A Genuine Fix

by J. C. Kenney

  “Okay.” Brittany tugged on Lori’s pants leg. “Can I go say hi to Doctor Cobb?” Without waiting for an answer, she left us, heading in the direction of my mother.

  “Sorry about that.” Lori let out a nervous laugh. “I did want to talk to you about something, if you have a minute.”

  “What’s up?” I guided Lori to a spot under a sugar maple tree, where we could have some privacy while keeping an eye on Brittany.

  “It’s about Georgie. Do you know why Roger Parke fired him?”

  “It’s my understanding he failed a drug test after his accident.” Which was the final straw, according to Roger, but I didn’t think mentioning that would be helpful.

  “That’s what he wants everyone to think.” She crossed her arms. “That’s not the real reason, though. The real reason is Georgie got hurt in the accident. When he filed a workers’ compensation claim, Roger went through the roof.”

  “So, you’re saying Roger fired Georgie for filing an injury claim.”

  “Yes, so Georgie got a lawyer and sued Roger. Firing someone for filing a workers’ compensation claim is illegal. The case took forever, but they finally settled a few weeks ago.”

  “Let me guess. Georgie was due a settlement payment and Roger wasn’t happy about it.” The plot was getting thicker. “Do you mind me asking how much the settlement was for?”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars. I should have told you about it when we had lunch, but it slipped my mind. My memory’s not very sharp right now.”

  I’ll bet it’s not, especially if you’re hiding something, Lori. “Did Georgie receive the settlement payment before,” I shrugged, “you know.” Despite my suspicions of her, I couldn’t bring myself to use the word murder with Lori.

  “I don’t know. He promised to take whatever he got from the lawsuit and put it into a college fund for Brittany. That would make a nice nest egg for her, know what I mean?”

  “I do.” Mom and Brittany were walking our way, hand in hand. If there was more Lori wanted to tell me, it would have to be another time. “I’ll look into it.”

  Mom took Lori in an embrace as they exchanged a few words. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but the way Lori was nodding, it made me think Mom was imparting some motherly advice sprinkled with medical guidance on taking care of herself.

  That was Mom, always ready to lend a hand.

  By the time we said our good-byes, the crowd had dispersed, and I’d missed my chance at cornering anyone on my persons of interest list. While that development disappointed me, Lori’s information was intriguing. And it led to a whole new list of questions.

  Did Roger have insurance coverage to pay the settlement, or did he have to pay it out of his own pocket? Had the check been cut? Did Georgie receive the funds? If so, where were they? And last, but not least, was there a way I could get a look at Georgie’s bank records?

  “Brittany’s such a cutie, isn’t she?” With a smile, Mom was watching Lori load her daughter into her car, a nondescript silver four-door. As they pulled away, she waved to them. “I’m worried about her. Both of them, actually.”

  I was in total agreement with Mom’s concerns about Brittany. At some point, Lori was going to have to tell the little girl her daddy wasn’t coming back. A chill went through me as I imagined myself in Lori’s position. That had to be a parent’s worst nightmare.

  To me, Lori’s well-being was a different matter, at least until she was cleared. From what I knew, she hadn’t met that test. Her alibi consisted of being home in bed all night. It was an alibi Brittany was too young to verify.

  “What has you worried about Lori?” I got into the passenger seat of Mom’s car as she started the engine. We were headed to the Brown County Diner for a late breakfast.

  “Psychological trauma. I know what kind of man Georgie was, so I have no doubt Lori will be better off without him. Still, a life-changing event like this could have devastating consequences down the road. I’m talking depression, anxiety. Not to mention the daily challenges of being a single parent.”

  We stopped at an intersection. There was no traffic, so the car crept forward as Mom eased off the brake. I put my hand on her arm to stop her.

  “What if Lori did it?”

  “Did what, dear?” Apparently oblivious to my implication, she tried a second time. I shifted the car into park and maneuvered her so she was looking at me.

  “What if Lori killed Georgie?” I gave her an abbreviated rundown of the situation, including my suspicions of Lori being driven by the life insurance payout. “Think about it. Lori’s smart, and you just said she was better off without him.”

  Mom let out a long sigh and rubbed her arms as if she’d just had a chill. “I don’t know. Just because I said she was better off without Georgie doesn’t mean I think she’s capable of murder.”

  “Do you accept that it’s a possibility?” When she gave me an almost imperceptible nod, I let go of her. Satisfied with Mom’s acceptance of my premise, even if it was made with reluctance, I allowed us to resume our drive to the diner.

  “You have better suspects than Lori, I hope.” We turned a corner, and the diner came into view. Mom’s belief in Lori’s innocence wasn’t surprising. Her compassion led her to believe in the best in people.

  That was one key difference between my mother and me. Like Sloane, she trusted people and wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt. For me, trust had to be earned.

  “I don’t know about better. I’ve got other suspects, though.” The diner was packed, a common occurrence on Sunday morning, so I gave the hostess my name, and we took a seat on an empty bench in front of the restaurant.

  While we waited to be called, I took Mom through a point-by-point analysis of my suspicions about Tommy Abbott, Roger Parke, Lori, and the gamblers associated with Willie Hammond.

  “A police officer, two well-respected members of the business community, and the mayor’s daughter. You sure you don’t want to implicate the pope while you’re at it?”

  Despite the joking nature of the comment, Mom’s concern about my suspect list wasn’t lost on me, even if I wanted to quibble with her inclusion of Willie among the well-respected members of the business community. What mattered was I was pointing a finger at people who had a lot of friends in Rushing Creek. If I was going to accuse one of these folks of murder, I was going to have to make sure my case was locked down tighter than the vault at my bank. Another issue came to mind as we rose to our feet in response to the hostess calling our names and passed a Miller for Mayor sign in the window. Would Matt support me if I had anything less than smoking gun–type evidence?

  To a certain degree, he was in as much of a fix as I was. Thanks to the election, the pressure he was under to make an arrest, which was tremendous to begin with, kept increasing, like the fluid in an old-fashioned thermometer measuring the temperature of a sick patient with a high fever.

  He couldn’t make just any arrest, though. Charging the wrong person would prove to be disastrous to the accused, to his career, and to the community. No. Just like me, Matt’s evidence had to be more ironclad than an aircraft carrier.

  I kept that thought close to my heart as reassurance he wouldn’t come knocking on my door to read me my rights anytime soon. I also used it as motivation to keep digging, to find Georgie’s killer, so I wouldn’t have to worry about that frightening development.

  Angela arrived at our table with a smile and a carafe of coffee. She knew us well enough to fill our cups without asking.

  “Any news on the investigation, Allie?” She pulled a pen and pad out of her apron to take our orders.

  “Still looking for clues.” I ordered a Belgian waffle with blueberries.

  Mom ordered a bowl of mixed fruit and a bagel with strawberry jam. “I’d also like a Miller for Mayor button like the one you’re wearing.”

  With w
ide eyes, Angela pulled a button from her apron pocket and handed it to Mom. I clapped as Mom pinned it on her blouse.

  “To what do I owe your endorsement? You’ve always kept your politics close to the vest.” Since Mom and Angela had known each other for decades, I figured the answer was obvious. Mom wanted to vote for a friend.

  “Walter thought it was important to maintain an appearance of political neutrality. He was afraid I’d lose patients if people knew I voted for this candidate instead of that candidate. Now that he’s gone, I’ve decided life’s too short to be quiet about matters that are important to me.”

  Mom took Angela’s hand. “You’re vital to this town. You own a business here. You’ve raised a family here. You know everybody. I can think of no better person to lead Rushing Creek than you.”

  Angela gave Mom a hug, then headed to the kitchen to submit our orders. The scene left me speechless. It was the first time I’d heard Mom discuss politics of any level in public.

  “Oh, don’t act so surprised.” She poured some creamer into her coffee.

  “But you and Dad always voted for Larry.”

  “That’s because he never ran against Angela. I’ve been maneuvering behind the scenes for years to get her to run for office. It’s about time she said yes.”

  I reached for a sweetener packet but missed. The shocking revelation had me as off balance as a tightrope walker in a tornado. When Mom sighed, I shrugged. “Wow. I don’t know what else to say. Do you have any other secrets I should know about?”

  “Some may be bigger, some may be smaller, but we all have our secrets.” She took a drink of her coffee. “Like the meetings you, Luke, and Rachel have every Wednesday to check up on me, for example.”

  I sat back and stared at Mom as she stirred her coffee. Her grin made it seem like we’d been talking about the colorful new bike racks the mayor was having installed around town.

  “How long have you known?” The way I whispered the question, one would have thought she’d busted me for cheating on my taxes or, worse, turning down the corner of a page in a book instead of using a bookmark.

  “Long enough. Long enough to be upset at what I perceived as a betrayal. That you kids didn’t think I was capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Mom, we—”

  “Long enough for that anger to morph into self-doubt and worry that maybe you were right.”

  She paused while Angela served us our breakfasts.

  “Long enough to get past the anger and self-doubt and come to the realization the three of you have your hearts in the right place.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. We never meant to hurt you. We wanted to be helpful without… interfering, I guess.”

  “I know. I also know I haven’t been myself since your father died. I spent my entire adult life with him. I miss him every day. I don’t think I’ll ever get past that, and I don’t want to. But you know what?”

  I shook my head.

  “Every day I’m getting a little better at living without him. I’m not going to lie. Some days are better than others, but I’m adjusting. And getting better at remembering where I left my keys.” She winked.

  “I’ll tell them you’re wise to us and we don’t need to meet anymore.”

  “You most certainly will not. I’ve seen how your weekly meetings have brought the three of you closer together, especially you and Rachel. It’s also nice to have your brother taking care of things around the house. Let your meetings run their course. We’ll keep this our little secret.”

  “Deal.” As our discussion turned to more pleasant topics, like the twins’ latest antics, a weight was lifted from my shoulders.

  Mom was going to be okay.

  For months, I’d looked forward to the day I’d be able to say it. Now that the day had arrived, I was happy, feeling like anything was possible. It was a great feeling.

  It made me wonder, though. Did everybody in town have something they were trying to hide? If so, were any of those secrets related to Georgie’s murder?

  Chapter Eighteen

  To get my mind off the case, Brent’s surprise was a trip to the state park Sunday afternoon. We spent hours hiking the trails with Sammy by our side. After the relatively modest space of Luke and Sloane’s backyard, the dog was in heaven as she romped along rocky ridges, through bubbling streams, and across wide-open green meadows. A few squirrels and a cardinal didn’t appear to appreciate Sammy’s desire to play with them, but his exuberance made Brent and me laugh.

  By the time we returned to Brent’s truck, Sammy was exhausted, so we enjoyed a delectable dinner on the patio of the park’s restaurant while the dog snoozed at Brent’s feet. From time to time, Brent would slip a morsel of his meat loaf to his canine companion, who managed to eat what he was given without ever seeming to wake up.

  I chose a more dignified route with my grilled salmon and set aside some of it, along with the leftover dinner rolls, to take home. My only question was which would be gone first, Ursi’s fish or my rolls.

  Brent had to be at work early on Monday, so after escorting me into my apartment and giving me a memorable kiss good night, he hit the road. Once I was alone with only my kitty to keep me company, a nervous energy bloomed inside me. Even though I’d hiked over five miles, I couldn’t keep still. While Ursi munched on the fish I brought her, I found myself walking the same route through the apartment over and over again.

  Lucky for me, the culprit was easy enough to identify. I was suffering from information overload. Between Lori, Mom, and Brent, I’d been on the receiving end of so much input today, on top of the stress from the case, that my brain was struggling to process it all. The way to get past my climbing-the-walls state was to drive myself to exhaustion. The way to do that was an extended session with the kickboxing bag.

  “Time to get sweaty, girl.”

  Ursi was too busy finishing her dinner to acknowledge my invitation.

  I changed into workout clothes, filled a water bottle, dialed up Linkin Park on my playlist, and set the timer for a ninety-minute workout. I started out easy with some stretching, then moved to footwork exercises. At the ten-minute mark, I added punching and kicking to the mix. Even though the music made it impossible for me to hear the bam, bam, bam as my gloved fists and shoes punished the bag, the concussive force as leather hit leather reverberated up my arms and legs, which added fuel to the workout.

  When the timer hit the forty-five-minute mark, my arms were weary from the punching, my hips and thighs were tired from the kicking, and my vision was blurry from sweat, but my brain was slowing down. During the second half of the workout, I reached “the zone,” that glorious state when one’s body, mind, and spirit merged and all my thoughts, all my movements centered on the red bag before me.

  There was still snap to my kicks and pop to my punches when the buzzer went off to signal the end of the ninety-minute session. I gave the bag a final one-two-three punch combination, followed by a roundhouse kick and lifted my arms in the air in victory.

  “Yes. I am the champion.”

  Ursi seemed impressed as she ran circles around me as I doused my face with the remaining contents of the water bottle. She even accompanied me as I shuffled to the fridge to get more water. I leaned on the appliance’s cool metal surface as the bottle filled and laughed as her rough tongue licked at my sweaty ankles.

  “You’re weird, but I love you.” I gave her fresh water with an ice cube, then took a few laps around the apartment that were interspersed with stretches for my cool-down exercises. After that, I went to the patio to relax.

  Sometime later, I woke up, still on the patio, with a crick in my neck. I found the water bottle under my chair. It was empty. I let out a laugh since I had no memory of finishing it.

  Since I was covered in dried sweat, I took a shower, humming a bouncy Sara Bareilles tune as I got clean. It had been quite a da
y, and I was pleased to have it end on a positive note. Ursi opened one eye, yawned, and went back to sleep as I slipped into bed. The last thing I remembered before falling into a deep, dreamless slumber was hearing myself murmur the phrase “Mission accomplished.”

  * * * *

  Between the hiking and the workout, head-to-toe sore muscles made it a challenge to get moving on Monday, but I had the clear head I was after. While I showered, I put my day in order. The top priority was to get on the phone with editors. Then I’d catch up on e-mails. When that was finished, I’d update the agency website.

  I wouldn’t even think about the case until I put in a full day of agenting. Being an amateur sleuth wasn’t making me any money, after all.

  My phone calls didn’t yield any offers but were promising, nonetheless. One editor told me she loved the manuscript and would be presenting it at her acquisitions meeting later in the week. A manuscript going to an acquisitions meeting was a huge step, indicating serious interest. While it didn’t guarantee that an offer to buy the manuscript would be made, the odds were good.

  When the phone calls were complete, I updated the spreadsheet I used to track manuscripts that were out on query. I always got a sense of accomplishment when I updated the document. It had grown so much since I took the reins at the Cobb Literary Agency. It wasn’t that long ago that the only book on the spreadsheet was Thornwell’s The Endless River. Now, there were nine, and two more were almost ready to be added to the list.

  Feeling good about my morning’s progress, I put Ursi in her harness and went for a walk on my lunch break. The streets of Rushing Creek were quiet. The weekend tourists had checked out the day before, and we wouldn’t see a new wave until Thursday.

  I didn’t have a specific destination in mind, which was good since a new bike rack being installed in front of Creekside Chocolates caught my attention. Kim Frye from the Beacon was taking pictures of the mayor, who was seated on a black cruiser-style bike, yet wearing a dress shirt and tie. Diane, who had placed her hands on the rack, was standing next to him.