I threw my arm over my eyes, trying to block the blinding rays of the flashlight. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“Were you sneaking out?”
“No!” I whispered. She cocked her head, eyebrow lifted in pitch-perfect imitation of Skeptical Charlie, so I clarified. “I was sneaking in.”
“But first you snuck out.” She jumped down, landing on the floor with a thud. For a scrawny kid, she certainly sounded like an elephant. She shoved the curtains open and played the flashlight across the yard. “Who were you talking to?”
“Shhhh. You’re going to wake up your dad. Or Grandma.”
“Grandma takes her hearing aid out at night,” Riley said smugly. “Sometimes she doesn’t even wear it during the day.”
I did not want to ask how Riley was making use of that information. “Fine. The point is, you need to get back in bed.”
“You were talking to a boy.”
“Riley . . .”
“Is he your boyfriend? Grandma said you were getting married, but Mom said you’re not old enough. Then Grandma said you weren’t getting married.”
“I’m older than your mom,” I pointed out, stung.
Riley shrugged and peered out the window, angling her body to view the street.
“There’s a police car driving away,” she said with a gasp. “Were you talking to the police? Are you going to jail?”
I gathered up my patience and my frayed nerves and smoothed the temper from my voice. “I have a . . . friend . . . who is a police officer. I had asked him a question, and he came over to give me the answer.”
“Why didn’t he knock?”
“Because it’s late,” I said. “He assumed everyone was sleeping. Which they’re supposed to be.”
“Why didn’t he call?”
I blinked. “He didn’t have my phone number, I guess.”
“What was the question?” Slowly, she made her way back up the bunk bed ladder. Her long john pajamas were festooned with glow-in-the-dark stars.
“Boring stuff,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Was it about CJ’s grandpa?”
I paused. “Yeah.”
“Grandma told one of my teachers that you didn’t kill CJ’s grandpa. She sounded pretty mad.”
Nice to know my mom was using her powers for good. “She’s right.”
“I know. You’re really, really good. That’s what you said. Grandma said so, too.”
“Well, there you go.” I eyed the clock. It was nearly two AM. If Charlie found out I’d kept Riley up this late, Clem wouldn’t be the only dead body in town.
Riley pulled the covers up to her chin and stared up at the ceiling. “CJ’s supersad. His grandpa sounded cool. They did a lot of fun stuff together.”
“Yeah, like what?”
“They built a boat. They take it fishing, and sometimes they even eat the fish for dinner. CJ gets to cut the scales off and everything.”
“That does sound cool.”
She turned to face me, head propped on her hand. “CJ said his grandpa took him out for breakfast all the time. I don’t get to go out for breakfast, like, ever. It’s always toast. Or oatmeal.”
Considering Riley’s propensity for wearing her meals, eating in was probably a smart call on Charlie’s part. Charlie, who said I wasn’t old enough to get married. A tiny bit of revenge seemed appropriate. “You know what? I’ll take you.”
“Can we get sausage biscuits? CJ said his grandpa loved sausage biscuits. Mom won’t let me have one, though. She says they’re heart attacks on a plate.”
“They are,” I said. “Here’s the deal. I’ll take you for sausage biscuits—this weekend—but only if you keep quiet about . . .” I waved at the window. “You know.”
She looked insulted. “I wasn’t going to tattle.”
“Sausage biscuit
s it is, then. Go to sleep, Riley.”
“Okay.” She snuggled in under the covers and clutched a threadbare stuffed rabbit. “How old do I have to be before I can sneak out too?”
“Forty. Goodnight, Riley.”
“Goodnight, Aunt Frankie.”
A moment later, her face reappeared, upside down, inches from mine. Her braids dangled toward the floor. “Is he cute?”
“Who?”
“The police officer.”
“Goodnight, Riley.”
She disappeared again, and the bunk bed squeaked as she settled herself in. “Hey, Aunt Frankie?”
“What?”
“If you didn’t kill CJ’s grandpa, who did?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”
SIXTEEN
“Morning, Frankie,” Matt said when I stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen the next morning. He was standing at the stove, pancakes sizzling on the griddle. Riley, sticky and cheerful, waved at me from the table. “Coffee’s ready—help yourself.”
I did, breathing in the rich scent along with burnt bacon and maple syrup, the familiar smells and sounds transporting me back. My father’s pancake tradition had been on Sundays, when he opened the store later and we could have a leisurely breakfast together. But everything else was heartbreakingly familiar and such a surprise that I had no time to guard against the stab of grief.
“No class today?” I asked Matt while fixing my coffee with the same focus I used during emergency surgery.
“Not until this afternoon,” he replied.
“Pancake day!” Riley cheered.
I drained the rest of my coffee and refilled the mug.
“Late night?” Matt asked mildly.
“Not really,” I said, and Riley giggled. I shot her a dirty look and mouthed “sausage biscuit.”
She quieted immediately.
Matt glanced back and forth between us as he deposited a fresh stack of pancakes on the table. Riley offered me the plate, but I held up a hand, memory stealing my appetite. “I’ll stick with coffee.”
“Are you going to see Mommy today?” Riley asked me. “Can you ask her when she’s coming home?”
“Will do.”
“I haven’t really had a chance to thank you,” Matt said, pouring out the last of the batter, a sizzle rising up. “I know you weren’t thrilled about coming home, but it means a lot to all of us. Especially Charlie.”
When I didn’t respond, he grinned and added, “Even if she hasn’t mentioned it herself. Have things changed a lot?”
I hadn’t really spent a lot of time with Matt; he and Charlie had married after I’d left town, so our interactions had tended toward distant-but-pleasant. I knew he taught American Lit at the community college, along with basic composition and creative writing. He helped out at the store as needed, but he was no handyman—Charlie took care of most home repairs. And I knew he was utterly devoted to his family, which left me feeling like even more of an outsider.
“Less than you’d expect.”
“I didn’t realize you and Noah had reconnected,” he said off-handedly.
“Noah MacLean?” I darted a glance at Riley. “We didn’t . . . we’re not . . . how do you two know each other?”
“He audited one of my classes a few years back. We’ve been friends ever since.” Matt studied me for a moment. “I take it Charlie hasn’t mentioned that either.”
“Charlie hasn’t mentioned a lot of things,” I muttered.
“Riley, go wash up. Time to get ready for school,” Matt said, not taking his eyes off me. When she was out of earshot, he continued. “Sorry. I assumed you knew we were friends with Noah.”
“Not a problem,” I assured him. “It was a long time ago, and we’ve both moved on.”
He nodded, but his expression was thoughtful.
“I’m more interested in what’s happening at the store,” I said. “My mom won’t tell me, and Charlie insists everything is fine, but we both know that’s not true.”
Matt began scrubbing the ancient cast-iron griddle with water and a handful of table salt, just as we always had. “That’s a conversation you should have with Charlie.”
“Oh, I will,” I assured him.
* * *
Garima was finishing rounds as I entered the maternity ward later that morning. “Charlie’s already in the NICU,” she said. “Heads-up—she’s in a mood.”
“Perfect,” I said. “So am I.”
Garima grinned, then sobered. “By the way, Strack’s secretary said he’ll wrap up your investigation by next week. He expects they’ll have enough to file an official complaint with the state board.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Why the rush job?”
“They’ve found a buyer for the hospital,” she said. “But apparently, the company is leery of entering into negotiations while there’s a lawsuit pending. Strack wants this resolved so they can move forward.”
“Nice to see he holds the truth in such high regard.” I shook my head. “I’d better go calm Charlie down.”
“I’m sure the staff will thank you,” she replied. “Dinner tonight? At the diner?”
I nodded and made my way over to the NICU. The nurse buzzed me in, and I made my way to the sinks in back. Charlie looked better today. She was wearing a hospital gown and a navy cardigan with leather patches at the elbows, so oversized I assumed it was Matt’s. Her hair was tied back in a neat braid, and her brown eyes were bright—with energy or anger or both.
Probably both.
“What were you doing in the store?” she asked.
I ignored her while I scrubbed in, then headed directly to Rowan’s isolette. “Good morning, Rowan! Looking good without that CPAP machine, girlfriend.”
It was true. Without the mask, Rowan’s face was completely visible. Even the miniature cannula she wore for oxygen didn’t obscure her tiny features, and I was surprised to see how expressive she was, pursing her lips and wrinkling her nose. She was even opening her eyes now, gray-blue and watchful.
“I thought your people slept all the time,” I told her, sticking out my tongue and raising my eyebrows in a look of mock surprise. Rowan stared as if I was the most fascinating person on the planet.
“Shows how much you know,” Charlie said. “Don’t you spend time with babies at work?”
“Not really. I mean, people bring infants to the ER, but they’re usually full term, and we have specialized nurses for them. They’re better at starting IVs and other procedures. I feel like some sort of giant next to them.”
“A giant?” Charlie snorted. “You wish.”
“You’re one to talk. What have you got on me, an inch?”
“Inch and a half,” she replied loftily.
The tension had lessened, and I reached in to take Rowan’s hand. “You ready to discuss the store without throwing a tantrum?”
“I wasn’t throwing a tantrum,” she said. “Mom had no business asking you to take a shift.”
“It was her business for twenty-odd years,” I pointed out. “It’s not like I’m incompetent.”
“No, just disinterested.”
“Why are you so bent out of shape?” I turned to face her. “I helped out for one day.”
“I don’t need your help.” There was an ugly twist to the “your” that set my own temper blazing. Even so, mindful of Rowan’s tiny fist clutching my pinky, I kept my voice neutral.
“You need somebody’s help,” I said. “You’re hemorrhaging customers.”
“Some days are slow,” she protested. “It happens.”
“Every day is slow,” I replied. “Is HouseMasters the problem, or is something else going on?”
“We’re managing.” The rocking chair squeaked as she picked up speed.
“You can’t even afford a working security system. When’s the last time you took a paycheck?”
The minute the words left my lips, I regretted it.
“Have you been going throug
h my books?” Her cheeks paled, then heated, and her voice was a low, furious whisper. “How dare you? That is my business, Frankie. Mine. You didn’t want it, remember? What right do you have to interfere?”
Before I could snap a reply, Rowan stirred, squeaking as if she sensed the tension. I took a long, slow breath, my defensiveness vanishing.
“None,” I said softly. “I wanted to help.”
“You can’t,” she shot back. “It’s not something you can patch up and send home. It’s not some patient you can hand off at the end of a shift. You can’t just waltz into town, save the business, and waltz out again. It doesn’t work that way.”
“There’s got to be something I can do.”
“Well, there’s not,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “I wasn’t even going to tell you.”
I reached for the nearby tissue box with my free hand and passed it over. “Why not?”
She blew her nose instead of responding.
“Okay, fine. I get why you might not want to ask for my help.” The knowledge stung. “But why on earth would you keep it a secret?”
She toyed with the end of her braid, not meeting my eyes. Finally, she mumbled, “I didn’t want you to think I was a failure.”
“Charlie . . .” I paused. I hadn’t said a word to Charlie about the hospital’s investigation, only partly because she needed to focus on Rowan. I hadn’t wanted to admit that I had made a mistake, that I might lose my license, that I had failed to save Clem. I’d masked my fear with action and bravado. How could I blame my little sister for doing the same thing?
“You’re not a failure,” I said firmly. “Even if the store goes under . . .”
Even if the business failed, it didn’t mean Charlie had failed—there was more to her life than a building full of paint cans and power tools. If only I felt so certain about my own situation.
“I am not going to be the one who loses the store,” she said, voice cracking. “One hundred and fifty years, it’s lasted. It’s our legacy.”
I shook my head. “Come here, you idiot.”
Slowly, she joined me next to the isolette.
“Look at your daughter,” I said. “Look at that tiny little fighter. Think about Riley for a minute—how smart she is, how tough. The store isn’t your legacy, Charlie. These girls are.”