by Sandra Balzo
‘I watch the lawyer movies and TV and all,’ Mr Eames said, focusing on her, ‘but I have no idea how to go about “proving” anything. You being a reporter and all, I'm thinking maybe you do.’
‘I'm not an investigator really,’ AnnaLise said. ‘Reporting is mostly about answering the questions your readers have. You know, the “who, when, what, where, why and how”?’
‘Well, that seems a pretty solid start.’
‘It is, if we could get all the answers. You said the police think Josh shot out Tanja Rosewood's tire. Did they say why?’
‘Just that she didn't approve of him and her daughter dating, but I think that's hooey. The father didn't seem to have a problem with it. And if Josh killed every parent who didn't want him to see their little girl . . .’ Eames flushed.
‘Josh does have a reputation as a "bad boy,'’ AnnaLise said with a grin to soften it. 'Which girls love, of course.'
‘And the boy earned it, I'll have to say. But Joshua has straightened up, though some won't believe it.’
‘Well, we'll prove them wrong,’ AnnaLise said. ‘Now tell me the rest of the police's theory. I understand they think Josh shot Suzanne and then himself. Again, why?’
Eames rubbed his beer belly. ‘That's harder to flush out. You can understand they're not giving me a whole lot of information, though I have heard talking out in the hall.’
‘Outside Josh's room?’
‘Sure. On shift changes, the officer taking over might have some update. Best I can tell, the shooting took place in my own living room.’
‘So you haven't been home since it happened?’
‘No, ma'am. Or at least no closer than where I park my car. The police stopped me and when they wheeled Josh out, I just went right along with everybody to the hospital.’
‘Did they say anything about the crime . . . about the scene? Where the gun was and all?’
‘Not where, but one of them did say Josh's fingerprints were on the gun.’
‘Not a good sign.’
‘Unless it was one of ours, which supposedly it was.’
'The gun?' AnnaLise asked. ‘You'll understand that's not exactly encouraging either.’
‘I do. But maybe someone broke in and Josh tried to stop them.’
‘And the assailant got the gun away from Josh and shot both of them?’
‘Had to be a mighty big man,’ Eames admitted. ‘Joshua's no shrimp. And he's not exactly a slouch with a gun, neither, though he does have trouble with killing things. You saw yourself the other day, AnnaLise. The boy couldn't even do in that spider properly. How can they believe my son could, could . . .’ Eames voice broke.
AnnaLise reached across the pile of cracker wrappers. ‘Mr Eames, have you thought at all that maybe it was Suzanne who had the gun?’
‘You mean she shot Joshua?’ Eames thought about that, rallying a bit despite the horror of it. ‘Well, I do suppose that's possible. I hear they were arguing.’
‘I heard that, too, but do you know what about?’
‘Not first hand, but what they're saying is she thought Joshua killed her mother. Not that he did, of course.’ He glanced around to see if anyone had overheard.
‘Of course not,’ AnnaLise confirmed loudly. ‘Just a theory.’ The last thing the Eames needed was for someone to say they'd overheard Mr Eames say Josh had killed Tanja Rosewood. It might not hold up in court, but it sure could turn the tide of public opinion.
Not that public opinion was on the Eames side in the first place, given the lack of support AnnaLise had seen so far.
‘It's Suzanne's father I can't understand,’ Eames said now. ‘Joshua said he seemed OK, even if Mrs Rosewood wasn't hot on Josh dating the daughter. I can't imagine why this Rosewood would turn like that and accuse Josh.’
AnnaLise had her theories, but just asked: ‘You said the firearm involved was one of yours?’
‘Again, that's what I'm told, though I don't know which one.’
‘How many guns do you have?’
‘Not many. Maybe five or six rifles and seven or eight handguns.’
Despite being born and bred in the High Country, AnnaLise thought twelve to fourteen firearms in one house was “many.”
Eames shook his head. ‘Though we may still be down one. Josh told me he loaned a piece out just this past weekend and I'm not sure it got brought back.’
AnnaLise's ears perked up. ‘He lent a firearm to somebody?’
‘Yup, and he's not easy –’
‘Who?’ AnnaLise interrupted. ‘Mr Eames, who did Josh give one of your guns to?’ AnnaLise had a feeling she already knew the answer.
‘Why, Benjamin Rosewood himself. Seemed he wanted to do some target shooting.’
Twenty-six
AnnaLise just bet DA Rosewood had some shooting in mind for the gun Joshua Eames lent him.
‘Do you know which firearm he borrowed, Mr Eames?’ AnnaLise asked as they followed the green line back toward Josh's room.
‘’Fraid not. Nor even whether it was a rifle or a handgun. And I wouldn't trust my own count of those still in my house.’ A sigh. ‘Assuming the police will let me back in it. Otherwise, when Joshua wakes up, he can tell us.’ Eames raised his chin.
‘And I'm sure he will.’ She glanced past the uniformed officer to get a glimpse of Josh tangled amongst tubes and IV drips.
‘Are you . . .’ Eames broke off and waved AnnaLise to move away from the hospital room door and the man who guarded it.
When she did, Mr Eames eyes had grown wide. ‘Are you thinking this Rosewood killed his own daughter?’
AnnaLise shook her head. ‘I'm not thinking anything, Mr Eames. Just gathering information, which is what a reporter does.’
‘I understand.’ Fred Eames wasn't buying it, but he also seemed eager not to upset the wisp of an applecart – in this case, AnnaLise's offer to help – by asking too many questions.
‘It would be helpful to know what gun was lent and whether it's back in your gun cabinet or wherever you keep them.’
‘They're all over. The rifles in a closet. The handguns wherever we think they might come in handy.’
Lovely, just terrific. Good thing there weren't any small children toddling around the Eames house. ‘When you have a chance, maybe you could look around. Is there any chance Rosewood already returned the gun?’
‘I suppose. He's had it since Sunday – or maybe even Saturday – though the boy didn't tell me until after the fact. He knows I don't hold with lending firearms.’
AnnaLise had seen Ben and his family for the first time on Monday, but it made sense that they'd been there earlier, since move-in for U-Mo had been Thursday and Friday of the prior week, as witnessed by the rental trailers and vans that had clogged the local roads. ‘And when was it, he told you?’
Eames cocked his head, thinking. ‘Yesterday, maybe, or the day before? So much has happened, I . . .’
‘Of course,’ AnnaLise said. ‘But so far as you know, Ben Rosewood still has it.’
‘Unless it found its way back after Josh and I talked.’
They looked at each other, thinking the same thing: Or the killer brought it back to the house , used it on Suzanne and Josh and left it at the scene.
‘Even if Josh could testify it was the same gun, we'd be hard-pressed to prove it,’ AnnaLise said, thinking out loud.
‘They wouldn't believe him?’
‘It would be his word against Ben Rosewood.’ And if AnnaLise hadn't liked her chances again the DA, she didn't think Josh stood a chance.
‘Maybe someone saw it,’ Mr Eames said. ‘Josh said Mr Rosewood was going to use the new police range. Could be someone there –’
‘Uh-uh.’ AnnaLise was shaking her head. ‘The chief didn't give him permission, so that's no good. Of course, Suzanne might have seen the gun, but –’
‘Not much of a help now, is she?’ He glanced back toward Josh's room. ‘I'd like go sit with my son for a while.’
‘Of cours
e,’ AnnaLise said, walking him to the door.
The police officer stood. ‘I'm afraid no visitors other than Mr Eames, ma'am.’
‘I understand.’ She gave Fred Eames another hug, feeling badly about leaving him alone. ‘I'll let you know if I find out anything.’
The uniform stepped aside so Eames could enter, but Josh's father turned at the door. ‘Say, that Scotty did show up this morning, didn't he?’
AnnaLise smiled. ‘Mr Eames, the last thing I want you to do is worry about that right now.’
‘I knew it. He didn't, did he? The bastard thinks he owns this town. Well, I'm going to show him different.’
‘Truly –’
‘Nope, nope.’ He was getting out his cell-phone. ‘I've about got another electrician lined up and this one has balls –’ Eames blushed. ‘Excuse me, AnnaLise. No reason to offend your ears with what I have to tell Scotty. You run along and I'll take care of this properly.’
The man was punching numbers as AnnaLise left. Reaming out Scotty would likely be the high point of his day.
Not that it would have taken much, given this particular day.
As AnnaLise walked to her mother's car in the parking lot, she saw three women she recognized from town clamber out of a van at the hospital's entrance. They were carrying covered dishes, a fruit basket and, if AnnaLise wasn't mistaken, an entire coffee cake.
Apparently the Main Street cavalry hadn't deserted Fred Eames. They'd merely needed time to arm themselves.
Twenty-seven
‘Still no Scotty?’ AnnaLise asked.
It was late afternoon and AnnaLise had arrived home to find her mother in the kitchen. Not unusual, in and of itself, but this particular time Daisy was actually cooking.
‘Not a sign of him.’ Daisy lifted the lid off a big pot of what looked like brown gravy. ‘Though someone named Miles called, telling me he'd be taking over the electric side of our job and was it all right if he arrived at eight a.m. tomorrow? I said if he was going to get me my garage wired, I'd have coffee hot and ready by six.’
‘I left Mr Eames on the phone at the hospital, saying he was going to fire Scotty. I think it was a nice distraction.’ AnnaLise stuck her nose over her mother's shoulder. ‘What you making?’
‘Beef birds.’ She picked up a spoon and stirred, then reseated the cover.
Called rouladen in Germany and braciole in Italy, Daisy had always referred to the stuffed rolls of thinly pounded steak her mother – and her mother's mother – had made as ‘beef birds.’
The Griggs women filled theirs with onion, a sliver of bacon and a pickle spear, then tied them up with cotton sewing thread before browning each roll. Any caramelized bits left in the pan were then made into a gravy to which the birds were returned and cooked for hours. By the time they were finally deemed ready, the meat would be fork tender and the gravy to die for.
You just had to make sure you didn't eat the thread in your enthusiasm.
‘Mashed potatoes, too?’ AnnaLise asked, reaching over to raise the lid to get a sniff.
‘Of course. They're always part of the meal,’ Daisy said, taking the cover away from her and replacing it. ‘Now leave things alone so they can cook for another hour or two.’
‘Rare’ meat didn't stand a chance in a Griggs kitchen. ‘You haven't made beef birds for ages,’ AnnaLise said. ‘What's the occasion?’
‘No occasion,’ Daisy said, turning to the kitchen counter. Turning back, she had a three-by-five-inch notecard in her hand. ‘But here, I wrote down the recipe for you.’
AnnaLise took the card, feeling uneasy. ‘Did something happen?’
Daisy picked up the frying pan and took it to the sink. ‘Happen? What do you mean?’
‘I mean this.’ She waved the card, though Daisy now had her back to her. ‘Did you have another memory blip, which made you want write down a recipe you know by heart?’
The back of Daisy's head shook. ‘Not really. It's just that this afternoon, I set up those tests the doctor wants me to get. And that started me thinking.’
‘Well, don't.’ AnnaLise said, coming up behind her mother to wrap her arms around her waist.
‘Think, you mean?’ Daisy asked, twisting to give her a little smile. Unfortunately, a very little smile.
‘Worry, I mean. Whatever the tests show, we'll deal with it.’
‘I know. Now are you going to let me finish up these dishes? I need to start peeling potatoes.’ Daisy nodded at the five-pound bag on the kitchen counter. Making three times the amount needed was another proud Griggs tradition.
‘I'll help,’ AnnaLise volunteered.
‘By the way,’ she continued as she hunted through the drawer for a potato peeler. ‘I talked to Joy and Sheree and they'd love to put a blog right on the front page of the new Sutherton website.’
‘“Love to” or are they just doing it because you asked?’
‘They were genuinely enthusiastic about the idea.’ AnnaLise came up with the peeler. ‘It's going to be called “Voices of Main Street” and I'm going to oversee it.’
‘That's wonderful.’ This time Daisy actually swiveled to face her and the smile was full-sized.
Life-sized.
‘I know – should be fun,’ AnnaLise said, realizing she meant it. ‘You're going to have to do the recruiting, though. We need people with good stories, including you.’
‘Good stories are no problem.’ Daisy said, handing AnnaLise a newspaper. ‘Good writing may be the challenge.’
‘Just write the way you talk and you'll be fine.’ AnnaLise opened the paper – the previous week's Mountain Times – and spread it on the counter to catch the peelings.
‘You don't want me to do the first one, do you?’
‘Blog entry? Why not?’ AnnaLise honestly hadn't given it much thought, what with everything else going on. ‘It'll be easy.’
‘For you.' Daisy got a big kettle out of the cabinet next to the stove and put it in the sink to fill. ‘For me, not so much. What would I write about?’
‘Sutherton lore. God knows we have enough. The only problem will be choosing something that won't scare off visitors.’
‘True.’ Daisy put the half-full pot of water on top of the newspaper.
‘Since we're moving toward ski season, maybe something about the mountain rather than the lake.’ AnnaLise dumped her first peeled potato into the water.
‘I don't know as much about the mountain,’ Daisy said. Employing a large slotted spoon, she dredged up the potato. ‘You didn't dig out the eyes.’
‘OK, give it back.’ AnnaLise held out her hand. ‘Maybe we should have Ida Mae do the first blog then. She's lived on the mountain for years.’
Daisy kept the potato. ‘I want to do it.’
‘The potato?’
‘No, the blog.’ She handed over the spud. ‘It's easier to get out the eyes with your peeler than it will be with a knife. I'll cut up the potatoes when you're done.’
AnnaLise stabbed the tip of the peeler into the spud and dug out the offending eye. ‘Better?’
‘You missed one.’ Daisy pointed.
‘Fine.’ AnnaLise applied herself to the potato and then held it up. ‘Does it meet your specifications now, Inspector?’
‘Just barely.’ Daisy took the potato.
AnnaLise moved onto the next. ‘So you'll do a few paragraphs about the mountain. Some story from the past, but linked to current time in the lead paragraph. You know, “I was driving up Sutherton Mountain today, remembering –”’
‘You sure have a lot of rules,’ Daisy grumbled, guillotining the potato with a small cleaver. ‘Why don't you write it?’
‘That, my dear mother, would defeat the purpose. Tell you what?’
‘What?’ Another vicious chop.
‘I'll set you up on the computer after dinner and do the introduction. You know: new blog celebrating an area steeped in history, blah, blah, bla – What?’
Her mother had stopped slicing and was looking at h
er. ‘You just pulled that out of thin air?’
‘I am a college graduate and professional writer, you know?’ She dumped another potato in the kettle.
Daisy sighed and skimmed out the potato. ‘Good thing. If I'd sent you to cooking school, you'd have starved to death by now.’
Dinner, as predicted, was wonderful. AnnaLise filled Daisy in on Josh and her conversation with Fred Eames as they ate.
‘You just can't stay out of these things, can you?’ Daisy said. ‘If you're right, this friend of yours has killed his wife and daughter. Why would you think that's possible? Does he have a history of violence?’
AnnaLise, of course, still hadn't told her mother about the affair and had no intention of doing so if she didn't have to. ‘Not that I'm aware of, but he is fairly ruthless in his dealings. Granted, his job allows him to do it under the guise of justice, but . . .’
‘All the more reason to stay away from this man, AnnaLise.’ Her mother leveled blue eyes at her. ‘This isn't in any way your responsibility.’
Oh, but it was, AnnaLise thought. Much as she wanted to spill her guts to Daisy in hopes of having her say otherwise, AnnaLise kept her thoughts bottled up, except for, ‘I guess I just feel like if I hadn't talked up the area to Katie, Rosewood's paralegal . . .’
Daisy held her eye for two, three beats, seeming to will her daughter to say more. When AnnaLise didn't, the older woman sighed and stood up. ‘We'd best put this food away.’
Many beef birds had been consumed but, despite the two women's best efforts, three-quarters of them and about a gallon of mashed potatoes remained toward leftovers.
‘The beef birds I can freeze or maybe take them over to Fred Eames,’ Daisy said, sliding the leftovers into the refrigerator. ‘What should we do with the potatoes?’
‘You'll be eating patties and croquettes until next spring,’ AnnaLise said. ‘Why do we always make too much?’
‘It's the Kuchenbacher way,’ Daisy said, adding soap to the dishwasher and closing the door. 'As it was, as it is, as it will always be.'
The Rule of 3 – even her mother used it. ‘Speaking of things as they were, I'm going to get you set up on a page and write a quick opening, then you can start the blog.’