The Butler Didn't Do It (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 2)

by Claire Robyns

  “Okay,” I said softly, my vision suddenly blurred as my eyes watered. I don’t know why. They just did.

  Nate parked around the back of the town hall and I stayed in the truck while he escorted Jonas inside. Hardly any time had passed when I saw him striding around the side of the whitewashed building toward me.

  That was quick.

  Worried, I jumped down from the truck, ready for the next crisis.

  “Spinner’s booking him,” he explained. “He was happy to do the honors and I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

  “Oh.” I turned to climb up again.

  “Maddox, wait.” Nate pulled me around into a hug, his chin resting on the top of my head. “Just one minute, okay?”

  “Is everything alright?”

  “Yeah.”

  I stood there in his arms, my cheek pressed to his chest, and then I knew what this minute was for. To just be. I blanked out the rest of the world, Joe, murder, assault, divorce, and I breathed Nate in. I listened to the intimate beat of his heart against my cheek. I allowed myself to believe this was okay, the warmth enfolding me, the desire stirring deep inside, the heat building between us—just for a minute.

  The embrace loosened, his hands sliding down to my hips.

  I tilted my head up to look into his eyes, and felt myself drowning in the intensity of his smoky gaze. Not all physical passion and longing. He didn’t often open himself up to me like this, but for a brief moment I saw the raw emotion buried in his heart. It was a little overwhelming, to be honest, but not in a bad way. Not at all.

  “Nate…” I reached up to trace his firm, beautiful mouth.

  He caught my hand. “Don’t say it.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I said softly. I should, but I wasn’t going to stop him.

  “I know we have to take this slow. I know I have to wait until you sort your life out.” He pressed my fingers to his lips as he spoke. “But I was wrong to stay away while you did it. I want to be part of whatever you’re going through, Maddox. I want to be there for you.”

  I swallowed hard. And dear Lord, I’d never wanted to kiss a man as much as I wanted to kiss Nate right now. I restrained myself, though, because he was right. Wherever we ended up, I didn’t want us to start like this, me with one foot in a marriage and my heart still crooked and sore.

  I offered up a small smile. “I would like that, Nate.”

  FIFTEEN

  Sunday morning, I woke up fully restored to my old self. Nate had been appalled at the state of me last night, but most of the damage was just dirt that washed away. I’d soaked until my skin wrinkled, and Nate had patched the cut on my knee, applied ointment to my braised cheek, and then I’d curled into a deep sleep like a baby kitten.

  Nate, on the other hand, was starting to show wear and tear from spending two nights in a chair. His jaw was shadowed, his hair a worse mess than normal, his shirt wrinkled, that sort of thing. He looked absolutely adorable.

  He turned from the window as I came out from the bathroom. “Ready to go?”

  “I’ve been ready since you described that omelet,” I said. “I’m starving.”

  “It’s nothing fancy,” he warned.

  “You’re talking to someone who can’t boil an egg,” I said with a laugh as we left the room. “Trust me, I’ll be impressed.”

  Nate needed to go home for a shower and a change of clothes, and he’d insisted I tag along. He’d learnt his lesson about leaving me alone (his words, not mine.) Oh, and also, Jack was bringing Jonas over to pack his bags and leave, and Nate didn’t want me to be here.

  I didn’t mind. I was curious to see Nate’s log cabin, and even more curious about this breakfast he’d promised to cook up.

  It wasn’t yet seven am and the house was still fast asleep as we crept downstairs and out the front door.

  Once we were in the truck and on our way, Nate picked the conversation up again. “You were kidding about the egg, right?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head. “It either comes out like rubber or stringy goo or the shell cracks and leaks white slime.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe we should have boiled egg for breakfast. I could teach you.”

  “You don’t think my mother’s tried?”

  “Then how about scrambled egg?”

  “Sticks to the bottom of the pan like black smudge.”

  Nate refused to give up. “Everyone has at least one signature dish that they can make.”

  “Not me,” I said.

  “Salad?” he tried.

  “If you don’t mind chopped skin along with your celery.”

  He shuddered and, finally, accepted me for who I was. “I’ll never think of salad in the same way again.”

  I laughed, looked out the window at the passing scenery. Nate’s cabin lay halfway between Silver Firs and Auburn and we were headed north through a pass of magnificent slopes blanketed with satin green Pines.

  “So, who taught you to cook?” I asked. “Your mom?”

  There was a slight hesitation. “My mother died when I was ten.”

  My gaze shot to him. “Oh, Nate, I’m sorry.”

  He looked at me a moment, then turned his eyes back on the road. “Yeah, an aneurism, in the brain. Dad and I were, well, it was a shock, but that was a long time ago and we managed.”

  “Does your dad live close?”

  “New York City,” Nate said. “That’s where I grew up.”

  “And how on earth did you land up here?”

  “That is a long story.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We have time.”

  “Actually, we don’t,” he said and indicated to turn left.

  The dirt road speared through dense woods for another mile before dead-ending on a tiny lake. Nate turned left again and slowed right down to navigate the craters in the road.

  “I can see why you need a truck,” I said dryly.

  He slid me a grin. “Every man needs a truck.”

  When the cabin came into view, I had to blink a couple of times. I’d pictured something small and rustic made out of logs. The home that sprawled to the edge of the lake was definitely built of logs, but that’s where the comparison ended.

  Nate cut the engine and grabbed the overnight toiletry bag he’d used at my place. “The view from the deck is better,” he said when he saw I was too busy staring to realize I should be moving.

  “This place is stunning, Nate.” I climbed out and followed him down the bark chip path to a heavy wooden front door.

  “Thanks.” He opened the door and waved me inside. “You don’t mind if I shower before breakfast?”

  “No, of course not.” We walked into a large open plan area, oak floorboards, set of leather sofas, a four-seater dining room table, a wall of glass on the lake side.

  “Coffee?”

  I turned from the wall of glass with a mocking smile. “He cooks and he makes coffee.”

  “I can cook egg and grill a mean barbeque, that’s about it,” he clarified as we went through to the kitchen. “And before you get too excited, my coffee-making talents don’t extend to cappuccino.”

  “Well, there’s my perfect illusion shattered,” I groaned.

  His grin came on slow, hitching at the corner of his mouth. “I have other talents to compensate.”

  “I’ll just bet you do.” I dragged my eyes off that gorgeous mouth and took myself to the breakfast bar to deal with the fluttering butterflies.

  This friendship deal wouldn’t last long if he kept doing things like that. I perched on a barstool and planted my elbows on the counter. There was a wall of windows here, too, bringing the glassy lake right into the kitchen. The serenity reminded me of Hollow House, when I’d first moved in, before I’d brought paying guests in to ruin it.

  I sighed and spun my chair about to face Nate and reality. “Now that we’ve ruled Jonas out, do you honestly think that Charles Sitter or Julie Brown are capable of murder?”

  “You’d be surprised at what people are
capable of.” Nate switched the percolator on, then leant back against the counter. “Fieldman came clean about his nocturnal activities.”

  My eyes widened on him. “You questioned him about the smuggling?”

  “I like to be thorough,” Nate said. “But I doubt there’s anything there. His wife confronted him about large deposits in a secret bank account. The money’s from a finder fee arrangement his organization has established and it’s not huge amounts, a couple of grand here and there. He kept the account secret from his wife because he was planning to leave her and didn’t want it divvied up in the divorce settlement.”

  “Aha,” I exclaimed. “There’s a reason, right there.”

  Nate gave me one of his endless-patience looks. “Do you know why the divorce rate in this country is so high?”

  I had a few good answers, but he didn’t wait for them.

  “Because it’s a hell of a lot easier to get divorced than to murder your spouse,” he said.

  Perhaps, but I wasn’t ready to absolve Fieldman. “What about the warehouse? Apparently Lydia followed him to an abandoned warehouse.”

  “Fieldman was trying to be discrete by parking there.” He reached for a mug from the overhead cupboard. “His mistress’ apartment is a half-block walk from the warehouse.”

  “He certainly has a convenient explanation for everything,” I retorted.

  “We’re still looking into Fieldman, and that includes verifying that he just flew in from Turkey, but so far we have nothing suspicious.”

  I blew out a breath. “Which leaves us with Charles and Julie.”

  “I keep going back to Charles Sitter,” Nate said. “It’s just a gut instinct, nothing solid, and I have no motive for him. Sitter has never worked; he lives off a trust fund. We did some digging and found a divorced wife and child, neither of whom have spoken to him in twenty years. He has no hobbies beyond the GRIMMS. There’s been no affairs over the years. Few attachments to anyone, and those don’t go very deep.”

  “So basically he has no life.”

  “And therefore no reason that would drive him to kill, unless he were a psychopath. We had a profile drawn up on him and he doesn’t fit the bill for that either.” Nate poured my coffee and stopped by the fridge to top it off with milk. “But he did have the opportunity to get the rope. He has a garden suite with direct access to the north forest. The man has a sharp mind, so he could plan something like this. I also saw the whiteboard note, that he didn’t stay in the dining room for dessert.”

  “That was Burns’ observation.”

  Nate nodded. “I spoke to him about it.”

  “But Lydia did stay for dessert,” I said. “Charles didn’t go to bed until eleven o’clock that night and he was only gone from the lounge for about fifteen minutes to fetch a newspaper from his room. The time he’s unaccounted for is so fragmented, there’s not really a stretch long enough to accomplish murder.”

  Nate pressed the mug into my hand. “That’s where the smart planning comes in. If he chopped the task up into preparation, setting the scene up, execution, then it could fit.”

  “Oh, I never thought of that.”

  “That’s why I’m the detective and you’re the sidekick.” Nate tapped a finger to the tip of my nose and turned to go.

  Totally chauvinistic and patronizing, but I got to be a sidekick. “Does that come with a costume?”

  “It comes with anything you want,” he threw back in a low, suggestive voice that raised the temperature in the kitchen a couple of degrees, and disappeared through the doorway.

  “You seriously have to stop that,” I muttered.

  I sipped on my coffee, marinating the concept of Charles Sitter as our prime suspect. He’d been friendly with Lydia, maybe even something of a father figure according to Miss Crawley— Oh! Crap!

  Sunday morning.

  Miss Crawley.

  Digest email.

  Nate.

  How on earth had I forgotten? I pulled my phone out for a fly-by check of all Miss Crawley’s social media platforms. No new posts or gossip, nothing about me. The panic grew hooks and barbs. She probably saves the juiciest bits for her Sunday digest wrap-up.

  I called Jenna, drumming my fingers impatiently on the counter top while the phone rang.

  “Maddie?” Jenna croaked.

  “Jenna, thank goodness! I was worried you were still sleeping.”

  “I was.”

  “Have you seen Miss Crawley’s digest email today?”

  Silence.

  “Jenna,” I huffed. “I know you subscribe.”

  “I was going to cancel, I swear.”

  “Right, and you can get right onto that as soon as you’ve checked today’s email. I need to know…”

  “What?” she asked when I didn’t finish.

  “You’ll know when you see it.”

  “It’s the crack of dawn, Maddie.” A gaping yawn sounded her end. “A little help here?”

  I glanced around to make sure Nate hadn’t returned before whispering, “Something about me being pregnant with Nate’s twins?”

  “Holy cow! I’m your best friend, Maddie Mad. How the hell don’t I know something this huge?”

  “There’s nothing to know, Jenna, that’s how,” I said irritably. “It’s just nonsense Miss Crawley plucked from fresh air. Now, can we please get back to the email? Did she write anything on me?”

  “Just a minute,” Jenna grumbled. Another silence. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure about what?”

  “That you’re not pregnant with Nate’s twins.”

  I sank my head into my hand. “Oh, my God.”

  “Okay, relax, I had to ask.”

  “Of course you did.” I should have compromised my principles and subscribed to the digest myself. It would have been a lot simpler.

  “I don’t see anything,” Jenna said after a moment.

  “Really?” I perked up. Mom must have come through for me.

  “But there is a lovely write-up on your murder mystery weekend,” Jenna went on.

  So much for my nanosecond of bliss. “Does she mention the real murder?”

  “No, not all,” Jenna said. “She says the weekend has been a thrilling experience with some unique twists, blah, blah, blah, she’s delighted it was such a success and hopes… Oh, that can’t be good.”

  “Jenna?”

  “Um, fine, but remember, I’m just the messenger,” Jenna said. “She hopes your success continues, because it would be a crying shame if Mr Hollow were forced to take out a third mortgage on the family estate.”

  “See?” I shook my head in disbelief. “She just makes it up as she goes along.”

  “Not quite,” Jenna said. “Do you remember when you were trying to relocate your guests on Friday night? You told Miss Crawley you couldn’t afford rooms at Lakeview Spa Retreat. Something about how Mr Hollow would need to take out another mortgage and he already had two.”

  I slapped a hand to my mouth.

  Jenna was right!

  “This is exactly why I can’t be trusted around that woman,” I groaned. “Thank goodness Mr Hollow doesn’t own a smart phone or a computer; he’d be mortified.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Maddie.” Jenna yawned again. “Was there anything else or am I allowed to go back to sleep?”

  Well, there was last night’s adventure, and I was currently drinking coffee in Nate’s log cabin. But no one needed that kind of shock first thing in the morning.

  I said goodbye and cut the call. One crisis averted, but there was still the all-important matter of Charles Sitter and murder to consider. I cupped my hands around my mug, inhaling the rich scent of roasted beans as I stared out the window. Wispy tendrils of early morning mist curled into the forest floor around the edge of the lake. It was kind of mesmerizing, however I did have something for Nate when he returned freshly showered, clean-shaven and wearing a short-sleeved white tee that showed off tanned, lean muscle—so that’s how he m
anaged to toss Jonas around so effortlessly last night.

  “There’s definitely something suspicious about Charles Sitter,” I said as Nate pulled out pans and mixing bowls and collected his ingredients. “Gout flares periodically, but why would Charles drink red wine at dinner if he turned down dessert because it supposedly aggravated his gout? Isn’t red wine just as bad?”

  “Either his gout isn’t flaring up, or he needed to spill that wine.”

  “Or it’s both and the gout was just an excuse,” I said. “Charles needed to slip out during dinner to snatch the rope from the alcove, and he needed to leave the table early so he could slip a note under Lydia’s door without anyone seeing he’d gone upstairs.”

  “This confirms my gut feeling.” Nate glanced up from chopping peppers and onions. “I still don’t have a damned motive, and his rock-solid alibi is literally being at the crime scene, which was so messed up, forensics haven’t been able to give us anything conclusive.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Not your fault,” Nate said, somewhat more amiably than the last time the subject had come up. “That was probably part of Sitter’s meticulous planning. This is going to end up a cold case if we don’t get a break. It doesn’t help that my witnesses seem to consider it their patriotic duty to stonewall the investigation. And I can’t put them on the stand under oath until I actually have someone to prosecute.”

  His comment on stonewalling got me thinking. “You might have that someone after lunch. The GRIMMS aren’t stonewalling, they’re saving it for the big reveal.”

  “What big reveal?”

  “My murder mystery weekend was supposed to culminate with everyone stating their conclusions at Sunday lunch,” I told him. “You know, the whole whodunit, why and how.”

  Nate hitched a brow at me. “You’re still going through with that?”

  “Apparently I am, but it could be interesting to see where they point fingers. Do you need help?” I asked when Nate cracked eggs into a bowl.

  “Please, no.” He sent me a horrified look. “You’re permanently banned from cooking in my kitchen.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You do know I was exaggerating about shedding skin in the salad, right?”