I avoided the question. “Where were you the night that Joseph was murdered?”
Her face fell as if she decided something about me and didn’t like it. “I was at the Millersburg No Kill Shelter. It was my turn to spend the night there with the animals.”
“Was anyone there with you?”
She sighed. “Do the animals count?”
I sighed. “No.”
“Then, no.” She blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that I’d react this way. I hadn’t seen Joseph face-to-face in such a long time until I visited Running Stitch—we’d avoided each other for years—and then I find out the next day he died in the same store. It’s too much.”
Suddenly a yowl that could have awakened the dead cut through the silence in the shop. Oliver barked. Then, a crash as a vase fell from its precarious perch on the top of a bookshelf.
Woof! Woof!
An orange streak jumped over an urn sitting on a chest of drawers and flew into the back of the shop. Oliver was in pursuit. I grabbed him by the collar. “Oliver Braddock! Look at the mess you made.”
Jessica hurried around the corner and pushed the urn back from the edge of the chest of drawers with her finger.
The orange cat reappeared and leapt to the top of another bookcase. He glared at Oliver and hissed. Oliver fainted dead away.
“Is your dog okay?”
I sighed. “He does this when he gets too worked up. The vet insists that it’s nothing to worry about. There’s nothing physically wrong with him. Do you have any water?”
She skirted back around the counter and handed me a half-full bottle of spring water. I opened the bottle and splashed some on Oliver’s face.
He blinked at me, and then shook his face. His jowls sent water flying in all directions, including on me. I squatted next to him. “It’s okay, boy. The kitty’s not going to hurt you.”
He examined my face as if unconvinced and closed his eyes.
The orange cat hissed from his perch.
Jessica laughed. “Oliver found Melon after all.” Watching the animals’ antics seemed to lighten her mood.
I tapped Oliver’s cheeks. He opened one eye. He hadn’t fainted. He faked it in the name of self-preservation. He played possum. I stood. “I’m so sorry about that. I can pay for the vase.”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t a real Ming.”
Thank heavens for that.
She blushed. “Thank you for listening. It helped to tell someone about Joseph and me after all this time. You’re right. I have to be more careful and not show his death has affected me. If you, who I just met, picked up on it, others are bound to too.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, feeling guilt tickle at my heart. I hadn’t asked those questions to comfort her. I’d asked them to find yet another viable suspect to hand on a silver platter to Sheriff Mitchell with a nice calligraphically written note that said, “See all these people who wanted to knock off Joseph Walker, and you’re wasting your time on little old me.”
Chapter Seventeen
As I left Out of Time, I wondered, Will I still be pining over Ryan thirty years from now? The idea made me nauseous. Maybe that was another good reason I left Texas. Maybe if I had still been in Dallas and saw Ryan often, he would be harder to get over. My mother would love it if I died of a broken heart. The funeral would be the event of the season. She could easily cross out “wedding” on all the invitations and replace it with “memorial.” It would have the flair of the dramatic that she desired.
When Oliver and I got back home, he wiggled out the doggy door into the backyard.
I watched him through the kitchen window for a few minutes. He snuffled at the ground. The cinnamon roll sat inside its box on the counter. I still hadn’t eaten it. Sounded like a good lunch to me. I poured myself a glass of milk, opened the box, and froze. There was a huge bite out of the bun. I hadn’t bitten into it—and neither had Oliver. There was no way that he could reach the box on the counter and the bite was from a human’s mouth, not a dog’s. Someone had been inside my house.
Oliver. I grabbed the broom and rushed into the backyard. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in the yard, but I still walked around the perimeter with my broom held in attack position. My next-door neighbor, an elderly woman I’d yet to meet, trimmed her roses. Her eyes widened, and she scurried into her house as I stomped by. Good. Maybe she would spread the word that I was armed and dangerous.
I sat on the concrete steps leading into the kitchen and watched Oliver dig in the garden. I half turned and pushed in on his doggy door. It moved easily. I needed to do something about it. Was this how the pastry mangler entered? It would have to be a very small person, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I could call Mr. Gooding to take care of it, but I was unwilling to wait. The problem had to be fixed immediately.
I stood and pulled my tool kit out from under the kitchen sink. The kit was a moving gift from my father, since he’d said he wouldn’t be close by to be my handyman. The toolbox was pink, the tape measure was pink, and all the tools had pink handles. I removed the hammer and a box of nails from the toolbox and carried them outside. Leaving the door all the way open, I sat back on the step.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! I sent the nail through the rubber doggy door into the wooden door itself. The nail bent and fell on the concrete block.
Oliver barked.
“I know you like your doggy door, but it’s not safe. When the killer’s in the slammer, we can reopen it.”
He whimpered.
I sighed and picked another nail from the box. Thwack! Thwack! That nail bent too.
Oliver barked sharply, and I glanced up from my DIY project, convinced I would find a wild man with a rotary cutter in my backyard. Instead I saw Sheriff Mitchell standing at the gate. His faded jeans were gone and he was back in cop clothes, although he didn’t look any less handsome. “What are you doing?’ He carried a clipboard in his hand.
I jumped up from the cement step. “I’m trying to close Oliver’s doggy door.”
“Why?”
“You may know there is a murderer on the loose, and he might be coming after me.” Tears threatened at the corners of my eyes. Some were from fear of a cold-blooded killer, and some were the result of my incompetence with a hammer. “And he ate my cinnamon bun.”
“Your what?”
“My cinnamon bun. Rachel gave it to me yesterday after I found—well, you know—and I just opened the box. There’s a huge bite out of it.”
“Are you sure you didn’t eat it? No midnight snacking?”
“Of course, I’m sure,” I snapped.
“Show it to me.”
I led him into the house and pointed at the bakery box on the counter like it was exhibit A in a murder case. Who knew? Maybe it would be. Conviction by sugary pastry.
“I’m going to take this with me when I leave.”
“Are you going to test it for DNA or something?”
He stopped short of rolling his eyes. “Or something.” Mitchell held out his hand. “Give me the hammer.”
I handed it to him and followed him back outside.
He squatted in front of the door, placed his clipboard on the ground, and pulled four nails from the box. Mitchell held up the nails for me to see. “These are to hang pictures, not for major construction.”
“I doubt my dad thought I would need to fortify a doggy door when he bought them.”
Mitchell grimaced and held three of the nails in his mouth. With one thwack of the hammer he drove the first nail home. The three other nails were in place with three more strikes of the hammer. He stood and gave the hammer back to me.
Oliver barked. Mitchell scratched him between the ears. “I bet you didn’t like that, did you, buddy?”
I tried to tear my eyes away from Mitchell, but I watc
hed his every move. He caught me staring and smiled. He picked up the clipboard. “I brought you a copy of your statement. You can read through it while I check out your house.” He gazed at me with those aquamarine eyes.
“Yes,” I murmured with my legs feeling like molded Jell-O. Get a grip, Angie. I cleared my throat. “Yes, I have nothing to hide.”
He nodded. “Good.”
I stepped around him and opened the door to the kitchen. Oliver shot through and landed on his pillow under the table. Mitchell laughed.
“How long will this take?” I asked.
“Just a few minutes. I’ll start on the second floor.”
I sat at the kitchen table to read over my statement. As I reviewed it, I was distracted by the sound of Mitchell moving around in the rooms upstairs.
When he came into the kitchen, I stood up. “Find anything?”
He shook his head. “That’s good news for you.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the deed?” he countered with his own question.
“Deed?” I squeaked.
Mitchell folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
I tilted my chin up. “I wasn’t pretending. How did you find out about it?”
“Since you haven’t been that forthcoming as to why Joseph Walker was inside your shop, I asked other sources.”
“Who?”
“That’s not important. What is important is we have a plausible reason as to why Joseph was inside Running Stitch in the middle of the night when the rest of the county was asleep.”
“You think he went in there looking for the deed?”
“It’s still missing, isn’t it?”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
“Have you been searching for it?”
“Yes. The quilting ladies have too. We can’t find it anywhere. If that’s why Joseph went into the store, it was for nothing. I searched every nook and cranny of that shop. The deed’s not there.”
“If Joseph found it first, what would that mean?”
I squirmed. “I guess it depended on how honest he was.”
The corners of the sheriff’s mouth tilted up into an ironic smile. “In my experience, if someone is breaking into another person’s place of business in the middle of the night, they aren’t doing it to do that person any favors.”
“So Joseph was there to find the deed,” I paused, “and destroy it. Without the deed, I can’t prove the shop is really mine.”
“Right.”
“That still doesn’t explain the other person, the killer, in the shop.”
He swallowed. “It would if that other person was you.”
A chill ran the length of my body. “It wasn’t.”
He frowned as if considering what to say next.
I had to convince the sheriff there were other options. “Did you find any other fingerprints in the stockroom?”
He frowned. “No, and there were no fingerprints on the back door or murder weapon. The killer wore gloves and wiped the cutters clean for good measure.”
My face fell. “Can I get back into the store? I left some items I need inside Running Stitch. It would only take me a minute to go inside and grab them.”
He sighed. “What would that be?”
I thought quickly. “Some business files. I’m expecting some deliveries this week, and I want to call the companies and make arrangements for them to deliver them to my house.”
He was quiet for a full minute.
“Well?”
“I’m mulling this over.”
Mulling, really?
“Not getting these files will be detrimental to my business,” I said, shooting for a concerned business owner.
That wasn’t entirely true. I could probably find everything I needed online at home, but I wasn’t going to tell the sheriff that. I needed to get inside Running Stitch.
“I won’t be able to let you in today.” He paused. “I have a prior engagement.”
Was that code for date?
“That’s okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “I can go in myself. I have my key, and it’s clo—”
“No.” His voice sharpened. “You can’t go into Running Stitch alone. If you do, you will be in serious trouble.”
O-kay.
“Then, what am I supposed to do, Sheriff?” The lightness was gone from my voice. “I need those files.”
He sighed. I had a feeling he had been doing that a lot more since he met me. He continued, “Deputy Anderson is on duty today. I will give him a call, and he’ll meet you in front of the shop. Depending on where he is in the county, it may take him up to an hour to get there. Do not go inside until he gets there. Understood?”
“Understood,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “When Anderson lets you inside, you’re banned from the stockroom. That area is strictly off-limits. I hope your files aren’t inside there, because if they are, that’s tough.”
He said files as if he didn’t believe my excuse for reentering the shop. The nerve of him, to doubt me. “Thank you, Sheriff.” I handed him the clipboard.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“Thank you for fixing the doggy door too.”
He watched me. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Angie. I promise.”
Before I could react, he slipped out of the back door with the bakery box in hand.
After Mitchell left, Oliver and I went straight to Running Stitch. Rolling Brook’s main drag was completely still. There wasn’t a car, a buggy, or even another human being on the street. All the shops were closed on Sunday, including Miller’s Amish Bakery. I parked my car in the spot in front of the quilt shop. I glanced at Oliver. “We could have totally been in and out of the shop by now. We will remember for next time we have the hankering to break and enter, okay?”
He barked agreement.
Sugartree Street wasn’t completely peaceful, I decided as I climbed out of the car, and Oliver hopped onto the pavement beside me. Yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed the front door of Running Stitch in an angry yellow X. I wondered if I should have brought my broom with me.
Oliver whimpered. His sympathetic pushed-in face always cheered me up. “I don’t think this is what Aunt Eleanor thought would happen when she left me the shop.”
Part of me wanted to sit safely inside my SUV until Officer Anderson showed up, but a stronger part of me knew this might be my only chance to get a peek inside Joseph’s shop. I snuck around the side of the store through a narrow alley between my quilt shop and the woodworking shop that was only the width of a person.
A waist-high white fence surrounded the back of the quilt shop’s property, but there was no such fence behind the woodworker’s place. An eave connected to the woodworker’s building hung back about ten feet into the yard; it was held up by two thick wooden posts. Underneath the eave was the outdoor version of Joseph’s workshop. Sawdust covered the cement block floor, and lathes, sanders, and table saws waited at the ready. A vise held a half-completed chair leg in a death grip. A piece of sandpaper lay on the workbench beside the vise, as if the user only stepped away from the project for a minute with every intention of coming back. Had Joseph been sanding the chair leg before he went into my shop and met his end?
Was Mitchell right? Was Joseph searching for the deed? I had to admit it was the only reason I could think of that explained why Joseph was inside the quilt shop. Did he meet someone there? Did that someone kill him?
I let Oliver into Running Stitch’s yard through the gate. “Stay,” I told him.
He seemed unconcerned and ran off to dig up Aunt Eleanor’s flower garden.
I stood still and listened for the sound of Deputy Anderson’s approaching patrol car.
Hearing nothing, I inched on the woodworker’s property. I walked under the eave to the back door of the shop. Cupping my hands beside my eyes, I peered inside. It was too dark to see anything. Disappointed, I stepped back.
Bang! Something fell to the ground to my left. I jumped three feet in the air and knocked over a half-completed end table. The table couldn’t hold my weight, and one of its legs broke off as it crashed to the ground with me on top of it.
I caught my breath as I rolled onto my back. I froze at the sounds of footsteps running down the alley.
Chapter Eighteen
My heart pounded so loudly in my ears, I didn’t hear other footsteps approaching. “Miss Braddock, what on earth are you doing?”
I blinked from my position flat on my back to find Deputy Anderson standing above me with his gun drawn. Slowly, I sat up. “Can you help me up?”
He lowered the gun and seemed to consider my request.
“What are you going to do? Shoot me? Put the gun away, please.”
The young officer holstered his gun and gave me his hand.
I wiped the sawdust from my backside. “Did you see the guy running away?”
Anderson’s eyes flicked around as if he expected the bogeyman to jump out. “Guy? What guy?”
“The guy that was just here two seconds ago.”
“Did you see someone?”
My face grew hot. “No, but I heard the person run away back down the alley.”
He crossed his arms. “I came from the alley and I didn’t see anyone.”
I gritted my teeth. “I know I heard something.”
“Maybe it was a raccoon.”
“I don’t think so. Unless it was a raccoon on steroids,” I muttered.
His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing over here? The sheriff said you’d be waiting for me out front.”
Think fast, Angie.
“I, well, I came over here to see if anyone was in the woodworker’s shop. I wanted to give my condolences to the family.” I smiled sweetly.
His brow furrowed. “It’s Sunday. There ain’t anyone in Rolling Brook on Sunday.”
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