Cut to the Corpse

by Lucy Lawrence

  “What are you talking about?” Tenley asked as the two women stopped by the table.

  “Oh, my, that really is lovely,” Marie said, distracted by the hope chest on the table.

  “Goodness knows, Betty Cartwright needs all the hope she can get,” Ella said.

  “Well, she is trying to wrangle old Saul Hanratty into a relationship,” Marie said. “Personally, I’d hold out for someone with a little less nose hair.”

  “It matches her whiskers,” Ella said.

  “She doesn’t—does she?” Marie asked with wide eyes.

  “I saw Ruby tweeze them myself,” Ella said. “Three big ones on her chin.”

  Marie’s hand went self-consciously to her own chin.

  “Ladies,” Brenna said in exasperation. “What brought you charging in here? Surely, it wasn’t to tell us that Betty Cartwright has a whisker issue.”

  “Jake Haywood was arrested,” they said in unison.

  “What?” Tenley cried.

  “This morning,” Ella continued. “Chief Barker showed up at the garage with a search warrant.”

  “We don’t know the details, but he found a pair of bloody boots. They think it might be Clue’s blood on them,” Marie said.

  “Oh, my God,” Tenley said. She looked at Brenna in horror.

  “Where’s Tara?” Brenna asked.

  “She’s at the inn with her parents,” Ella said. “Apparently, that’s where they found Jake this morning.”

  “Do you think . . .” Tenley let the question dangle.

  “No,” Brenna said. She had no idea why, but she felt it deep down in her gut. “Jake didn’t do it.”

  Tenley seemed to sag with relief.

  “I’m going to go and see Tara,” Brenna said. She hurried into the break room to grab her purse.

  “I’ll come with you,” Tenley offered.

  “You can’t,” Brenna said. “The Stuarts are coming in to discuss their wedding invitations.”

  “Darn it, come straight back here and tell me everything,” Tenley said. “And tell her I’m thinking about her.”

  “I will,” Brenna promised. She headed for the front door and felt Marie and Ella hot on her heels. She spun around and stared them down. “No. You are not coming.”

  They gave her looks remarkably similar to Hank’s when he wanted something he shouldn’t have. It didn’t work for them either.

  “Help Tenley with the shop,” she said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  The elderly twins gave her put-upon looks but headed to the break room to store their purses with only a smidgen of grumbling, just loud enough so Brenna could hear it but not really make it out. She gave Tenley an exasperated look and raced out the door.

  It was a cool day for June, so Brenna decided to walk. The Morse Point Inn sat on a lush sweep of property on the south side of the town green. An imposing old Victorian, once the home of Elias Morse, Tenley’s great-great great-great-grandfather, it was sold during the Depression to keep the family afloat. Since then it had changed hands repeatedly until it was bought in the 1970s and converted into an inn.

  A tall black iron fence encircled the property and Brenna walked through the main gate and up the gravel walkway, lined with white azalea bushes, to the broad front porch. The house was white with black shutters and sported two turrets, one on each side, and a sloped mansard roof in the middle. Gingerbread woodwork decorated the eaves and gave the house an artistic flare. Brenna crossed to the red double doors. She pushed the one on the right open, and tapped the small silver bell on the wooden front counter.

  Preston Kelly poked his head out of the office door behind the counter and looked relieved to see it was her.

  “Brenna,” he said. “I’m so glad it’s you. I’ve been running interference for the Montgomerys all morning and it’s just exhausting.”

  Preston Kelly was a tall, thin man in his early sixties. He was bald on top and kept the remaining hair on his head cut very short. He and his life partner Gary Carlisle had bought the inn a decade before and were the driving force behind the Morse Point Board of Tourism.

  Brenna liked them, not only because they had bought several of her decoupage pieces for the inn, but because they shared her love of the arts and Morse Point was better for having them reside here.

  “The press?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I actually had to turn the garden hose on Ed Johnson to make him get off my property. The man is a terrier.”

  Brenna laughed. She would have liked to have seen the local editor in chief get a good dousing. She’d had her own issues with him storming her front door a few months before.

  “Is Tara here?” she asked.

  “Yeah, she’s upstairs in her parents’ suite.”

  “Would it be all right if I went up?” she asked.

  “Sure, I know you’re friends, and Lord knows she needs one right now,” he said. “It’s the last door on the right.”

  “Thanks, Preston.” Brenna dashed up the curved staircase.

  She was halfway down the hallway when she heard the raised voices.

  “Enough is enough, Tara,” Mr. Montgomery was saying. “It is time for you to give up this romance and come home to Boston where you belong.”

  “I’m not giving up Jake.” Tara’s voice was high, tinged with tears and a little hysteria. “He didn’t do it. I know he didn’t.”

  “Then who did?” Tiffany’s voice was lower than the others. She was obviously trying to keep it calm, but her voice was discouraged as if she couldn’t believe Jake had let them down so terribly.

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t him,” Tara said.

  Brenna knocked on the door. It seemed as good a time as any to interrupt. She could tell they had all gone still on the other side of the door, probably expecting an onslaught from a reporter who had gotten by Preston.

  “Tara!” she called. “It’s me, Brenna.”

  The door was yanked open, and Tara hugged her close.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said against her shoulder.

  “It’s going to be all right.” Brenna patted her back, hoping her words would prove true.

  Tara stepped back. Her long pale hair was in disarray and her face was red and blotchy and streaked with tears. She was barefoot and wearing a pair of jeans and a lavender V-neck T-shirt. It looked as if she barely had the wherewithal to dress herself.

  Brenna glanced at her parents. Tiffany and Tyler were in their usual neatly pressed and tidy attire. The only thing that gave away their distress was the strain etched in their faces in the tiny lines around their eyes and mouths like stress fractures in concrete.

  Brenna had never seen that kind of strain on her parents’ faces during her own struggles, and for a moment she envied the complete and unconditional love Tara received from her parents. She was a lucky girl. But then, perhaps that was why Tara was such a nice person: knowing only kindness had taught her to be unfailingly kind.

  “You heard the news?” Tiffany asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It’s not true,” Tara said. She stood with her feet apart and her hands on her hips in a fighter stance. “Jake would never harm anyone, no matter what they had done.”

  “I don’t think he did it, either,” Brenna said.

  “Great, just great,” Tyler said sarcastically. “The paper artist says he’s innocent, so gee, he must be.”

  “Daddy.” Tara’s voice was reproving. “Brenna is my friend and she’s been very good to me, please don’t talk to her like that.”

  “It’s all right,” Brenna said.

  “No, it isn’t,” Tara said. “You understand what I feel for Jake. Mother and Daddy need to understand, too. This isn’t a schoolgirl crush. It isn’t a phase that I’ll outgrow. I’m not going to come to my senses and leave Jake in a year or two. He is my soul mate, and I love him. My God, I love him so much sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe without him. He is my heart, my life, my everyt
hing. If he goes to jail, I will live for the days that I get to see him. This is a love that will never die. Never.”

  As she spoke, Tara was transformed from silly, young girl to strong woman. It was amazing. Brenna believed her—she would love Jake until the day she died—and judging by the teary expressions on her parents’ faces, they did, too.

  Tyler had the grace to look abashed and he cupped the back of his neck with his hand as he gave Brenna a sideways glance.

  “My daughter is right,” he said. “Please forgive my rudeness.”

  “Done,” Brenna said. “I can’t imagine how stressful this must be for you. Tara, did you tell them what we found out last night?”

  “I did,” she said. “I told Chief Barker, too, but he was so focused on taking Jake in, I don’t know that he was listening.”

  “Don’t worry,” Brenna said. “I’m sure Jake will tell him, too.”

  “I hope so,” Tara fretted. “I tried to go visit, but they won’t let me see him.”

  “Does he have an attorney?”

  “I have our family attorney representing him right now,” Tyler said. “They are calling in their best criminal litigator.”

  “I just can’t believe this is happening,” Tara said. “I’d rather they arrested me. I want to go sit with the Haywoods, but I’m afraid they’ll blame me.”

  “They have no reason to blame you for anything, sweetie,” Tiffany said. She wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “None of this is your fault.”

  “If Jake hadn’t started dating me, none of this—” Tara broke off with a sob, but Brenna interrupted her, “You don’t know that. We don’t know who killed Clue or why, and until we do, we can’t go assigning blame. The only truly guilty party is the killer.”

  Tara gave her a weepy nod.

  Brenna’s cell phone chimed in her purse.

  “Excuse me,” she said as she fished it out of her bag. She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello.”

  “Brenna Miller?” a low voice asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It’s Chief Barker. Could you come to the station at your earliest convenience, say, in fifteen minutes?”

  “Um, sure,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Good,” he said. He hung up before she had a chance to ask him what this was about, but judging by his tone it wasn’t good.

  Chapter 17

  “I have to go,” she said to Tara. “How about I talk to the Haywoods? I’ll let them know how you feel and find out if there is any news about Jake.”

  “Will you?”

  “Absolutely,” Brenna said. “You eat something and get cleaned up and I’ll call as soon as I can.”

  “Oh, thank you, Brenna.” Tara gave her a bone crusher of a hug.

  Brenna left the suite, trying to suck in enough air to get her lungs to reinflate.

  She used her cell phone to give Tenley an update and then headed over to the jail. She could see several news vans parked out front and Ed Johnson holding court amidst a swarm of journalists.

  She decided it might be better to enter stage right. She circled the building and used the back entrance, the one the police used, to enter the building.

  She kept her head high and tried to appear as if she knew where she was going. She knew from living in Boston that the people who stuck out were the ones who gawked or looked obviously lost.

  The small station was abuzz. Phones were ringing, voices were loud, and everyone appeared to be in motion. Except for two people, who were sitting on a bench outside the chief’s glass windowed office, John and Margie Haywood.

  John was wearing his navy blue coveralls from the garage with his name embroidered over the left breast pocket in cursive. The knees were worn and the hems a little frayed, bespeaking the fact that John earned his living with manual labor.

  Margie must have been at work at the elementary school already, as she was wearing a long, denim skirt with a medical scrubs shirt that had tiny kittens playing with balls of yarn all over it. She had on white tennis shoes and clutched her purse in her lap, much like a doctor would carry his black bag. Brenna would have laid odds that her purse was full of tissues, hand sanitizer, and lollipops.

  Both of the Haywoods looked to be in shock. John was silently staring at the opposite wall, while Margie gently tapped her fingers on top of her bag, as if marking the seconds as they passed.

  “Hi, Margie, John,” Brenna greeted them as she approached.

  “Oh, hello, Brenna,” Margie said. “John, you remember Brenna Miller, she works over at the paper store.”

  “Jeep, 2003, had some brake work done a few months back,” he said. “How’re they holding up?”

  “Fine, just fine,” Brenna said. “Jake did a great job on them.”

  “He’s a good mechanic,” John said. His eyes skimmed past Brenna’s to go back to staring at the wall.

  “He is good,” Brenna agreed. “And not just as a mechanic, but he’s a good person as well.”

  Margie’s eyes watered up and she patted Brenna’s hand. “Thank you.”

  “I just saw Tara,” Brenna said. Neither John nor Margie said anything, so she continued, “She’d like to come and be with you, and wait for Jake, but she doesn’t want to intrude.”

  John and Margie exchanged a look.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea with the press and all,” John said. He glanced quickly at his wife as if deferring to her, and she nodded in agreement.

  “I don’t want her here,” Margie said. Her lips, usually parted in a warm smile, were thin with anger.

  Brenna’s eyes widened. She wasn’t sure what she had expected but it wasn’t this tightly controlled rage.

  “Maybe it’s harsh of me,” Margie continued, “but I do blame her. Jake was never in any trouble before she came around. Even when Clue tried to talk him into something foolish, Jake said no. He’s a good boy, and now he’s being arrested for a crime he didn’t commit and it’s all because of her.”

  “Now, Margie,” John cut in, his voice soothing, but she snapped, “No! I’m not going to change my mind. He’s better off without her. In fact, he’s better off in jail if it keeps him away from her. She’s trouble and I knew it the minute I laid my eyes upon her.”

  John watched helplessly while Margie fished a tissue out of her bag to dab her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Brenna said.

  Margie sniffed and dabbed her eyes again. Her voice wavered when she said, “No, I’m sorry, dear. I had no reason to take that tone with you. I just wish Jake had never gotten tangled up in this mess.”

  “That’s understandable,” Brenna said. She was relieved to see a glimpse of the old Margie shine through her grief. Brenna couldn’t imagine how awful it must be to have a son arrested for a crime he didn’t commit. She supposed she’d have a hard time not blaming everyone around him as well.

  The door to the office swung open and Chief Barker stepped out. His gray eyebrows went up a couple of notches when he took in Brenna.

  “Can we see him?” Margie asked. Her voice was high-pitched and hopeful.

  “I’m sorry, Margie,” he said. “Not just yet. He’s had some breakfast, however, so don’t you worry about him.”

  “You let him know we’re here, though, didn’t you?” John asked.

  “He knows,” Chief Barker said. “Brenna, nice of you to stop by. Could you step into my office?”

  “Sure.” She gave the Haywoods a nod and walked through the door.

  The chief’s office looked much the same as it had upon her last visit. A large stuffed trout was mounted on one wall, several photos of the chief holding a string of bass were on another, and beside those were several pictures of the chief with his wife, children, and grandchildren.

  If pictures told the whole story, Brenna judged the chief led a very good life.

  She took the seat across from his desk. The padding was thin but it had armr
ests, she put her purse on the floor by her feet and waited for him to speak.

  “So, I hear you were out with Jake and Tara last night,” he began.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Brenna said. “Chief, is this an official questioning?”

  “Do you want it to be?” he asked.

  “Meaning?”

  “I can arrest you and ask you questions to make it more official, or you can just answer me now as a witness, your call.”

  “Witness works,” Brenna said.

  “Tell me what happened last night,” he said. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  Brenna repeated the events of the evening. She figured Jake had already told him everything they had learned from Valerie Scott and that she was corroborating his story. She knew the chief would be checking with Tenley, Matt, and Nate as well so she tried to keep her account as accurate as possible.

  The chief took notes while they spoke. When she mentioned her phone call with Dom Cappicola, he paused to study her face.

  “I know the rumors about the Cappicola family,” she said. “But Dom is different. He’s trying to make the family business legitimate.”

  Chief Barker gave her a doubtful look and scribbled something in his notebook. Brenna wanted to peek, but she had a feeling it would say something unflattering about her intelligence quotient for befriending a mobster.

  When she wound down by telling how she and Nate walked Tara home, the chief sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “So, what do you not understand about the phrase ‘butt out’?” he asked.

  “Are you going to yell at me?” she asked.

  “I should,” he said. “But I doubt it would do any good.”

  “Probably not,” she agreed. She didn’t like raised voices and was happy to discourage him from yelling.

  “I am going to have to warn you, however, if you put one foot near this case again, I will arrest you for obstruction of justice or tampering with evidence, and if I can’t make those stick, I’ll nail you for jaywalking and make sure you stay locked up until the case is closed, am I clear?”