Dead Ends (Main Street Mysteries Book 2)

by Sandra Balzo

  ‘Well, if you really want me to write what people want to read, plunging off the mountain roads has a long history in Sutherton. I can pin it to recent events, like you said.’

  ‘Please don't mention the Rosewood woman's death,’ AnnaLise begged. Then she had an idea. ‘You know, Chuck was scolding me about our taking that dead-end shortcut.’

  ‘I'm not surprised,’ Daisy said. ‘The police have been trying to keep people from using it since even I was young.’

  ‘He says it's dangerous.’

  ‘That's what was claimed when they put up the signs after the bridge opened, but I think the major danger was to the preservation of the local kids' virginity.’

  ‘So why don't you write about that and the lore that surrounds it?’ AnnaLise suggested. ‘We were just up there, so the lead-in can talk about how that was a reminder of your own misspent youth.’

  ‘I didn't say my crowd hung out there,’ Daisy said. Her tone was indignant, but a smile played around the edges of her mouth. ‘At least, not that much.’

  ‘See?’ AnnaLise said. ‘It's already bringing back nostalgic moments. Just don't give driving directions or Chuck will have our heads.’

  Sitting down at the computer, the daughter worked up a quick intro to the new blog in general and her mother, the first blogger. When AnnaLise was ready to show it to the older woman, however, she was nowhere to be found.

  ‘Daisy?’

  ‘Upstairs. I'm getting dressed to go over to Torch. You want to come?’

  It was sad to be a twenty-something whose mom had a better social life than you did. ‘No, but I thought you wanted to work on the blog?’

  ‘I need to let the ideas percolate,’ Daisy said, coming down the steps. She was wearing straight-leg jeans and a sparkly shirt that AnnaLise wouldn't mind borrowing. Her mother, truth to tell, also had sexier underwear than she did.

  ‘You look nice,’ AnnaLise said. ‘Meeting someone?’

  ‘Who knows,’ Daisy said. ‘The night is young and so I am. Sure you don't want to come?’

  ‘To be my mother's wing man? I think not.’

  ‘Don't worry, dear,’ Daisy said, parting a curtain at the front window to look out. ‘I'm not prowling for a new daddy for you. Just socializing.’

  ‘Good thing,’ AnnaLise said. ‘I already have one more than I want.’

  Now, though, she glanced out the window as Daisy moved to the door. ‘What were you looking at?’

  ‘I just thought I saw a car.’ Daisy put her hand on the knob, then said over her shoulder, ‘Have I mentioned I'm sorry about that?’

  ‘About what? Dickens Hart being my biological father? You have, but I'm sorry – it just doesn't ring true.’

  ‘Water over the bridge, dear.’ Daisy picked up her purse with her free hand. ‘You can't change yesterday by regretting it today. You just have to move – ’

  A combination of sounds and sensations: Shattering, splintering, spraying.

  When AnnaLise opened her eyes, a window pane was gone.

  ***

  The first police officer was there within minutes, probably because AnnaLise told Coy Pitchford, who was manning the desk, about the bullet hole in the wall.

  That officer was soon followed by Chuck and a crime scene technician.

  ‘Daisy was just looking out that window, Chuck,’ AnnaLise said, keeping her voice down, partly because she was afraid it, too, would crack if she raised it.

  ‘I think she knows that, AnnaLise,’ Chuck said. ‘Why are you whispering?’

  ‘I don't want to upset her.’

  ‘Heavens, I'm not upset.’ Daisy had come up behind them. ‘In fact, it's rather . . . exhilarating?’

  ‘Think how “exhilarating” it would have been if you'd been hit,’ AnnaLise scolded.

  ‘You're all right, Daisy?’ Chuck asked. ‘You don't think we should transport you to the hospital?’

  ‘No, no – I'm fine. Is there anything else I can do for you?’ Daisy was picking up her handbag from the floor where she'd dropped it when the window exploded.

  ‘Where are you going?’ AnnaLise demanded.

  ‘Torch, as I told you. Honestly, AnnaLise,’ she said, swinging open the door. ‘You really should have your own memory checked.’

  The door closed behind her.

  AnnaLise looked at Chuck. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Me? I think your memory's passable, but you do tend to nag.’

  AnnaLise rolled her eyes. ‘I meant about our window being shot out.’

  ‘Could have been a drive-by.’

  ‘In Sutherton?’

  ‘Not exactly big-city kind of drive-by. More like good ol' boys on Main Street shooting into the air. You never know where the bullets are going to come down.’

  ‘But usually not by making a ninety-degree horizontal turn through a vertical pane of glass.’

  ‘Maybe not, but it could have been a ricochet. Or some other odd, unpredictable thing. We're just going to have to wait on the crime scene guys telling us more.’ Chuck turned away.

  AnnaLise swallowed, feeling sad and alone.

  She followed him to where he was conversing with his first-responder. ‘Chuck . . . um, Chief, when you're done, could I talk to you? Alone?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Sure.’ Then to his officer. ‘When you're done here, get somebody to cover this window, then Waddell and you can head back to headquarters.’

  The officer nodded and Chuck and AnnaLise moved away to the small parlor.

  They didn't sit.

  ‘Chuck, are you angry with me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don't know. It's just,’ she looked over her shoulder, ‘ever since I told you about my relationship with Ben Rosewood . . . or didn't first tell you, I've sensed a . . . difference in you.’

  Chuck's face in the light coming from the kitchen didn't change. ‘Toward you?’

  Yes. I'm really sorry I didn't tell you everything right away, but it's not something I was –or am – proud of.’

  Still no response.

  ‘Will you at least say something?’

  Chuck cocked his head and then slowly shook it. ‘I'm not mad, Lise, so much as surprised. I mean, you? With a married man?’

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I know. And I'm ashamed, but . . . like Daisy said, we can't change yesterday, we just have to go forward. Ben Rosewood is not a good man.’

  ‘Please, don't take that tack.’ The chief's eyes didn't leave hers, didn't blink. ‘Don't make this all Rosewood's fault, because he was married and you weren't.’

  ‘I'm not. It's just, just that he . . .’ She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. ‘I'm sorry, Chuck. I thought that you of all people would –’

  ‘ – understand? Why?’ Now he did look angry. ‘Because I'm gay? Monogamy isn't valued only in the straight community. Nor is honesty.’

  Chuck went to move past her toward the front door, but stopped. ‘Sometimes, Lise, not being bound by the rules makes it even more important to play by them.’

  ‘You're right,’ she whispered hoarsely, closing her eyes against the tears that were welling in them. Then AnnaLise felt a squeeze of a hand on her arm and, when she opened her eyes, Chuck was gone.

  ***

  The window was boarded, but AnnaLise didn't feel safe. She felt . . . hollow. Empty.

  It was only nine p.m., so sleep was not an option. She considered joining her mother next door at Torch, but despite the desire for some normality, she didn't want to have to make small talk.

  That seemed to leave just the Internet. AnnaLise's computer was still on, with the start of Daisy's blog glowing on the screen. AnnaLise saved the document into a new folder, at first hesitating, then naming it ‘Blog.’

  ‘Pithy, huh?’ she said to her computer. ‘Afraid that's about all the creativity you're likely to get from me at the moment.’

  Just above ‘Blog’ alphabetically was a folder labeled ‘Ben.’ ‘Equally pithy
, no? Although if I named the file “Bastard,” it would not only be closer to the top, but more descriptive.’

  AnnaLise considered deleting ‘Ben’ in a grand gesture without opening it. With the exception of the last few texts Ben had purged from her phone, she'd heeded his advice and kept very little on either her computer or phone that could be incriminating.

  Incriminating. The word reminded AnnaLise of the legal system and, therefore, Chuck. Had she actually thought that because he was gay, he'd think cheating was OK?

  Or, if not OK, at least . . . less bad?

  Irritated with herself, AnnaLise double-clicked on the ‘Ben’ folder. As she'd expected, there wasn't much. Indeed, there was just one substantive document and it was entitled ‘end.’ She hadn't even bothered to capitalize the word.

  She clicked.

  ‘Why can't we be together?’ the copied and pasted incoming message read.

  Then AnnaLise's trilogy reply, carefully composed on the computer: ‘Three reasons: you have a wife, you have a daughter, and I have a mother who needs me.’

  Complete with creation date, if not when ultimately sent by text, thereby at least supporting AnnaLise's claim that she'd been the one to break off the adulterous relationship. Not that it mattered much, anymore.

  AnnaLise re-read her reply.

  ‘Oh, dear God.’

  Twenty-eight

  ‘So, what are you thinking? Two down and one to go?’

  AnnaLise had called Joy Tamarack and asked her to come over. Her reward was her friend's company.

  Her punishment was her friend's mouth.

  They were sitting at the kitchen table again, and AnnaLise rubbed her sore head. ‘I honestly don't know anymore.’

  ‘You want me to tell you? Your message to him said you two couldn't be together because of his wife, who is dead; daughter, who is also dead –’

  ‘And my mother,’ AnnaLise reminded her.

  ‘Yes, the one who was just shot at. Any idea whether it was the same gun?’

  ‘That shot out our window? It couldn't be the Eames weapon,’ AnnaLise said. ‘That was left at the scene and the police have it.’

  ‘Does it match the bullet from the Rosewoods’ tire?’

  ‘I don't know,’ AnnaLise said, sitting up straight and reaching for her cell. She stopped.

  ‘What?’ Joy asked.

  ‘I was going to call Chuck.’

  ‘Then call him.’ She looked at the kitchen clock. ‘It's only ten.’

  ‘Our chief isn't very happy with me,’ AnnaLise said. ‘My affair with Ben Rosewood, remember?’

  ‘Oh, right. Do want me to call him?’ Joy asked, picking up AnnaLise's phone and thumbing through contacts. ‘I can tell him about your suggested hit list, too.’

  ‘Are you kidding? It's as much an indictment of me as it is Ben. In fact, I'm surprised he hasn't already shown it to the police.’

  ‘Maybe he has and that's the reason Chuck's not speaking to you. With it, you've become his prime suspect.’

  AnnaLise shook her head. ‘The prime suspect now is Josh, I'm afraid.’ She filled Joy in on that side of the situation.

  ‘So there's a police officer stationed at his door?’

  ‘I assume when Josh wakes up, they'll read him his rights and place him under arrest. If he wakes up,’ she amended.

  ‘Hope they're being as careful about who they let in to see him as who they let out,’ Joy said.

  ‘They are. In fact, when I was there . . .’ She stopped. ‘You're saying that Josh could be in danger?’

  ‘From what you've told me, he's the only one who knows what really happened at the Eames' house. If you're right about Rosewood, Josh's the only one who can wreck his plan.’

  ‘Josh is the real threat to Ben,’ AnnaLise said, impressed again with Joy's reasoning. ‘Unless Ben knows somehow that the poor kid won't regain consciousness. Maybe, as a prosecutor, he's seen enough similar cases to know which headshots are fatal and which aren't.’

  ‘And which scramble the brain and which don't.’

  ‘True, but even so, even if he actually believes Josh's not a danger, why target Daisy? She certainly doesn't pose a threat to him.’

  ‘Yeah, but her daughter does. And don't forget: You're the one who put Daisy – and Tanja, and Suzanne – on your list.’

  For which AnnaLise Griggs didn't think she could ever forgive herself.

  ***

  That night, AnnaLise did get a revolver from her father's gun cabinet, loaded the cylinder, and slept with the weapon under her pillow.

  Sleep proved tough to come by, and when she did fall off she dreamt about their front window. In the dream, it was a simple lighted frame, first with Daisy's head silhouetted in it, then AnnaLise's, as she looked out to see what had caught Daisy's attention. And then . . . everything went black.

  The next morning, AnnaLise sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and called the police station. Not sure that she wanted to talk to Chuck – or that he would be willing to talk to her –AnnaLise was relieved when Charity Pitchford answered the phone.

  ‘I heard when happened at your mother's place last night. Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ AnnaLise said, glancing toward Daisy sitting at the desk and in front of the computer. ‘Up pre-dawn and composing a blog.’

  ‘A blog? Bless her heart, that woman is a marvel. And so resilient.’

  ‘She certainly is,’ AnnaLise said. ‘Where I'm the worry-wart in the family. Did you get any other reports of gunfire last night?’

  ‘In fact, we did. Let me see.’ AnnaLise could hear the clacking of keys and the rustling of papers. Then Charity was back on the line. ‘The other report was from Church Street, just a block, block and a half away from you.’

  ‘Did anybody see the shooter or shooters?’

  ‘No, although this other homeowner had damage as well. Three brand-new front windows blown out.’

  AnnaLise whistled, all the while feeling relief that perhaps the Griggs weren't solely the intended targets of the shooter. ‘Lucky we have just the one window facing the street.’

  ‘If everyone and their brother didn't have a gun, we wouldn't have all these shootings,’ Charity said.

  ‘Very true,’ said AnnaLise, remembering the police officer was not native to the High Country where people like Fred Eames considered fourteen weapons a modest cache. Speaking of: ‘Any word on Joshua Eames' prognosis?’

  ‘Much better than the girl he shot,’ Charity said dryly. ‘Looks like he's going to be just fine.’

  ‘Really?' AnnaLise was astonished, but relieved. 'I stopped by the hospital to see his dad yesterday and Josh was still unconscious.’

  ‘“Was” is right. He came to last night. In fact, the chief went right from your house over to the hospital, for all the good it did him.’

  ‘Josh wouldn't talk to Chuck?’ Maybe Fred Eames had taken AnnaLise's advice and hired a lawyer.

  ‘Oh, he'd talk, but what he told the chief isn't worth the paper it's written on.’

  AnnaLise smiled at the expression. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, Joshua Eames says he doesn't remember a thing. Convenient.’

  And, perhaps, true. After all, the young man had been shot in the head. ‘Is Josh under arrest?’

  ‘He is, and we'll most likely be transporting him to jail as early as this afternoon if all the tests come out clean.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘The gun must have slipped as he pulled the trigger and missed doing any real damage. Like I said, though, we'll know more later in the day. Well . . .’

  Charity's voice signaled she was getting ready to say goodbye.

  ‘Wait, before we hang up,’ AnnaLise said hastily. ‘I meant to ask Chuck yesterday if he'd been right about the slug in Mrs Rosewood's tire. Did it match the weapon used at the Eames' place, like he thought it would?’

  A silence. ‘Well, I could transfer you over so you could ask the chief himself –’


  ‘No, really. Don't bother him, I –’

  ‘– but since I just sent the information over to the press, I don't think there's any harm in telling you what little we know. As was expected, the slug was so damaged the only thing the lab can be certain of is that it's a thirty-ought-six.’

  ‘Is that the same caliber as the gun that killed her daughter?’ AnnaLise left out Joshua Eames, since Charity obviously wasn't a fan.

  ‘And most deer rifles you'll find around here.’

  ‘Deer rifle?’ AnnaLise looked at her cell phone like it was lying to her. ‘How in the world does someone shoot himself with something as long as a deer rifle?’

  ‘Simple. You take your sock off, put the rifle between your legs – butt end down, of course, barrel in your mouth – and use your toe to fire the weapon.’

  ‘You're kidding.’ AnnaLise was trying to picture how that might be done. Without picturing the result.

  ‘AnnaLise, we're of fairly short acquaintance,’ Charity said, ‘but of one thing you can be sure: I don't joke about something like this.’

  ‘Sorry, of course you don't. I'm just . . . and you're sure it was a hunting rifle because it was left at the scene?’

  ‘Correct. Right there on the floor next to its owner's son. And his discarded sock.’

  ***

  AnnaLise slid the phone onto the table. Then she picked up the morning's Charlotte Observer and stared at it, before setting that back down, too.

  Could she have been wrong? Had Joshua Eames killed Suzanne and then shot himself? The evidence seemed damning.

  But . . . it was evidence, something a seasoned prosecutor like Ben Rosewood might know about. AnnaLise was trying to imagine the man she knew removing Josh's sock and shoe while the boy lay there –

  ‘“Dead end” – one word or two?’ Daisy swiveled from the desk.

  ‘Two,’ AnnaLise said.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Daisy said. ‘Otherwise it could be confused with “deadened.”’

  ‘That has an extra “e.”’

  ‘What does?’ Daisy was clicking away at AnnaLise's keyboard.

  ‘The word “deadened,” as in “the pillow deadened the sound of the gunshot.”’