by Meg Macy
“No idea. So who is Jack Cullen?”
“He used to own the house next door. The village council condemned it,” I said, and then explained the situation of our parking lot. “Why?”
“You might want to ask your uncle about Mr. Cullen.” The detective stood and produced a box. Mason set out an ink pad, a sheet of paper with a template printed on it, and then gestured to the materials. “I’d like to take your fingerprints. With your permission, of course.”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t the county have digital scanners?”
“Not in the field.” He handed me an alcohol wipe to clean the ink once he’d pressed each of my fingertips and thumbs on the sheet in the specific boxes. A few had smudged. “Thank you for cooperating. And like I said, leave investigating to us.”
I slowly rose to my feet, not as ready to end our discussion. “But I want to know how Will got into the factory last night, and what he was doing there. Besides meeting who knows who and for what reason. Why the factory, instead of the park, or his own house, or anywhere else? He didn’t have a key.”
“We found a key on him and entered it as evidence.”
“How did he—”
“I have other members of your staff to interview. If you’ll excuse me.”
Mason herded me out, his hand firm on my elbow, signaling the end of the interview. Clearly he wanted me out of his hair. How annoying. I was tempted to give him a piece of my mind, but saw Maddie’s pleading look; my sister knew too well how my impulsive nature got me into trouble. I kept my mouth shut and watched her follow Detective Mason back to the study. The sewing ladies returned to their murmured conversation around the table in the dining room. I’d have to stick to getting information from Uncle Ross.
First I retrieved Rosie from her crate. She looked offended that I’d left her so long in it, but I fastened her harness and leash. Her claws clicked on the floor before she settled by my uncle’s feet near the island. The kitchen felt warm from the blast of late-summer sun. I checked the wall thermostat, retrieved a fan from the lower cabinet, and plugged it in. That helped. So did adjusting the window blinds.
I drew a stool close to Uncle Ross, wincing at the loud scraping noise on the tile. “So how did Will get a key to the factory?”
“Same way Taylor got a copy of the bear pattern.” He jangled his ring of keys in front of my face. “I keep these on a hook, remember? Right near the light switch, because I’ve lost ’em so many times. I bet at some point, Taylor swiped the factory’s front door key. Made a copy at a local hardware store, then put the original back on the ring.”
“I wonder how we can find out—”
“If he paid cash, I doubt they’d have any record of it. He could have gone to a store in Ann Arbor for all we know. Lots of places make duplicates cheap.”
“Huh,” I muttered. “Mason said to ask you about Jack Cullen.”
Uncle Ross grinned. “I found the bugger sniffing around here a few weeks ago. Claimed he was heading to the lake, but our hedges block any access. Saw him last Sunday nosing behind the factory, cigar in his mouth. He ran off when I yelled a warning. He’s had it in for us since he lost his house.”
“But he doesn’t even know Will Taylor.”
“I wouldn’t assume that. Besides, I didn’t say he’d kill anyone. Jack Cullen’s always been one to make trouble.” Uncle Ross finished his coffee. “And who knows where trouble will lead, when it comes to an old codger like him.”
“I saw him in the village yesterday.”
“Yeah? Bet he didn’t give you the time of day.”
“He was pretty rude. Does he have any family in the area?” I asked. “I feel sorry for him, the way he looks like a scare-crow.”
“Don’t bother.”
“But what if he does need help?”
“Let Cullen’s kids deal with him. Although I bet they gave up, since they’ve tried to help him for years,” Uncle Ross said. “Jack Cullen’s a miser. He doesn’t want anyone’s help. He let that house rot around his ears, and then when the city condemned it he fought them tooth and nail. The man belongs in a nuthouse.”
“Well, I know you wouldn’t kill anyone.” I squeezed his shoulder. “I’m going to prove your innocence, no matter what any detective says about sticking to teddy bears.”
“I dunno.” My uncle sounded morose. “Mason acts like he’s got no one else to pin this on. And you can’t be running around Silver Hollow tracking down a killer. Might be dangerous. Who knows who wanted Taylor dead?”
“I won’t let Mason railroad you into jail. He needs evidence, for one thing, and a lot more than circumstantial.”
“Maybe they’ll find fingerprints on the stuffing machine. If the perp wasn’t careful, they will. Even with all these TV shows nowadays, people can be pretty stupid about leaving signs behind.”
“Like that teddy bear,” I said aloud. “The one left on the floor.”
“You think it has something to do with the murder?” my uncle asked.
“I don’t know. Two things I want to find out, though. Who was the last person to see Will alive. It had to be whoever was driving that car, the one who knocked down our mailbox. And second, what other enemies Will had besides you.”
“Let’s hope Mason clears this whole thing up before our business tanks.”
On that subject, I had to agree.
Chapter 11
I headed to the coffeepot. Rinsed out the small amount left and fetched a fresh filter and whole beans from the pantry. Maddie ordered the best brand online. Once I ground enough for a full pot, I breathed in the heady fragrance. No fancy K-cups for us. Not yet, although I did prefer tea in the afternoon. I’d rather buy a machine that could brew espresso, lattes, tea, hot chocolate, the works—but only if it came with a barista.
Thinking back to when Jack Cullen met me on the street, I flipped the faucet handle and let cold water flow into the sink. “When I took Rosie for a walk yesterday at lunchtime, Jack Cullen threatened to sue me if she came near him.”
“How do you think I knew he was snooping around?” Uncle Ross reached for the last bagel. “Rosie was barking like a fiend. I knew someone had to be outside on the grounds or by the factory. Not many people are around on the weekend.”
“Was this back on Saturday or Sunday?”
“Sunday.”
“Mads and her friends were shopping. What was I doing that day?” I filled the coffeemaker’s reservoir and cursed under my breath. Water puddled on the counter and tile floor, so I mopped up and then pressed the start button. “I think I was home until five-ish, and then I met Mary Kate for dinner. She wanted a break before getting back to the grind Monday. How late was it when you saw Jack?”
“Getting dark.”
“Ah.” I had no idea whether the old codger knew Will Taylor or not. “What would Jack Cullen be doing around the factory, I wonder.”
“Like I said, causing trouble.” Uncle Ross crammed the last bite in his mouth and twisted on the tall stool, stretching his long legs out while leaning against the island. When he choked on a crumb, I had to slap him on the back several times. He coughed hard. “I thought he was up to some funny business. Didn’t find anything.”
“So did you tell Detective Mason about Teddy Hartman?”
“What’s there to tell?”
“I suppose Deon told him how he saw Hartman and Will Taylor.”
“No idea.” He coughed again. “All I do know is Mason wasn’t all that impressed with my alibi of being home Thursday night. Called it as flimsy as a fishing net.”
“Did you call anyone? Did anyone call you on your home phone? Darn. They could have checked the phone records. Any neighbors who saw you at home?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s possible Hartman met with Will for something. Debbie Davison told me Will was pretty happy, that he’d finally gotten his way. Whatever that means.” I explained my conversation earlier that morning. “Why else would he be so elated, if it didn’t h
ave to do with Teddy Hartman? Would Dad really agree about sending production overseas?”
“We can’t jump to any conclusions.”
“I suppose not.” My stomach rumbled. I pulled open the double doors of the refrigerator and set a variety of lunch-meats and cheeses out, along with mustard and mayonnaise, lettuce, several tomatoes, plus ajar of pickles. “Good thing we went to the grocery store recently.”
Maddie popped in, beating me to the bread box. While she retrieved the bags of wheat and rye bread, Mason collected all the sewing ladies together and led the way to the study. We exchanged glances and began making sandwiches.
“I suppose you didn’t get a hold of Pete Fox,” my sister said.
“No, but I meant to call him again.”
I let her finish the sandwiches, grabbed my phone, and headed away from the fan. I’d bet anything that Dave Fox, Pete’s dad, was preparing a first-page story for his Silver Hollow Herald about the murder. In fact, I was surprised he hadn’t shown up at our door yet. Pete’s cell phone went to voice mail, so I left a second longer message. Odd that he hadn’t called me back, because he usually let us know if he was coming in late. My worries deepened.
He and Deon Walsh were the same age. I knew Pete had earned a GED after getting in trouble and ribbed Deon for taking college classes. Pete seemed easygoing and relaxed at work in the factory, but I’d once overheard him arguing on the phone during break time. Something about owing money. Maybe Maddie knew more about him. Her high school years must have overlapped with his at some point. Deon’s, too.
“Mads, what do you know about Pete Fox? Did he have any problems?”
She looked up from cutting a sandwich in half. “Not that I know. Why?”
“I’m wondering why he didn’t call or show up with everyone else. His dad must have heard about Will’s murder, too,” I said. “That isn’t like Pete, to ignore what’s happened at the factory. I called twice and left messages. Why hasn’t he called back?”
“Gee, I don’t know. We should have asked Deon.”
“Come on, Sasha. Sit down and eat,” Uncle Ross said. He’d devoured half of a turkey, cheese, and romaine sandwich on rye in one bite. “Fretting won’t make anyone call. I’m gonna give Alex a piece of my mind, though, when he does. Count on it.”
Halfheartedly I nibbled on my ham and cheese. While Maddie related what little she’d told Detective Mason, my mind reeled back to the scene last night. Guilt flooded me; we’d all been so annoyed, dreading the meeting after work. My sister and I had been tense, waiting for Will to show, but I had to wonder where he’d gone after he left the office in the afternoon. And before the meeting I’d grumbled that he was “full of himself ”—everyone had heard me say that.
Will Taylor wasn’t the most popular man on our staff, but he was the company’s sales representative. I usually kept my dislike hidden, although at times it popped out; perhaps I had been too vocal. Finding him on the floor, his eyes glazed and unmoving, his throat and cheeks filled with fiber—that was horrible. Someone had filled him, all right. Would one of our staff take matters into their own hands?
“No. It’s not possible!”
“What?” Maddie held a sandwich halfway to her mouth.
“Uh, nothing. Important, I m-mean,” I stammered. “Never mind.”
My cheeks burned. Great. Now I was lying to my sister. It might be important, especially since Lois Nichols also had avoided coming to the factory this morning. While it might be true her husband had “taken a turn for the worse,” what exactly did she mean? Wasn’t he supposed to be in remission? Or so Lois told us the last time she updated us. Not that long ago.
I’d have to visit Lois and Harry Nichols. I hated to admit it, but visiting sick people or hospitals was not my specialty. I never knew what to say. I had the same problem with senior citizens. Mom always dragged us to visit Grandma Helen, a crotchety old biddy compared to warm, friendly Grandpa T. R., who’d died when I was a teen. Children I could handle, easy. Even a tour group of thirty rambunctious kids.
“Hey, look at this.” Maddie showed me her cell phone’s display. “A photo of our shop with the police cars in front, on Facebook. It’s pretty blurry, thank goodness.”
“Who posted that?” I asked.
“It’s on Debbie Davison’s timeline. People are asking what happened.”
“Ignore it. The less said, the better.” Uncle Ross drummed his fingers on the island. “Damned technology. It’s the only thing people pay attention to nowadays.”
My cell phone rang—with the tone reserved for Dad—Raiders of the Lost Ark. Maddie and I both lunged for the thin case and knocked it to the floor. It bounced and clattered on the tile. Rosie jumped up to play the game; her paws sent it skittering toward the hallway. But I grabbed it before she snapped it in her mouth. The call had dropped, but I quickly speed dialed Dad’s number and hit the speakerphone button.
“Dad? Dad, are you there?”
Mom’s voice came through instead. “Sasha? I can barely hear you. And how come your voice is echoing?”
“I’ve got you on speaker, Mom. Maddie and Uncle Ross are both listening,” I said in a louder voice to compensate. “Where’s Dad? We’ve been trying to get you both, leaving text messages and voice mails. We’ve got serious trouble here.”
“So I saw by your text. We’re in the same boat, I’m afraid.” She hesitated. Uncle Ross, Maddie, and I exchanged shocked looks. “Big trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father’s still in the hospital. The CCU–Critical Care Unit.”
My uncle cursed. “I knew it had to be—”
“—wait. Just a minute, please.”
Mom had muffled her phone somehow. Muted voices and other indistinguishable noises drifted through the speaker. I hated waiting. What in heaven had put Dad in the hospital? Was he on death’s doorstep? I wanted to rush and pack a bag this minute.
“Hello?” Mom actually sounded cheerful. “Dad’s improved so much, they’re moving him to a private room. But he has double pneumonia.”
“Double pneumonia?” Maddie’s high-pitched squeal hurt my ears.
“Your father caught a bad cold a month and a half ago. Don’t you remember? And you know how he is—”
“He never wants to deal with being sick,” I cut in. “Or go to the doctor. But why didn’t Will Taylor mention yesterday about Dad being sick?”
Yesterday. Before Will’s gruesome death—that suddenly hit me. Mom sounded matter-of-fact over the phone, which I knew covered her deep worry. She’d never sheltered us from bad things, either deaths in the family or why Uncle Ross had been dragged into divorce court, even horrible crimes in the world. “Face everything with courage” had been her motto. But now, when push came to shove and it involved Dad, her high school sweetheart . . .
Maybe Mom couldn’t drum up enough courage when it affected her directly.
“That’s easy,” she said. “Dad wasn’t coughing when he met with Mr. Taylor. He looked fine, in fact. Walked around the whole trade show for two days, and when he finally felt sick we realized he must have gotten a fever. I told him I was taking him straight to the nearest hospital. He wanted to go home, but I said no.”
“What about Will Taylor?”
“What about him? He’d already left, I think.”
“So then what?” Maddie piped up. “After you took Dad to the ER.”
“Probably had to drag him there,” Uncle Ross muttered.
“Your father was so weak, the taxi driver helped me get him into the car.” Mom sounded close to tears. “That was close to midnight on Sunday. We waited for several hours. By the time a doctor saw him, they admitted him right away. His fever was close to a hundred and three, and then he had an allergic reaction to one of the medications. That made things worse. I had no idea which antibiotics he’d ever taken before, and neither did our family doctor.”
“Dad’s never been sick much,” I said.
“Yes. And
they put him in CCU early Tuesday. What’s today?”
“Friday.”
Mom made a little moaning sound. “I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept since we came here. And I didn’t want to worry any of you with this.”
I glanced at Maddie. “One of us should be with her,” I whispered, and then raised my voice once more. “Mom, did you and Dad know about Will’s plan to send production overseas? We’re really confused by all that.”
“Yes, Dad mentioned something about Will pressuring him to decide. I saw your text,” Mom added, “but I couldn’t deal with it right then.”
“Couldn’t deal?” Maddie sounded desperate. “But Will Taylor told us Dad agreed to everything, that jobs would be cut—including Uncle Ross’s!”
“Wait, wait. Give me a minute. Oh, let me call you back.”
Mom hung up before we could get an update. I paced around the kitchen island, half out of my mind with worry. Maddie immediately began loading dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Menial tasks always helped her to deal with stress. Uncle Ross sat with his large hands clasped before him, his shoulders slumped. His battered cap hid the bald spot in his thinning gray hair, and he stared at the willow basket of red-cheeked apples.
Odd to see him silent, almost pensive. That wasn’t like him. The veins of his hands stood out, and his spotted skin reminded me of Grandpa T. R. Will Taylor may have thought Uncle Ross was old enough to retire, but he usually had boundless energy. Unlike now. I suspected he was worried about Dad—his younger brother and only sibling since Aunt Marie was gone. I would be just as worried about Maddie if anything happened to her.
“Dad will be all right,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “He’s a fighter.”
“I knew it had to be serious. It wasn’t like Alex not to call, not after I left messages, yelled at him on his voice mail, told him he’d better not be thinking about cutting jobs. I even offered to buy the factory to keep everything the way it is.”