When No One
Was Looking
Jenny Rebecca Keech
Copyright © 2013 Jenny Rebecca Keech
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1482056917
ISBN-13: 978-1482056914
DEDICATION
To my parents, who actually encouraged me to become a writer even when they knew there were so many other easier options. To my mom, for reading my work. To my dad, for teaching me to work hard. To the rest of my family, who never stopped pushing me forward. To my sensei, who helped me learn to finish what I had started. And to God, for whom without which I would have no gift.
1
The doorbell didn’t ding; it rang like a five alarm fire alarm. I froze for a moment in shock at Jane’s wild entrance. Her short, red curls bounced in disarray around an oval face. Bright, green eyes lit up with focus. I felt the intensity. It was directed at me. Jane looked like an excited blowfish who’d taken in too much air.
“You’ll never believe it,” she stated breathlessly with a wave of her hand before she took a moment to suck in another deep breath.
She’d caught me in the process of resetting the display cases. At ten o’clock, I man what Jane terms ‘the second shift’. She’s an early riser, and by that I mean she typically starts at three in the morning and usually leaves the store to me around nine thirty for a late breakfast at Annie’s down the block. Yes, Jane, one of my best friends, wakes up many a day in the early morning hours with the desire to come to the shop and make chocolate.
The desire to make chocolate, I understand. But the only reason compelling enough to get me out of bed at three a.m. would involve a burning house, and it being mine. I shake my head and bring myself back to the moment and the shock of Jane’s abrupt appearance. I watched her with concern, even as my fingers balanced the final truffle atop the chocolate-dusted pyramid.
Deep inside, I sighed. Not again. When Jane gets this enthusiastic the tiniest edge of a headache starts to pulse at the base of my skull. The last time she was this excited I discovered she’d been in deep conversation with Kate Walden for two solid hours. Kate owns the java and snack cart located on the first floor of the courthouse, which sounds pretty normal. The not normal part is she also happens to also be a devout conspiracy theorist who loves to pull Jane into her plots. Well, pulls is really the wrong word since Jane nearly always dives in without help.
Unfortunately, Jane’s the type who goes around looking for molehills that have the slightest possibility of being mountains. The last time I had to yank Jane back into reality involved an intense discussion about Jonas Wilson, a local farmer and minor moonshine entrepreneur. I should mention, to forewarn, he drinks more of his homemade brew than he actually sells. No one asked me for my opinion at the time but I really felt that this information should have chimed some note of caution.
Anyway. According to Kate, Jonas claimed to have seen an alien out in his cow pasture during a full moon. Who knows? Maybe that’s the perfect time to catch one trying to abduct a cow – something to do with tidal swells. Whatever the reason, Kate got it into her head that this might very well be a secret government operation under the disguise of alien abduction. Why the government wants to abduct cows is beyond me, but what do I know? I’m not a conspiracy theorist. I can’t see the ‘big picture’.
Of course Jane promptly threw herself energetically into the circumstances – wanting to sneak out and as she actually quoted to me, “reconnoiter the situation”. That time I got lucky. The very next week Jonas got himself arrested for being drunk and disorderly. It lent the story a lot less credibility, at least to Jane. I was way past having doubts.
I sighed, saw the tray was steady and slid the door shut. My hazel eyes – set in what I considered an unremarkable oval face and framed by short, auburn layers that knew no rhyme or reason – stared back reflected in the glass. I stood and waited, drummed my fingers atop the counter to slow my growing exasperation.
“You’ll just never believe,” Jane said.
She actually bounced. Not too difficult for her. Just envision a skinny, red-headed pixie with the metabolism and energy of a rabbit hooked on speed. Jane’s the only woman I know who could probably lose weight on a diet of chocolate.
“Well, then maybe you should just tell me?” I leaned on the counter. It drives her nuts when I won’t take the bite she’s dangling.
Jane frowned and her look turned perplexed. “But I want you to guess.”
Of course she did. I mentally counted to ten. “Lily Knoell came in, ordered for two, ate hers and had the other meal boxed up in order to take it home to her husband since he couldn’t join her. Which, of course he couldn’t since he’s been dead for ten years.”
“What’s so hard to believe about that?” Jane asked, annoyed. “She does that every week.”
“Who knows?” I answered with a grin. “Maybe you want to tell me that today a man showed up to eat that meal.”
“You’re impossible,” Jane said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, “Quite possibly a romantic, but still impossible. However, no. Try again.”
“Talk, Jane.” I stated this in the most threatening tone I could manage. It wasn’t really necessary. I knew deep down, even with Jane wanting me to guess, she wouldn’t be able to contain her secret. As usual, I was right.
Jane stood as tall as her five feet two frame would allow and gave a dramatic pause before continuing. “Johanna got arrested for assault.”
For the second time that day I simply stood there, floored with shock. My mouth dropped but I seemed unable to recover with a witty response. Johanna. Butterfield. Arrested. Assault. Those four words rang in my head and I heard them peal over and over in disbelief. It couldn’t be true. I narrowed my gaze and scrutinized Jane. My tongue loosened. “You made that up to annoy me.” It was possible.
Johanna is another of my best friends. The only problem is she and Jane can’t stand the ground on which the other is standing. It goes back to high school and involves Johanna’s brother, Thomas, picking Victoria Rodman, who is now his wife, instead of Jane to go to the Senior Prom. Jane had been so certain she was the number one choice. She had tutored him in Spanish most of the year. I personally don’t see where she got her high hopes but it’s a subject I tend to ignore when she brings it up. Ever since, Jane’s been holding this slight against the Butterfields.
Jane’s look narrowed. “I did not. I saw it with my own two eyes. In fact,” she answered triumphantly “most of Annie’s crowd saw it if you want to go ask them. It was kind of hard to miss. There she was rolling around on the floor, kicking, and screaming out unladylike words at the top of her lungs.”
Ouch. I winced at the image. You have to know the Butterfields to understand the disbelief. The Butterfields are the elite of society here in Merry Hill and the surrounding area. They own Butterfield Enterprises, which encompasses land, flowers and bulbs all over six counties. They have existed in this area before there was a Merry Hill – and we’ve been around for quite a while. They are senators, governors, leaders of finance, doctors and lawyers; a Butterfield has been the head of the Women’s League for as long as I can remember. To put it simply: they don’t do unpleasant incidents. It’s a Butterfield tradition, up there with debutante balls and the Butterfield Christmas Gala.
“What happened?” I asked.
Jane’s green eyes went round and she set her bag down to free her arms. “You should have seen it. There I was, minding my own business.”
I rolled my eyes. Jane’s never minded her own business.
She ignored my actions. “I was sitting at the fron
t counter eating a slice of Annie’s delicious apple pie—”
“You ate apple pie for breakfast?” I said, aghast.
“Well, it was close to lunch. I thought I would eat dessert first.”
I shook my head but waved a hand onward. “Could we get back to how this relates to Johanna?”
“I’m getting to that,” Jane ground out grumpily. “It was while I was in the process of finishing up that Johanna walked in and, without so much as a how do you do, started to smack on this woman. She was a slender thing, brunette with pretty blond highlights. I couldn’t see her eyes because she was wearing shades. Anyway, Johanna reaches out, grabs her by the hair and starts screeching and pounding.” Jane frowned. “She kept saying something like, ‘not my father, bitch’, over and over.” Jane shrugged and held up her hands. “People never clarify in these situations.”
My mouth had dropped open. Again. I drew back, confused. “They didn’t talk? Johanna just came in and started a fight?” I gave her a dark look. “Are you sure you’re not embellishing a little?”
Jane raised her hands in defense, “Hey, it did seem a little un-Johanna-like but that’s the way it went down.” Her voice dropped in excitement. “And I do mean down. Before anyone knew it, there they were on Annie’s wood floor, scuffling, scratching, and rolling around like two three year olds in the mud. It was…” she tilted her head thoughtfully, “interesting, considering that they were two grown women.”
I blinked. “No one tried to stop the fight?”
“Well,” Jane frowned, “it happened so fast.” She couldn’t maintain her insulted attitude and excitement crept back in as she continued, “And it was so amazing. It was like seeing a mirage. You know, one of those things you’ve imagined but never thought you would see.” Her voice trailed off. I could tell she was lost in the vision of the fight. But, before I had to clear my throat, her gaze shifted back to reality. Jane shrugged. “Well, all good things must end as they say. A few men started to rise. And then Gabe and Pete walked in.” She sounded disappointed by the last sentence.
“Apparently,” I remarked, “Not everyone was as shell shocked.”
Jane ignored the barb. “Anyway, Gabe asked the brunette, uh, Rebekah Peterson if she wanted to press charges and she said yes. Gabe had no choice. He had to take Johanna down to his office.”
My right index finger made circles on the wood. “Did Johanna have anything to say about her actions?”
“You know, that was a little strange too. Johanna just stood there seething. She didn’t say a word once Gabe broke them up, and you know Gabe. He tried to get both women to loosen up and let bygones be bygones, but no. Johanna had some downright animosity toward that woman and this Rebekah Peterson was all but spitting fire.”
I frowned. “What makes you say that?”
“Gabe had Johanna’s arm and Pete had the other woman’s. They’re standing there and this was when Gabe’s trying to calm the situation. This Rebekah woman jerks her arms out of Pete’s hand, gets in Johanna’s face and says, ‘You think you and your family are better than me? Just wait. Just wait and see when I’m through. Everyone is going to know what your family did. I’ll make sure of that.’”
“Sounds like one angry woman, all right,” I admitted. “Weird. But you didn’t get what it was all about?”
Jane wrinkled her nose. “Gabe held Johanna back and pushed Rebekah Peterson toward Pete. He told Pete to take a statement and he walked out with Johanna. Who, I might add, did not look happy. All the way to the Sheriff’s office I could see that she and Gabe were having words.” She grinned. “Probably telling him something like, ‘how dare he drag her off like she’s some common criminal?’ The video would be priceless.” Jane’s look turned calculating, “I wonder what the chances are that someone caught it on their phone.”
I ignored the malicious glee in her eyes and, reaching into the cabinet behind me, pulled out my shoulder bag.
My movement drew her back from her fanciful imaginations. “Hey. I haven’t finished telling you everything,” she grumbled as I headed for the door.
“I have a friend who might need my help,” I said dryly.
Jane chose to ignore my veiled sarcasm. “She’s a Butterfield,” she stated with an indifferent shrug. “The lawyers will probably beat you there. In fact, I wager little Miss Johanna Butterfield will probably be gone and out of Gabe’s custody by the time you get there. You know the saying, can’t keep a Butterfield down, or in jail,” she added on a peevish note.
“The sheriff’s office is right across the street,” I spoke through gritted teeth as I made my way around the counter and toward the door. “There’s barely been time for any calls to be made.”
“What hole have you had your head stuck in all your life?” Her look turned to surprise as I reached for the door handle. “Don’t you want to hear what else I found out?” Her voice held a wounded tone.
Jane has this look that can so quickly turn to that of a hurt puppy. She hides it under a normally friendly facade, ready to whip it out on a minute’s notice. I took my hand off the door and confronted her, determined to fight the urge to give in. “I take it by that you mean what gossip people are already slinging?” Jane’s look of pain intensified. I sighed, set my bag on the chair by the door and shrugged. She won. I am such a wimp at times. “Fine,” I ground out, “Talk. But if it sounds like gossip, I am so out of here.”
Jane’s injured looked disappeared, replaced by an animated grin. I had been, yet again, conned. My frowned deepened but Jane ignored it. “Charlene Kirkwood happened to be at Annie’s this morning having a late breakfast with her husband, Michael.”
“They have a bed and breakfast,” I muttered, “You’d think they’d have plenty of breakfast at A Stone’s Throw.” More than likely Charlene wanted to see if there was any gossip floating around she had missed. Great! Johanna couldn’t have picked a better day to flout Butterfield societal rules. And Annie’s was usually the hub of local tittle-tattle, especially during the morning. This exaggerated news would spread faster than an airborne virus among children during cold season.
“Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?” was Jane’s waspish reply.
For a split second I debated whether it was worth having to watch Jane mope for the rest of the day if I walked out on her rendition of a Merry Hill’s ‘Days of Our Lives’ episode. I sighed. “What did Charlene have to say?”
“Only that this Rebekah Peterson checked into A Stone’s Throw late Saturday and that she has pretty much kept to herself in her room at the B and B till this morning.”
I tilted my head as I struggled to comprehend. “You’re telling me that this morning is the first time that Johanna has seen Rebekah Peterson since she arrived in Merry Hill?” I asked dubiously.
Jane raised her right hand as if swearing before a court. “According to Charlene, Rebekah stayed at the B and B all Sunday. Charlene did add that this morning Rebekah left about eight but before she did, she inquired about directions to the law offices of McGill and Swenson.”
“They’re right down the street from the B and B,” I mused. “Why would a stranger to Merry Hill make a law office their first stop?”
Jane shrugged, “But considering the time, she must have gone straight to Annie’s after that. And that’s where Johanna found her.”
“So there’s a good chance that a connection exists between Johanna and whatever Rebekah was doing at the lawyers’ office. I mean, Patrick McGill does a lot of business with the Butterfields.”
Jane looked intrigued. “Hey, you have a point.” Her gaze turned speculative. “Maybe I should go with you and see if Johanna needs any help?”
I slid her a ‘don’t bullshit me’ look. “I don’t think so. You are probably not the first,” I let sarcasm flavor my next word, “caring face she’d want to see from behind bars.”
“But just think how much fun it would be,” Jane stated with a sweet smile.
“Down, Jane,” I u
ttered with a warning look as I grabbed my purse. The spring sun had warmed the salt-flavored air I inhaled as I exited the shop. I made my way down the waterfront sidewalk to where it dumped onto Main Street. The Sheriff’s office is only around the corner and down a block. However, in that mystifying way of hers, Jane was right. As I walked up to the door, Johanna walked out.
She looked as polished as ever; her long blonde hair smoothed back with a pink band, no smudges on her spotless face. Her black slacks and silk top were fitted and designer and in her left hand there was a dainty pink purse the size of a thank you card. Johanna was the picture of societal propriety. My imagined picture of her unruffled and cat fighting on the floor seemed even more impossible. In the memories I have of Johanna I can’t recall a one in which she’s dirty. In them, she is always perpetually clean and fashionably attired. I think it’s written into the Butterfield genetic code.
“Johanna,” I stammered, thrown off balance by her quick appearance. “Jane mentioned the trouble at Annie’s. I was concerned.”
Johanna blinked. Her face broke into a pasted smile. “It’s nothing,” she said smoothly. “Don’t worry about it, Sophie. I’m sure that Jane, as always, embellished the situation.”
Her expression failed to fool me. “Then you didn’t get—”
She cut me off. “I’m sorry Sophie.” A frown etched its way onto her forehead as Johanna glanced down at her watch, her right hand in a death grip on the purse, “but I’m already behind opening my shop for the day.” For the first time I could see that she was rattled. Johanna kept rearranging and checking her clothing. It’s a nervous habit she’s had since childhood. She shrugged. “As you can see, everything is fine. Don’t worry about whatever Jane said. I’ll see you. Perhaps later?”
The door to the sheriff’s office swung open and Gabe stepped out onto the sidewalk. His glance took in both of us.
At the sight of him, Johanna’s face tightened and she started to turn.
When No One Was Looking (Sophie McGuire Mysteries) Page 1