by CJ Birch
“You two lovebirds done yet?” Dan asked. He was leaning against the wall, watching them. One leg hooked over the other, arms folded, a bemused look on his face. “I need EJ for something.”
Jessica Reid grabbed for her tank top and pulled it on, her generous C-cup closing up shop for the night. “Whatever.” She shrugged. “I’m done with him.”
* * *
Elle sat crossed-legged on a lounge chair on the back deck, open beer next to the open autopsy report, working her way through a bowl of Cap’n Crunch. All the windows were thrown open in an attempt to coax a breeze through the house. The night air was thick with mosquitoes and gnats. The humidity hung in the air like some long-winged creature hovering over the town. Silent. Waiting. Everyone agreed, it felt hotter now than when the sun was up. The back deck light was hosting a moth party. Their buzzing added to the crush of crickets coming from the forest beyond.
She chugged the last of her Coors, washing down the sugary cereal. She rose to replenish it and as she did the bell rang. She trudged back into the house. The suffocating heat enveloped her. She flicked the curtain back to see Brady standing there, still in a suit and tie, staring at her front door. It was too late to pretend she wasn’t home. All the lights were on. She slid back the security bolt and opened the door.
Before Elle could even ask why he was there past ten o’clock on a weeknight, Brady barged past. “Why in heaven’s name did you bring that woman to investigate a dead body?” Brady paused to take in her cutoffs and tank top, her tousled hair and empty beer. Elle put a hand on her hip and stared back. “Did you even think about what this could do to our city? People are going to think it’s unsafe,” Brady yelled.
“What people?” she asked. “The nonexistent tourists knocking each other over trying to get here to discover—what? That there’s nothing to do here except work, drink, and screw?” Brady could piss her off faster than a Taser on a bull’s ass. “Or the people who actually live here and know better?”
“It still doesn’t excuse the fact that you brought a reporter to a crime scene. You know what she’s planning on writing, don’t you? She’s planning an exposé. She’s going to weed out all the seedy goings-on and plant in people’s mind that Turlough is bad news.” He rapped his knuckles against Elle’s kitchen counter as another idea popped into mind. “We’ll be famous for this. You wait. When people come by, they’re going to ask where that murder victim was found. They’ll organize tours.” He scrubbed hard at his chin, worrying away the stubble. “What if she killed this Forrester guy? We don’t know her. Nobody knows her. What if she knew him from Chicago and followed him down here? And then—” Brady mimed taking aim with a gun and shooting.
“Gee, thanks, Brady. With you in office we don’t even need a sheriff’s department.”
“How do you know she didn’t? She’s as likely as anyone else.”
Elle leaned back against her kitchen counter and folded her arms, wondering how much to tell Brady, whether he would be more of a pain in the ass or less.
“Robin was in Chicago at the time of the murder. Her flight didn’t arrive in Barkley until eight Monday morning.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Brady pulled his tie away from his throat. “Christ, it’s hot in here. Don’t you have air?”
“You invited her. This is your mess.” Elle shrugged. Childish as it was to say, Brady needed to hear it. Too often he jumped into ideas before they were fully formed and the consequences properly thought through. She yanked open her fridge and fished out another beer, popped the cap, and took a long swig. She didn’t offer Brady one. Didn’t want him to get the impression this was a social call. “You’re being paranoid.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t invite her. She called me.”
“And you jumped at the chance to show off the town. What’s the matter? Aren’t so happy now that we’re proving to be less of the ideal tourist attraction than you hoped?”
“You know who she’s been talking to, don’t you?” He paused, waiting for her full attention, knowing he would get it in a second. “Sid Derry.” His hands were on his hips, his neck outstretched.
Elle’s blood cooled at the mention of that name. She even shivered in the heat. “Why is she talking to him?”
“Why do you think? Now, Elle, we might not always agree.” Elle snorted but kept quiet. “But one thing we can both agree on is that Sid Derry is a useless turd. How he ever got on the city council is—”
“Don’t give me that crap. You couldn’t care less who’s on the council as long as they’re voting your way, and more often than not, Sid Derry votes your way.” Elle grabbed the bottle of pills sitting on her counter, poured two into her palm, and swallowed them with a mouthful of beer. At Brady’s gaping look she said, “Not that I give a crap what you think, Ken Brady, but they were prescribed to me earlier. I hurt my back today.”
“What’d you do to your back?”
She shrugged it off. “Threw it out stopping that fight. No big deal.” They stared at each other for several seconds. “So is there a reason you’ve come to my house? Besides pointing out the obvious?” She put extra emphasis on “my house” in hopes he would get the hint and leave.
“Ah, I wanted to make sure you hadn’t done any sort of interview with that reporter.”
“I told you I wouldn’t the first time you asked. What makes you think I changed my mind?” She refrained from mentioning that she had, in fact, changed her mind, even if it was only for an hour or two. “Despite what you think, she was never here to write some puff piece on the town.”
“Okay, I had this crazy idea that you two were working together.” When he laughed, it came out smarmy. Elle fake laughed with him.
“Are you done now?” She waved her beer toward the door. “I have work to do and I’m probably going to pass out from these pills in about ten minutes.” She could already feel them taking hold. It was like a warm hand spreading out from her center and smoothing out all her aches and pains. She was already anticipating her first full night’s sleep in two days.
Brady brushed his hands together, wiping sweat on his suit pants. “I just wanted to make sure we saw eye to eye on this Robin Oakes issue.”
“Great.” Elle opened her front door. “And, Brady? Don’t come to my house again.” She didn’t see him nod. She’d already shut the door.
Chapter Twelve
Robin awoke to the incessant, pervasive scent of frying bacon. It curled into her nostrils, pulling her from her pillow. Every day she vowed to pack her duffel and move to the motel in Mason. Yet every day some new culinary marvel greeted her from Mrs. Collard’s kitchen. She berated herself at the ease with which she’d been wooed. Several slabs of melted butter and she was willing to put up with cramped quarters, a lumpy mattress, and a washroom two flights down a steep staircase.
The quickest way to Robin’s heart was her stomach. Well, maybe not her heart, but close enough. It was a rare treat to have someone cook for her. As a rule, she didn’t date much. There wasn’t the time with her job. But when she did, she chose women who could cook.
There was something about being pampered with a hot meal. As if each second of preparation was a little bit of foreplay. An amuse-bouche, if you will.
Robin lived alone. She was happy with that fact. There was nothing on Earth that would make her willing to share space with another human being. She hadn’t lived with someone since she left for college. After fifteen years of that, you get set in your ways. Dealing with towels on the floor or dishes in the sink was not her idea of a well-spent morning.
The only roommate she’d had on and off was her brother Jason. But that would only last about a week before he found some woman to shack up with, which suited her fine. There was only so much of Jason she could take. She’d been ignoring his texts for the past day. She still hadn’t talked to Brian about getting him in Jamie’s crew. And she had no plans to. She’d thought about it and decided his hate was worth the alternative.
Jamie didn’t mess around. If you fucked up once, he’d kill you. And she knew her brother too well.
Robin yawned and grabbed her bag of toiletries before heading downstairs to the washroom.
Elle found Robin, a forkful of waffle and berries poised halfway to her mouth, a coffee and plate of bacon on the table next to her. Sandy followed Elle into the makeshift dining room she had set up for guests. It was a table shoved into the alcove of a bay window in the living room. It afforded the diner a view of her magnificent garden out back but was a little awkward if either of the Collards were in the living room at the time.
“Can I get you some coffee, Sheriff?” Sandy’s hospitality outweighed her previous grudge over her murdered azaleas.
“That would be amazing. Thank you, Sandy.” Elle pulled out one of the wrought iron chairs around the small table. It scraped across the hardwood floor, echoing through the lower half of the house. She smoothed her hand down her tie as she sat. It was a practiced movement, elegant in its unconscious simplicity.
Robin’s fork resumed its path toward her mouth. She placed the fork on her plate as she chewed, observing Elle as she fiddled with a miniature pitcher of cream. Elle didn’t say anything. She chose to stare out the bay window at the trees that bordered the Collards’ backyard and beyond those, Mr. Rutherford’s chicken coop. Despite Sandy’s best efforts, she hadn’t yet managed to create a barrier high enough to obscure Rutherford’s brood.
Her interest piqued, Robin waited. In her experience, the less she said, the more they talked. She continued to savor the crisp texture of the bacon and studied Elle, who managed to fill the room as if she were the only object. Elle finally stopped playing with the cream. Her long fingers curled around the porcelain container, obscuring it. Elle’s nails were trimmed short. A clear nail polish coated each one, most of it chipped away. Easy to miss from far away. It spoke of a need to maintain a certain aesthetic while being practical at the same time.
Sandy waltzed back in with a mug of coffee and set it in front of Elle. “Would you like breakfast? Robin here’s not managed to eat me out of house and home yet.” She pushed the sugar bowl closer to Elle and grinned at Robin the way a proud mother would a chubby child’s healthy appetite.
Robin smiled. “I’m surprised at that myself. Everything’s so good.” This made Sandy preen.
“No thanks, Sandy.” Elle began adding heaps of sugar and cream to her coffee.
“What about some nice pie? I’m experimenting with a new blend. Hoping to win the blue ribbon with something special this year.” She rung her hands together, undecided. “Although, messing with tradition. What if Tully wins with one of her key limes?”
Elle rolled her eyes for Robin. “Don’t believe her. She’s won every year since I can remember.” Elle took a tentative sip of her coffee to test it was to her liking. It was. She took a deeper gulp.
“Well, that’s not true. I only started winning seven years ago.”
Elle froze, her coffee halfway from her lips to the table.
“What changed seven years ago?” asked Robin.
“My mother stopped entering her blueberry pie.” Elle placed the coffee back on the table and pushed it away as if the cream had curdled.
“Oh, Elle. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” Sandy placed a hand on Elle’s shoulder. Her mouth opened to say something more, but she closed it again.
“It’s okay, Sandy.” Elle grabbed for her mug, wrapping her hands around it. It was a conscious movement to dislodge Sandy’s hand from her shoulder. The heat of it felt like it was burning a hole through her uniform. She hated the words even as she said them. It was never okay. But she said them anyway. To make people feel at ease. To let them off the hook. To stop the looks of pity. She wished, in moments like this, that she could be EJ. That she could just get in her truck and drive off somewhere to hurl stones into the river.
“Okay.” Sandy pursed her lips together and nodded. “I’ll leave you two alone to talk.”
Robin couldn’t help herself. “Why’d your mom stop making her blueberry pie?” As far back as Robin could remember she’d had a knack for asking the wrong question at the right time. This didn’t always work in her favor as a human being, but in her line of work, it was like owning a chicken that laid golden eggs.
“I think you already know the answer to that.”
Robin frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
Elle began fiddling with the sugar jar. “I heard you’d been talking to a few of our residents, Sid Derry in particular. And if Brady’s paranoia has actually paid off and you’re now writing some article about Jessie’s murder, then there would be no reason for you to talk to someone like Sid Derry. But if I’m right and you’re still trying to do some ridiculous story about me, then talking to Sid Derry would make a lot of sense if you wanted to get a differing opinion about Sheriff Ashley. You follow now?” She kept her eyes on the sugar, not able to look up at Robin.
“Who told you I was out to talk to Sid Derry?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Look, I’ve never been anything but up front with you. I’m not going to write anything you don’t want me to. It’s an interesting story even without the murdered ex-boyfriend angle. I’m not here to exploit you or lay bare any deep dark secrets. This is stuff people are interested in, strong females in roles of leadership. It’ll resonate well with our readers.
“As for Sid Derry, I did go out to talk with him yesterday, but if your informant had stuck around long enough, they would know he refused to speak with me.”
Elle almost laughed out loud at the idea of Brady being her informant. She didn’t even need two guesses as to who had told her to go visit Derry, she’d practically made a roadmap for her. “You’ve been talking to Tully.”
Robin shrugged. “She did have a couple of very cute anecdotes, but nothing of substance. I’ve still got my fingers crossed that I land that big fish interview.” She exaggerated crossing her fingers. “What do you say?”
Before Elle could answer, the radio at her hip crackled. Neil’s voice came through the speaker, garbled. Elle unclipped it. “Repeat, Neil?” She adjusted the channel knob at the top.
The static lessened. “Are you on your way in?” Neil asked.
“I’ll be there in about ten, why?” She stood, forgetting Robin and her half-finished coffee on the table.
“Just get here as soon as possible.” With that, the radio went silent.
“So you’re not going to tell me about Sid Derry?” Robin called to Elle’s fleeing back. But she was gone. The door slammed behind her.
* * *
Elle noticed the throng of spectators clustered around the town square the moment she pulled onto the main strip. They were grouped in twos and threes, pointing and laughing at something hidden behind the bulk of their bodies. A warning shot through the pit of Elle’s stomach. Whatever Neil had called her in for was going to test the strongest heartburn medicine she could find. With the weather like this, Elle was surprised so many people were out; she would’ve thought they’d be holed up in front of their window units.
As she stepped out of her cruiser to push her way through, she heard snippets of conversation.
“How’d they get it up there like that, d’you wonder?”
“I got a pretty good idea who did it.”
“I remember back in eighty-three when the Parker boys managed to balance Old Bailey’s truck on that bridge over the Red there. He had to use his mother’s cane to push the clutch in ’cause he was afraid to sit in it.” Laughter rolled through the crowd like a wave finding shore.
“Has Randy seen it yet?”
By the time Elle shoved herself to the front she had a pretty good idea of what she’d find, but her breath caught anyway. There was no doubt in her mind who had done it. Her hair prickled with rage. Every eye turned from Randy Pritchard’s car—which teetered atop the town’s historic stone well—to watch the sheriff’s reaction. It promised to be almost as entertai
ning as the prank itself.
Without her noticing how or where he came from, Case was by her side. He gently wrapped his hand around her arm, lending the still considerable strength from his bent frame just by being close. Elle took a calming breath and counted to ten in her head before walking out toward the engineering marvel making a new home in the town’s informal square. She bent down to see if there was a way to get it dislodged without destroying the well. She stood and scanned the crowd. When she spotted Cabe McGrath standing off to the side, chewing his tobacco like cud, she waved him over. The mechanic wandered up. The top half of his coveralls hung off his waist, revealing grease-stained muscles and a tattered wifebeater.
He whistled as he got a closer look. “That’s a real sweet piece of work.”
“I’m glad you approve. Can you remove the car from the well without damaging either?”
He bent to examine the undercarriage. Finally, he got on hands and knees to inspect where the base of Randy’s car met with the top of the stones forming the rim of the well. He grunted as he squirmed farther beneath the vehicle. After a few minutes of silence, the crowd quiet around them, McGrath spoke. “Well, here’s your problem,” he said, his voice muffled. “They’ve propped the car on blocks on either side of the whatcha call it.” He wormed his way back out. “The side of the well. Means you try and move it off the front or back, it’ll collapse the props.”