“Of course.” Mom took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She sat up straight, but her shoulders were relaxed. She folded her hands on her lap and breathed evenly. As long as I’d known them, my parents had been meditators. It wasn’t difficult for either of them to fall into a deeply relaxed state. It was a skill that neither Allison nor I had had the patience to cultivate.
We were all silent. Dad was mostly relaxed, Sam remained patient, I tried not to look anxious, and Aldous bit at a fingernail.
I wasn’t sure how much time passed—only seconds, or had it been minutes?—before Mom opened her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sam, I’ve got nothing. I’ll keep working on it.”
“That’s fine, Polly, I appreciate you trying. Just let me know.”
“May I ask what sort of detail you’re looking for?” Aldous said.
“Nothing specific, just something . . . more,” Sam said as he stood from the chair.
I knew he was hoping Mom had a memory of something red, but he’d told me firmly that I wasn’t to plant that in her mind. It would mean something only if she came up with it on her own.
“I see,” Aldous said. He, too, knew Sam was after something specific. He glanced at me as I did my best to look like I knew nothing, which probably only made me look like I knew everything but wasn’t telling.
“I’ll leave you all to visit,” Sam said. He turned to Aldous. “Thanks for coming down on such short notice. Levon would approve of your dedication.”
Aldous nodded. “Thank you, Sam.”
Sam glanced at me quickly as he left the room. He was reinforcing his instruction not to tell Mom about the fabric.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Well,” Aldous said after Sam left, “it’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s good news we have another murder. Hopefully, they’ll find something that leads law enforcement to a different suspect.”
“I hope so,” I said. “However, I’m very sorry about Manny,” I added. I was—terribly sorry, in fact, but there wasn’t currently space in my mind to give that thought the attention it deserved.
“Oh,” Aldous continued, “I received a call from a Betsy Francis, who was Joan’s assistant at the restaurant. She scheduled an appointment with me and Sam for tomorrow morning.”
“Why?” I said.
“She said she might have something pertinent to the case. She stressed ‘might’ and said not to get too excited. I tried to get her to meet this evening, but she said she couldn’t get away.”
“What could she have?”
Aldous shrugged. “I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Shoot,” I said. Betsy had asked for a meeting? She must have something good. And why hadn’t Sam told me? “What time tomorrow?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
“What?” Aldous said. “You’re not invited.”
“He has a point, Becca-girl,” Dad said, using my childhood nickname. “You aren’t an attorney, and I doubt Ms. Francis would share with you what she wants to share with the police and Mr. Astaire. It’d be better if you didn’t attend.”
He did have a point, but I was more than curious. Maybe I’d just happen to be downtown and run into her.
“Of course,” I said so agreeably that my mother’s eyebrows rose.
Aldous excused himself for the evening, making sure my parents didn’t need anything further.
The three of us chatted casually for a while, but I could see that they were both tired. Once they convinced me that I looked like I could use some rest myself, I left them to their cots and cages.
“Hey,” Sam said as I entered the area with the officers’ desks.
“Oh, I thought you went home.”
“I wanted to make sure you got to your truck okay.”
“It’s just out front,” I said.
“I know, Becca,” Sam said. “Call it being polite, I don’t know. It seemed wrong to just leave without making sure you got out of here okay.”
“Oh. Thanks, Sam. Sorry.”
“No problem.”
As we walked outside, it felt like ages had passed since I’d parked and left with Sam in his Mustang. It was just dark enough to make me acknowledge I was tired. My head was still buzzing with . . . with everything, but I was most definitely tired. I was looking forward to some deep sleep.
“Let me see your arm,” I said as we stood by the truck. I reached for Sam’s sleeve and rolled it up gently. “Aah, that’s going to be ugly.” The scrapes seemed somehow deeper, and the redness had already begun to turn into a purplish bruise. I wanted to blame it on the streetlight glow, but I didn’t think that was it. “I’m so sorry.”
Sam put his hand gently over my fingers.
“Becca, like I said, I’ve been through much worse.”
I looked up and into his eyes. At the moment their icy blueness was shadowed in the darkness. It was odd not to see and read those eyes.
Suddenly, the world did what it had done when we’d stood on the slope of land on my farm. It didn’t tilt so much as it rippled a little.
Sam cleared his throat, removed his hand from mine, and put his hands on his hips in an awkward stance.
Later I wondered, even if Ian had been in the general vicinity, if I could have stopped myself from doing what I did next. I hoped so, because if I couldn’t have, I was a worse person than I thought.
I stepped up to my tiptoes and leaned forward to kiss Sam. On the lips. For more than a second. Much longer than “just friends” should ever kiss.
He remained in the funny stance, but his lips participated willingly.
I finally pulled away and gasped.
“Oh, dear God, I am the worst person on the planet. I’m . . . ,” I began.
Finally, he unfroze as he put a finger on my lips.
He smiled just a little as he said quietly, “You make up for your horribleness with your kissing skills. If you say that was a mistake, I’m going to have to arrest you.”
I wanted to speak again, but he said, “Shhh,” before I could get a word out.
“Now,” he continued. “I’m not going to tell anyone what just happened. You and your family and Ian are all friends of mine. I will not do anything to jeopardize that—unless of course you decide someday that that kiss was something you want to explore further. Then, Ian and I will battle it out like gentlemen, probably with some sort of lethal weapons, but don’t worry about that. You need to know that I will not hold that kiss against you or use it against you. In fact, for now I’m planning on acting like it never happened. But if and when you want me to acknowledge it again, just give me the word. I’m here, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going anywhere. Ball’s in your court, Becca.”
I nodded, now afraid to say anything. Somehow, my own hands now covered my mouth.
“Good night, Becca,” Sam said as I got into the truck and he shut the door.
“Drive safely,” he added as he stepped back and up to the curb.
The only other thing that could have made that moment worse would have been if I’d looked up and noticed that my father had witnessed the entire scene through the cell room window.
So it was that kiss—that great kiss—that made my night one of the worst ever.
I wasn’t happy with myself in the least. I searched for a reason, any reason, why I’d done what I’d done. I’d never been disloyal to either of my ex-husbands, even when they were being idiots. I cared deeply for Ian and would never, ever want to hurt him.
Why had I kissed Sam?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Twenty-three
By the time I was standing in my kitchen the next morning, having toast and coffee with Ian, I’d managed to convince myself that kissing Sam had been not only a mistake, but just one of those things that sometimes happened between friends—a reaction to stress, or something. I was grateful Sam was such a good friend and made sure that it stopped at just a kiss. It was the adrenaline
of the day and the fact that I’d felt bad about hitting him with a tree limb, the sadness of seeing my mother still behind bars, another dead restaurant owner. It was the culmination of many things, but, still, it had been a mistake and nothing that needed to be destructive.
In the light of day and with my boyfriend in the kitchen with me, the kiss didn’t seem as real, or I tried not to make it real. Though, a ghost of guilt rumbled around just outside my field of vision and spooked me every few minutes or so.
I knew I needed to tell Ian what I’d done, but this wasn’t the time.
I’d driven straight home last night, thinking that Ian had already picked up Hobbit from George’s and they would already be there. But they arrived later, and Ian was too exhausted to do much but fall into bed and sleep. I hadn’t been able to find the deep sleep my body needed. I wasn’t sure when I’d ever sleep well again.
Ian was horrified to hear about Manny’s murder, but even he had the same thought about the possibility of Mom’s imminent release because of it. He was just as disappointed with the answer as Aldous and I had been.
“Anyway, what happened to make the installation such a challenge?” I asked, trying to bring some normal back, something that wasn’t about murder or guilty kisses.
“The customer, Frank Kovas, had given me the address and told me to put it at the southwest corner of his front yard. Just as I finished digging the hole, an elderly woman came out of the house carrying two glasses of lemonade. She asked me to sit down with her for a minute. I was tired and thirsty, so I took her up on it,” Ian said with a smile. “We sat and she started asking me my intentions. I thought it was an odd question, but I told her I intended to have the artwork installed before it got too late.”
“Seems reasonable,” I said.
“Yes, but then she informed me that she didn’t like yard artwork and would never have purchased any. I was confused, double-checked the address, and asked her name.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Come to find out, I was either given or wrote down the wrong address. She has a granddaughter, and she thought I was there to ask to ‘court’ her. She refused to believe that I was who I said I was, doing what I said I was doing.”
I laughed. “How did you convince her?”
“I helped her to my truck and showed her the sculpture that was in the back of it. I just kept trying to explain. I started filling in the hole.”
“That worked?”
“Yeah, but the she got angry and told me that if I didn’t make the dug-up area look like it hadn’t been dug, she would call the police. She picked up the lemonade and slammed the door as she went back into the house.”
“Oh my.”
“I felt terrible, but when I was done, I doubt she could tell where I’d dug the hole. I put all my efforts into putting it back together perfectly. Frank lives next door, and he showed up just as I was finishing. He wasn’t happy that I hadn’t finished his install yet, but fortunately he’s a good guy and understood when I explained.”
“Plus, I bet he loved it when it was done.”
“I think so.” Ian took a sip of coffee and leaned against the counter. “It was one of those comedy-of-errors things.”
“Sounds like it,” I said. I knew I sounded distracted. I cleared my throat. “Sorry. Too much on my mind.”
“No problem, Becca. Very understandable. How are you, really? How are your parents?”
“I’m fine.” I took my own sip of coffee to mask my guilty conscience. “My parents are getting tired of being in jail, but they’re okay.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Promise me a weekend away when this is done.”
“Consider it promised.” Ian’s dark eyes sparkled with the idea, but I could tell they also saw that something wasn’t right with me. He was pretty intuitive that way. I hoped he’d chalk it up to stress over my mother.
“Thank you. So, what’re you up to today?”
“Working on the farm. Thought I’d take Hobbit with me. You need me for anything?”
“I’m going to visit my parents again this morning and then see what happens from there. If you need to do anything away from the farm, can George watch Hobbit again?”
“I’m sure he’d love to. I’ll get her there.”
I stepped surely forward and rose to my toes. As we kissed, it seemed that the previous night’s kiss melted to something less important, something I could get a grip on and maybe move away from. I hoped.
“Wow, I’m thinking a long weekend’s a really good idea,” Ian said when I finally let him breathe.
I laughed. “Me, too.”
And then there it was again, that questioning glance. He knew something was up. My dark, exotic tattooed boyfriend, who was ten years younger than me in numbers but so much older and wiser spiritually than I’d ever be, knew something wasn’t right.
I hurried out of the house and to my truck, no doubt in an effort to better hide my guilt.
Aldous had said that the meeting was scheduled for nine o’clock. I pulled into a spot in front of the county municipal building at five after nine, and Betsy was just walking out of the building.
“Shoot,” I said quietly. Aldous had me pegged. He knew I’d somehow get involved in his meeting and had lied about the time. My respect for the attorney continued to grow.
I threw the truck into Park and watched as Betsy descended the front stairs. I debated whether or not I should get out of the truck.
Betsy’s face was pinched, and her legs moved quickly. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, but even with her strained expression and severe hairdo, she was still an attractive young woman. The glasses she’d been wearing that first day I saw her were MIA again, and she wore a denim skirt with a pastel pink blouse.
She looked up as I was inspecting her, and stopped midway down the stairs. My orange truck was hard to miss, particularly this morning when the only other civilian car parked in the area was a silver Honda, which was probably hers.
She squinted and, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I waved. She held up a finger, telling me to wait.
“Okay,” I muttered to myself.
My window was already rolled down, so I leaned over the door slightly to greet her when she reached the truck. But instead of walking to the driver’s side, she went directly to the passenger side, opened the unlocked door, and hoisted herself into the seat.
She shot me an impatient look and said, “Drive.”
I blinked and then looked for the knife or some other potential weapon that usually accompanied such a command, but she seemed unarmed.
“Drive,” she said again.
I didn’t ask where, because I thought she’d just say “anywhere.” I suppose I could have said no, or screamed, or just remained parked there until she told me what she wanted to talk to me about, or killed me, but above everything else, I was curious.
I said, “’kay,” put the truck into gear, and headed back out onto the street. I turned and headed toward Bailey’s. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.
Once the building with the police station was out of view, I said, “There’s something you want to talk to me about?”
“Yeah, just how stupid are you?”
“On a scale of one to ten? Depends on the day and the situation. Why?” She’d picked a bad day to ask such a question. Post Sam kiss, I felt pretty stupid.
“You didn’t give the list to your mother’s attorney or to the police. Why didn’t you give it to them?”
I was silent for a moment as I remembered the evening at Bistro. Ian and I had snuck that list out. I didn’t think anyone had seen us. I would have thought that if someone had, they would have been angry at us for snooping and stealing. Perhaps angry enough to call the police.
“I guess I’m not sure,” I finally said, wondering where this was going.
“You stole it—or you think you stole it—because you thought it might have something to do with Joan’
s murder, right?”
“I didn’t know. I just knew you didn’t want us to have it, which made me want it more. Maybe it had to do with the murder, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“Why didn’t you just give it to the police? I left it there so that’s what you’d do.”
“You wanted us to take it?”
“Yes!”
“Okay. Why didn’t you just give it to the police?”
“I have my reasons. I thought you and your boyfriend would be smart enough to take care of it for me.”
“Betsy, help me out here. Your setup was good. I had no idea you wanted us to take it. We did, and felt good and sneaky for doing it, but Ian and I had no idea what any of it meant. Even if we had some inclination that it might have something to do with the case, it was so . . . so abstract. Why would we have given it to the police? And, really, why wouldn’t you if you thought it was pertinent?” As I said the words, I thought she had a pretty good point, though. If we had even a slight suspicion the list might have something to do with the case, why didn’t we just give it to Sam and let him try to figure it out? It was one of those things that suddenly seemed so clear in the bright, unforgiving light of hindsight. But in my own defense—there wasn’t much to try to figure out. I thought the main reason I hadn’t given it to Sam was because I felt we had stolen it. Stolen evidence, no matter how abstract, didn’t do much good for anyone. It wasn’t like I wasn’t working to figure it out; I just hadn’t gotten anywhere with it yet.
Betsy sighed heavily. “Well, I gave a copy to Mr. Astaire and Officer Brion this morning. I don’t know what it means, but I’m pretty sure it leads to the killer.”
“How?” I said.
“I don’t know, really, but I think it must.”
“How? Why?” I insisted.
“The day before Joan was killed, she asked me to run the printout for her. I did, and she and Nobel met in her office. They had a heated discussion with each other, and then I heard them on the phone, still with heated words, though it was difficult to make anything out. I went into her office after they left.” I felt her look at me. “I know I shouldn’t have snooped.”
Crops and Robbers Page 18