"It's very kind of you to take time out of your busy day to show me around, Ms. Tuttle," I said as I hurried to keep up with her brisk pace. We were close to skipping by the time we walked out of the offices and onto the pavement leading to the factory and warehouse. I decided to risk having the tour end early by mentioning the 'terrible news'. It was my only chance to gauge a reaction from Ms. Tuttle about Tory's death.
The employee parking lot was a vast carpet of gunmetal gray cement dotted with raised planters filled with shaggy lantana bushes. If grass took the place of the cement, it could have been a park. I found it humorous how lush the parking lot looked as compared to the shabby reception area inside the building.
We kept moving forward. It seemed my energetic tour guide was the type of person who was always moving forward, always looking ahead. I would have bet a year's salary that a seventeen-year-old Ms. Tuttle had been head cheerleader at her high school.
"For obvious reasons, insurance won't allow us to walk visitors through the factory, but you can see our warehouse and loading dock. It will give you an idea of the enormous size of our operation. And it's run like a well-oiled machine. I think you'll be impressed. In fact, you might want to make note of it for the article."
Yep, typical public relations manager. "Of course, I'll make sure to write about it. I've already heard great things about the company, and I'm sure most of the locals know just how marvelous it is." That comment caused her lips to spread wide and show brilliant white teeth. Definitely a head cheerleader's set of choppers.
My next comment erased the smile. "Again, I won't take up too much of your time. I'm sure you are quite busy this morning what with the terrible tragedy and all."
Ms. Tuttle's smooth, gliding stride faltered a bit and we slowed. She kept her focus on the warehouse ahead, but I could see her face tighten and twist as she searched for a response. When it came, it couldn't have been less informative. "Yes, well, of course. We'll keep the tour short."
The Stockton Tools warehouse was exactly what I expected, loud voices and the high-pitched warning beeps of forklifts echoing off bare industrial walls and ceilings. The endless shelving units were piled high with boxes of tools waiting to be shipped to their destinations.
I'd thrown off my sprightly tour guide with my mention of the murder. It seemed she was regretting her tour suggestion. "It's terribly noisy in here," she said loudly. "But as you can see it's a very impressive warehouse."
I let my eyes sweep around once and nodded. "Impressive indeed."
She pointed toward a back door. "The loading dock is just through there. We'll take a quick peek around, then I can escort you back to the offices."
"Great." I was about to suggest we turn around, but I didn't want to seem disinterested in the inner workings of the company. I figured the longer I stuck around, the better chance I had of stumbling onto something important. And I figured right.
Ms. Tuttle opened the door leading to the loading dock. We stepped into another vast brick building, but this one was less noisy because one side was completely open. Large rolling doors had been pushed up. Two trucks had been backed up to loading docks. And standing near a small kiosk talking to a man with a clipboard and badge that said supervisor was none other than Detective Jackson. They were deep in conversation.
Ms. Tuttle's phone rang, and she pulled it out of her blazer. She looked at it and grimaced slightly. "I need to take this. I'll be right back." She slipped into a small office so she could hear better. I took advantage of my short stretch of freedom and moved closer to the conversation at the kiosk.
Jackson was facing away from me and toward the supervisor. The supervisor looked too concerned with the discussion to notice a strange woman straying through his loading bay. A hammer that looked just like the one Jackson had shown me at the house was sitting on the top counter edge of the kiosk. I moved within hearing range and pretended to be enamored with the eighteen wheelers sitting in the bay. Detective Jackson was speaking just loud enough for me to hear.
"When I asked the manager of Oakley Hardware about customers who had recently purchased a framing hammer, he was surprised. He said he had just gotten a new shipment of framing hammers from Stockton Tools. There were supposed to be twelve hammers in the box, but he received only eleven. He said he called to complain."
The supervisor was a stout man with ruddy skin and heavy beard stubble. The Stockton Tools shirt was buttoned tightly across a round belly. He seemed quite thrown off by the conversation. He probably didn't normally spend his Monday morning fielding questions from a police detective. His face darkened with the question, and he reached for a messy pile of thin yellow receipts.
He cleared his throat several times as he thumbed through the papers. "As I mentioned, our foreman quit unexpectedly last week, and we've been swamped with work." He didn't look up as he spoke but continued a frantic search through the paperwork. I took the opportunity to glance toward the office where Ms. Tuttle was still occupied by her call.
My focus was pulled back to the kiosk when the supervisor cleared his throat again and said, "Oakley Hardware, here it is."
He smoothed out the semi-crumpled receipt and ran his thick finger along the bottom. "Yes, they called to let us know we shorted the order by one framing hammer." The man had dark eyes that were set a bit too close together, which only added to the flummoxed look on his face. "My signature is on the order. I always count everything before it goes out. I don't understand how I could have missed that. There are twelve slots in the carton. An empty slot would have been obvious."
"Who else has access to the warehouse?"
His rounded shoulders strained the fabric of his tight work shirt. "The warehouse employees and all the higher ups, of course."
Detective Jackson wrote something on his tablet. "One more question—"
The distinctive beeping sound of a forklift drowned out the conversation enough that Jackson paused. He turned to watch as the forklift rolled past. I scooted to the right, hoping to stay out of his line of vision. Inadvertently, I stepped over the bright yellow line showing the area to keep clear. The angry forklift driver leaned out of his seat and waved me out of the way. I stumbled back quickly and landed against a rock hard body. And there was only one of those in the warehouse at the moment.
Detective Jackson spun around quickly and grabbed me to keep me from falling. It took him a second to realize it was me. When he did, there was a twinkle in his eye that bordered somewhere between annoyed and amused.
"Bluebird. Why am I not surprised?" It took him longer than necessary to release his hold on my arms.
I brushed my hair off my face as I stepped back. "Actually, I'm here on assignment."
"Assignment," he said dryly. "Of course." He turned back to the supervisor. "Just one more question and then I'll let you get back to work." Jackson hadn't shooed me off, so I stuck around to hear the end of the conversation. "Last Thursday," Jackson continued, "I happened to be driving past Stockton Tools on my way back into town. I noticed one of your trucks pulling out from behind the loading docks. It was late, just ahead of ten."
The supervisor laughed. "That couldn't be. Our trucks always leave by six in the evening. That's when the warehouse and the loading docks close down for the night. Everyone clocks out by seven at the latest."
"There was no special order or delivery that night? Because I'm sure it was one of your trucks."
The supervisor rubbed his big fingers over his thick beard stubble to think. He shook his head. "No way. I would have been here if that was the case. Besides, Stockton doesn't like to pay overtime. With all due respect, Detective Jackson, I think you were mistaken."
Jackson nodded. "You must be right. It might have been a different truck. Thank you for your time." He turned around. We walked back through the warehouse together. Ms. Tuttle caught sight of me and waved that she'd be right out.
"So . . . were you mistaken?" I asked from the side of my mouth.
"Nope. It
was a Stockton truck."
"And the hardware store was shorted a framing hammer? Was it the framing hammer?" I asked.
"Not sure about that yet." He stopped and turned to me. "I thought that numbskull Evans was writing the story about the murder. He came by the station this morning. I headed out the back door just to avoid him."
"Yep, Chase gets all the good stories. I'm here for an entirely different reason. Stockton Tools is a major donor for the Colonial Bridge reconstruction project and that's the riveting piece I'm working on."
"All righty, Miss Taylor, let's skidaddle," Ms. Tuttle sing sang as she came out of the office.
"That's my tour guide, Ms. Tuttle. I think she was a cheerleader," I muttered again from the side of my mouth. "Just a journalist's instinct but I'm laying odds on not just cheer squad but head cheerleader." I stopped and flashed him my cheeriest grin. "See you later, Detective Jackson, and thanks for the extra information. I might not be writing the story but you know how I love to solve a murder."
He opened his mouth to respond, but I was whisked away by the energetic Ms. Tuttle.
Chapter 25
Halfway back to the offices, I realized Ms. Tuttle and I were not alone. Detective Jackson was walking just a few paces behind. I badly wanted to drop back and find out where he was heading next and anything else he might have discovered, but Ms. Tuttle was on her forward motion march. Once again, I was saved by her phone.
She made a tiny grunting sound as she pulled it out and looked at it. "So many fires to put out this morning." She picked up her pace.
"Don't let me keep you," I said. "I know how to get out from here. Through the office door and left at the receptionist's counter."
"Yes. Have a good day." She moved quickly ahead.
"You too. And thank you for your time." Although, I was certain I wouldn't have been given quite so much consideration if I hadn't been from the Junction Times.
Ms. Tuttle took a side turn to another group of offices and entered through a locked door. I didn't need to slow my pace too much for Jackson's long strides to catch up to me.
"Where are you off to now?" he asked. "Hopefully staying clear of police business."
"Of course. You know I have no interest in police business. Just doing reporter stuff. And as a curious journalist—where is the illustrious Junction detective heading now?"
"Illustrious, huh?" His nicely chiseled jaw slid side to side. "I could get used to that one. And to answer your question sugarcoated in a compliment, I'm heading in to talk to Jeremy Stockton right now, and before you ask one of your flattering questions, you can't tag along. Even if you use all your best adjectives to describe me."
I glanced up at him as we neared the office building. "I guess I'll drop the handsome, courageous and noble idea then. I'm a journalist, so I've got quite a list up here." I pointed to my temple. "Oh, and I've got something else up in my noggin too. Something that might interest you."
We stopped a few feet short of the door and faced each other. "What is it?"
I weighed not telling him for a second but then decided it wouldn't be right to keep information from a police investigation. Besides that, he looked fairly interested in what I had to say.
I lowered my voice, just in case. "This morning on my way to work, I happened to spot Cindy Hargrove, the bridesmaid, going into the Junction Pharmacy. Guess what she was buying?"
A glimmer of a grin turned his lip up. "You were spying on her?"
"Yes. No. That's beside the point. I just happened to be checking out shoe inserts for my—for my—"
"Shoes?" he asked as his amused grin bordered on one of his sparkling white smiles.
"Yes, of course. What else would I use shoe inserts for? I was just trying to be more specific. Hiking boots," I blurted as an obvious afterthought to my lie, making it seem even more ludicrous. "Anyhow, Cindy spent some time in the vitamin aisle. Then she walked up to the counter with a bottle of prenatal vitamins." I said the last two words with emphasis to make it a ta-da kind of ending. Jackson just blinked back at me with those annoyingly long lashes.
"Prenatal vitamins are supplements you take when you're pregnant," I added quickly, hoping to revive my ta-da moment.
"I know what they are. I'm just wondering why you're telling me about the trip to the pharmacy."
"Uh, because it could be very significant," I said with no small amount of irritation. "Cindy was acting strangely on the day of the murder, disappearing into the woods and emerging looking sick and pale. Which only bolsters my pregnancy theory."
"And how would you connect her pregnancy to the murder?" It was a good question. Unfortunately, I couldn't explain my reasoning without divulging my secret text photos.
"I just thought Jeremy was very attentive to Cindy, and Brooke seemed be throwing her under the proverbial bus when I talked to her."
Jackson seemed to accept my explanation. "I agree none of the bridal party was behaving the way I would have expected after one of their friends was murdered. But I'm on a more solid trail right now. That shoe print we recovered near the shrubs where Tory was killed looks to be the same brand of hiking boots Jeremy was wearing."
"That's huge. So it sounds like you have your person of interest."
He glanced around as several people walked out of the building. Once they were out of earshot, he turned back to me. "I'm not giving you an affirmative on that, and I sure don't want to see that piece of information end up in the Junction Times. Keep to your bridge story, and I'll keep to the homicide investigation."
"Are you sure I can't just tag along when you talk to Jeremy?"
His dark brow arched. "What do you think, Bluebird?"
"Thought it couldn't hurt to ask." We continued on toward the door. "Too bad there aren't any trees in this building. They make excellent camouflage for us nosy bluebirds."
His deep laugh rolled along the hallway toward the offices. It was a smooth, pleasing sound. Of course.
Chapter 26
I split off from Detective Jackson at the receptionist's desk. The exit was around the corner and down a hallway that was lined with framed pictures of the sales staff. Several bouquets of flowers were piled beneath one picture. I stopped to look at it.
Tory Jansen smiled faintly out from the posed photo. She had her hair neatly combed back, and she was wearing a white blouse and blue blazer. A small brass plate beneath her picture said, Salesperson of the Year. I glanced down at the flowers looking for some kind of message or card to snoop through, but there were only pink carnations and yellow roses.
Tom Clayborn's picture was hanging right next to Tory's. There was not one but three brass plates nailed beneath Tom's picture. He had been Salesperson of the Year three consecutive years before Tory grabbed last year's honor. I briefly mulled over jealousy as a motive for murder when the door opened and Tom Clayborn walked inside.
He was carrying a briefcase so he had either just gotten to work or he was returning from a sales meeting. It seemed he was seeing the impromptu flower memorial for the first time. His skin tone faded to an ashy gray for a second, then he took a deep breath and shook off the apparent emotion that had overcome him. He scrutinized my face for a second, seemingly trying to remember where he'd seen me before. Then it dawned on him.
"You're with the party planner." A rightful look of confusion crossed his face. After all, why would his boss's party planner assistant show up at Stockton Tools?
"I guess we never formally met." I stuck out my hand. "Sunni Taylor."
Tom had to jam the morning's business paper under his arm holding the briefcase to shake my hand in return. "Tom Clayborn." He motioned toward his picture. "But I guess you already knew."
"Yes, I was just looking at the nice flower memorial. Terrible tragedy. Such a shocking thing to happen and in the middle of a bridal party, no less." I smiled weakly. "Although, I guess there is no un-shocking time for a young, vibrant person to die." Tom's brows knitted in confusion as I prattled on. "You're of
course wondering why I'm standing in this hallway. The party planner is my sister, Lana. I just help her out sometimes. I'm actually a reporter for the Junction Times."
That declaration wiped away his confusion and hardened his face to anger. "My gosh, so the entire time we were being grilled by the detective, you were finding pieces of gossip to publish about the company. You reporters sure do stoop low to get a story." He ranted on, giving me no chance to step in. "Stockton Tools is a terrific company. We pride ourselves on integrity."
"Mr. Clayborn," I barked loud enough to stop his tirade. "I'm here to write a story about the Colonial Bridge project, and since Stockton Tools is a large private funder of the project, I was here to interview Ms. Tuttle."
His guilt at blowing up caused his lips to pull in as if he wished he could erase his terse lecture. "I apologize. I just assumed—"
Tom seemed sincerely sorry and contrite about it all, which made me feel guilty since my true motive for the visit was to find out details about the homicide.
"Naturally, you heard I was a reporter, so your conclusion makes perfect sense. I assure you it was just a coincidence that I happened to be at the campsite on Saturday. My sister was somewhat overwhelmed by the camping bridal shower. It was the first time she had ever had to plan an elaborate celebration in the middle of the forest."
Tom nodded. "I've no doubt of that." His eyes drifted to Tory's picture. "Of course, there was no celebration or bridal shower. Not sure how Jeremy and Brooke's wedding will proceed from here." He looked down at the flowers and then reached inside his coat and pulled out a single white rose. He placed it on top of the other flowers. "She was a cutthroat business woman and we rarely got along, but I admired her. She was a talented salesperson. The company was lucky to have her. I was lucky to work with her. I had four years experience on her, but she taught me a lot in the last year. Her loss will be felt here at Stockton Tools."
Killer Bridal Party (Firefly Junction Cozy Mystery Book 2) Page 12