In the Shadows (The Outsiders Book 1)

by Susan Finlay

  Dave said as much to Kate. “You know, there’s a ton of circumstantial evidence, but I still haven’t seen any proof, anything that makes me believe Maura is guilty of murder—or for that matter, even of having an affair with a pupil.”

  “I’m inclined to agree that there is no hard evidence, but short of having the crime on video, what evidence do you need? She did have access, motive, and she ran. The police have witnesses who are willing to testify against her.”

  “But didn’t the investigators look at any other suspects? I didn’t find much of anything to suggest they even considered anyone else.”

  “Who do you think they should consider?”

  “How about the parents? Or the father’s girlfriend, for instance?”

  “They didn’t have motives. They did have alibis.”

  “Greg and I spoke to some neighbors of the Raybournes. One in particular was helpful. He knows the family, he knows Maura and he thinks—”

  “Who are we talking about? The old man across the street?”

  Dave nodded.

  “The detectives I’ve talked to told me that old man doesn’t know anything, and they described him as senile. The detective said he told them nothing that could be verified and his story pretty much contradicts what everyone else said.”

  “But it is because he is old, is a busy body, stays at home and watches the neighborhood that he sees everyone who comes and goes in that house,” Dave said. “Also, Maura confided in him.”

  “Did she tell you that? Did she suggest you talk to him?”

  “She mentioned him. So did another neighbor, Brittany Stevas. Look, Ian Waitley told us that he believed Elizabeth was trying to win her husband back. He said Peter Raybourne had been spending a lot of time at the house before the murder. So, wouldn’t his girlfriend, Robin, have a motive as well?”

  “If Elizabeth had been the victim,” Kate said, “then, yes, I might believe that. But what possible motive could Robin Sutcliffe have had to kill her boyfriend’s son?”

  Dave ran his hand through his hair and stared at the papers scattered over Kate’s desk. “Okay, you got me there. But I’m sensing now that I may have been wrong about where you stand. I chose you to work with because I thought you were impartial, that you hadn’t made a judgment yet. If anything, from your article it seemed like you were on Maura’s side.”

  “Then you misunderstood. I wrote the piece you read as journalism, to be different, to take a counter view and get people to stop making assumptions. Surely you must know how it is.”

  He slumped into his chair. “I do. But now it seems to me like you are the one making assumptions, leaping to conclusions without solid facts.”

  Kate opened her mouth to protest, but then apparently thought better of it. After a few moments, she said, “All right, I concede that I may have made hasty conclusions about Maura’s guilt without sufficiently exploring other suspects.” She looked round at all the papers laid out. “I’m still interested – there might be a good story. Let’s proceed down that avenue and see if there are others with motive and opportunity. Can you tell me who, exactly, you think killed him?”

  Dave sighed. “Well, what if Robin Sutcliffe killed Jared because he was the bond threatening to bring Peter and Elizabeth back together?”

  “That’s actually a possibility I hadn’t thought about—unlikely, but I would be interested in talking with her and the parents with that in mind. This is all good human interest anyway, so I can pursue it. Any others you want to interview?”

  Dave twisted his mouth as he contemplated. “Yes, I’d like to speak with Elizabeth Raybourne’s sister and with Jared’s former girlfriend. I think her name is Penny Miller. I guess after that, I want to meet again with Ian Waitley.”

  “Why do you want to talk with the crazy man again?”

  Dave raised his eyebrows, puzzled. “Why do you call him crazy? Have you even met him?”

  Kate shrugged. “No, I haven’t actually met him, but that’s what others have told me. Ah. Jumping to conclusions again, aren’t I. I guess we’ll only find out for ourselves by talking with him.”

  Dave told Kate about the cover story he and Greg had given the neighbors with whom they’d already met.

  “Yes, let’s stick with that,” she said. “We can add that I’m working on more articles. That should work fine.” She gazed at him for a moment. “There are stories here for me. I don’t mind the work. But maybe there is something more?”

  “I can pay . . . .”

  “No, I don’t want money—well, it’s always pleasant, but I don’t want your money.”

  “What then?”

  “An exclusive interview with Maura. And I get to write the story.”

  Dave thought of Maura gazing at him and trusting. “Okay,” he said. He decided not to tell Kate that right now he would have promised anything. He also decided not to tell her at that moment he had no idea where Maura was. “I will ask her and do my best to convince her. That’s all I can promise.”

  An hour later, Dave and Kate sat in the light blue waiting room outside Elizabeth Raybourne’s office in the Callowise Advertising Agency in Soho.

  Finally, a woman who was around Dave’s age and dressed in a stylish gray suit appeared. Her resemblance to Jared as he appeared in photographs was quite remarkable—same blue eyes, light blonde hair, and high cheekbones. Dave also thought of Simone. The woman’s face was made-up, and she looked attractive, and yet there was something about her that put Dave off. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  “I’m Elizabeth Raybourne,” she said.

  Kate stood and extended her hand. “Kate Hill, freelance reporter. I spoke with you earlier. This is my associate, Dave Martin.”

  Dave, who had also stood up, stepped forward and shook her hand. “Good to meet you.”

  She looked at him but didn’t say anything.

  Kate said, “Dave Martin is studying the differences in the investigative methods in the U.S. and U.K. for a book he’s writing.”

  Elizabeth nodded, then looked directly at Kate. “Do you have some news? It’s been a while since any reporters have been round. I was beginning to think they’d given up on the case. The police haven’t been in touch for a while either.” She hesitated. “It’s like no one really cares.”

  “I’m afraid nothing new to report, yet. If you don’t mind, though, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your son. This is all quite unofficial. Would you have a quiet place where we might chat with you?”

  She pursed her lips and motioned them toward her office. Once they were inside, she closed the door behind her.

  “Please have a seat,” she said as she sat down stiffly behind her desk.

  They had decided beforehand that Kate would do the questioning. Dave would take notes.

  “First,” Kate said, “we would like to offer our condolences. It must be incredibly difficult for you, and we really do want to help find your son’s killer.”

  She nodded, her posture easing a bit.

  “The police reports indicate that you discovered your son’s body?”

  She nodded again, placing her hand on the top of her desk. Dave noticed that her nails had been chewed down to the point they were probably painful.

  “You found him on his bedroom floor. You had come home late the night before, but didn’t find him until morning. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “The post-mortem indicates he had been dead for hours before you found him. How is it that you didn’t see him when you arrived back home?”

  Elizabeth sighed. “I’ve already been through all this. As I told the police I went along the hall directly into the kitchen and made tea, then went straight up to bed. It was late—and quite dark.” Her shoulders slumped. “I was tired and wanted to go to bed since I had to get up early for work in a few hours. I didn’t bother turning on lights.”

  “You didn’t check on your son?”

  “He was sixteen. I didn’t think
it necessary, and he would have been furious. There was no sound, so I knew . . . guessed he was asleep.”

  “What happened in the morning?”

  “I followed my normal routine.” She paused and looked at Kate. “I got up, took a shower, and dressed for work as usual. After that I went into Jared’s room to make sure he was up and getting ready for school before I made coffee and toast. But . . . he wasn’t in his bed. His bed hadn’t been slept in either. That’s when I looked round his room and saw him . . .” She stopped, swallowing hard, “. . . lying on the floor in a pool of blood.”

  Kate nodded and glanced over at Dave. “Were you and Peter getting back together before the murder?”

  Elizabeth looked surprised.

  “Why would you think that? I wouldn’t get back with him. He’s not good enough.”

  “Why was he spending a lot of time at the house? He spent nights there.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Kate shrugged.

  “It’s wrong. We weren’t getting back together,” Elizabeth said, straightening her back.

  “Then why was he there so often?” Dave asked.

  Elizabeth turned so that she was facing Dave, a faint look of puzzlement on her face as though she hadn’t expected the question to come from him in such an assertive way. She sighed. “He was Jared’s father. Of course he would visit.”

  “At your home? Didn’t Jared spend time at his father’s new home?”

  “Sometimes. But Peter was living with someone.”

  “Did Jared get along with his father’s girlfriend?”

  Elizabeth tensed her shoulders. “You’ll have to speak with Peter and Robin about that.”

  “Did Peter ever spend the night at your house after the divorce?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Sorry, how did Jared deal with the divorce?”

  “He didn’t like it. Most children don’t, and I suppose he had the usual reactions—anger, aggression, fear, confusion . . . hurt. He complained sometimes.”

  “Did he act on those feelings?”

  “Jared had changed drastically over the last year. He did get very down and seemed to obsess about things sometimes. He had an argument with another boy at school, and Jared kept on about it for weeks. Then all this with . . . her . . . . He sometimes did mean or hurtful things, too.” She glanced from one to the other.

  “Like what?”

  “I forget. It’s not really important anyway.”

  “It could be. Try to think of some of the things he did.”

  She hesitated, looking angry briefly. “All right. After Jared’s girlfriend broke up with him, he would call her sometimes in the middle of the night and hang up. It was a childish prank. He didn’t mean any harm. I found out when her father called me and complained.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I talked to Jared and he stopped the calls. Really, this is not important, unless you think Penny murdered my son. She doesn’t seem capable of murder, if you ask me. Besides, she broke up with him, but I don’t think she hated him in the end. They were just kids and made foolish mistakes.”

  “Are you sure he stopped?”

  She nodded.

  “Did Peter help you with your son?”

  “Not enough.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “This is all Peter’s fault. If he hadn’t had an affair, none of this would have happened!”

  “None of what would have happened?”

  “All of it! The divorce, the woman renting a room from me, Jared’s problems. The murder.” She glared at Dave. “If it hadn’t been for him my son would still be alive!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Maurelle woke up as the first hints of morning sun peeked through her bedroom window. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was and believed herself at home, her childhood home. The moment soon passed as remnants of sleep faded and everything returned to her. She stretched and sat up, then tossed off her covers. A shiver followed. Apparently, it was downright chilly in the morning at this altitude. She sprang out of bed and rushed to her duffel bag to get out clean clothes, but stopped short, remembering she’d unpacked the bag last night.

  She dressed warm and went into the narrow hallway, hoping that Fabienne and Jeannette were still asleep. As she padded down the hall passing each of their rooms, loud snores escaped through both open doorways. She snickered to herself and carefully tiptoed on down the creaking stairs.

  Strolling along the village’s main street toward the bakery she’d glimpsed the night before, she breathed in the sweet scent of mature trimmed bougainvillea hugging intricate arbors, enticing entrance to mountain cottages. Outside the bakery, the sweet scents of cinnamon, bread, and coffee drew her in. A stout elderly woman with platinum hair and a heavily flour-stained apron covering her checkered dress looked up at her, startled.

  “Bonjour,” Maurelle said. “Are you open for business?”

  “But certainly,” the woman said. “What can I get for you?”

  Maurelle studied the assorted breads and pastries, which looked wonderful, making her mouth water, especially since dinner the previous night had consisted of an unsatisfyingly miniscule quantity of fruit, crackers, and juice they’d bought along the way to snack on in the car. “I would like three each of your croissants, and un chausson aus pommes?”

  “May I get you anything else?” the woman asked.

  Distracted momentarily, Maurelle studied the baker, wondering her age. The woman’s face was plump, with skin pulled tight, resembling animal skin stretched over one end of a bongo drum. Even without wrinkles, though, faded blue eyes, dark age-spots on her skin, and knotted veins in the backs of thick legs suggested an age close to Jeannette’s and Fabienne’s.

  “Oh, I want a loaf of your pain de compagne. Three large coffees, too.” Maurelle smiled and pulled out her wallet.

  Moments later, the woman filled three paper coffee cups, and wrapped up the bread and pastries, all the while stealing peeks at Maurelle. “What brings you to our little village, if you don’t mind my asking?” she asked, carefully placing the cups in a tray and food into a sack.

  “Uh . . . my family owns a house on the edge of town,” Maurelle said. “They haven’t been back here and years and, well, they figured it was time to visit again.”

  “The Laurent house?” the woman asked, eyeing Maurelle curiously.

  “Yes, that’s it. How much do I owe you?”

  “It’s on me. Is Fabienne with you?”

  “Yes, she is. She’s sleeping and I wanted to surprise her and Jeannette with breakfast.”

  “Jeannette is here, too? How splendid! After their breakfast, would you please ask them stop in to see me? We must catch up.”

  “I will. And thank you so much for these. Who should I say sent them?”

  “Oh, pardon. I am Nathalie Bardot.”

  Maurelle departed the shop and rushed back to the house. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone, but figured no more than half an hour. When she opened the front door, she was startled to see Fabienne standing at the top of the stairs, looking sternly down at her.

  “Oh, there you are. We thought you’d run away again.”

  Maurelle held out both her hands, one with a tray of coffees, the other with a bag. “I’ve brought breakfast. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “What a dear girl you are,” Fabienne said, clapping her hands together, traces of her former stern demeanor disappearing. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she said, “Did you see that, Jeannette? I told you she wouldn’t desert us.”

  Maurelle spun around. Jeannette stood in the kitchen doorway, pouting and with her arms folded.

  “You should have waited for us,” Jeannette said. “We would have liked to go out.”

  “I’m sorry,” Maurelle said as she walked over to the couch. “I wanted to surprise you both, to do something special because you’ve both been so good to me.”

  She
set the items down on the coffee table. “I brought your favorite—un chausson aus pommes.”

  Jeannette’s face warmed into a smile. Uncrossing her arms, she glided over to the couch. “I do love those, you know, although no one makes them as good as our Fabienne.”

  Maurelle nodded. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I met an old friend of yours, a woman named Nathalie Bardot. She gave us all of this at no charge. She said she’s looking forward to catching up with you.”

  “She’s still here?” Jeannette asked. “I hadn’t really expected that our old friends would still be around. I thought practically everyone we knew back in those days would have moved away or passed on, didn’t you, Fabienne?”

  “Oh, I do hope that Cecile and Vincent are still here. Do you think we could look them up later?”

  “Well, I don’t see why not,” Jeannette said. “We should talk to Nathalie first though. She can catch us up on village gossip, to be sure.”

  Fabienne, who sipped her coffee, set the cup down at looked at Maurelle. “What did you tell Nathalie about us, dear?”

  “I told her that my family owns a house on the edge of town and that they haven’t been back here in years. From that, she figured out that I was with you, Fabienne. I hope you don’t mind my calling you my family. It was presumptuous, but I thought it would sound believable.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” Fabienne said. “When we talk to the locals, we’ll use that. We’ll tell them that you’re my grandson’s wife.”

  At the unexpected words, Maurelle’s hand involuntarily jerked and coffee splashed over the cup’s edge. She was getting to know Fabienne, certainly, but the older woman could still surprise her.

  After the delicious breakfast, the women made a list of things they needed from the store and headed out together. They bought groceries, more cleaning supplies, and candles. After they took those back to the house, they went back to buy more things. When Fabienne and Jeannette found some of their old friends, Maurelle offered to continue the shopping alone, giving them time to visit. She didn’t mind being on her own a bit. In fact, although she enjoyed their company, at times she also found them a bit overmuch.