It took a moment before it picked up. “Hello.”
“Jane.”
“Sophie. Hey, listen. I was just getting ready to call you.” Her voice sounded strangely subdued.
“What’s wrong?” I asked with an edge.
There was silence on the line for a second. “I stopped to grab breakfast at Annie’s and the place was abuzz. Seth Sutherland died of a heart attack in his office last night. The housekeeper found him this morning when she woke and went to bring him his coffee. They say Marissa’s in hysterics.”
I shuddered and took a deep breath, feeling for the woman. Only someone who’s experienced that particular loss can completely understand. We’d never been extremely close but I understood how she felt. “Wow.”
“Well, it wasn’t totally unexpected,” Jane stated matter-of-factly, “the man did have a heart condition.”
“Jane, have a little respect for the dead,” I said.
“I am,” she said. “Oh, and speaking of the dead, I also heard that Rebekah Peterson’s body’s going to be buried here.”
I wrinkled my brow. “Here? Why?”
“Seems like Gabe was unable to locate any other family members.”
“That’s sad,” I said softly.
“Tell me about it.” Jane’s tone was still indifferent. “Anyway, the body can’t just sit around indefinitely. It’s got to be buried. Someone mentioned Friday or Saturday.”
“I wonder if they’ll hold a memorial service?”
Jane gave a snort. “Why? No one knew her.”
I thought about the significant letters from my browsing. Perhaps someone had. But that was beside the point. “Because it’s the right thing to do,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Did any of the pastors step forward?”
“Pastor Walker did.”
“Good. Look Jane, I called to let you know that Cindy did mention Richard Moya’s name in the journal and I thought I might go have a talk with him about Cindy. Maybe I can discover why she didn’t bother to conceal his identity.”
“Really? Interesting.” Jane’s voice has lost its indifference. “Sure. Go ahead. I’m good at the shop. Just let me know what you find out.”
“Will do. And thanks for letting me know about Seth. My day’s going to be a lot shorter. I’ll need to fix something to bring over to Marissa’s.”
It took another five minutes to get off the phone, arguing with Jane about bringing something from the shop. I wanted to bring something home-cooked and southern. As soon as I hung up, I quickly picked it back up and punched in another number. On the second ring, it was picked up and a soft voice said hello.
“Mom?”
Sarah Tucker chuckled. “Were you expecting someone else?”
I smiled, “No,” then got straight to the point, “Jane talked to me a few minutes ago. Seth Sutherland just died.”
“Yes, dear, I know. I was standing around in the kitchen deciding what to fix and bring.”
“You know? How? I just found out and I live in Merry Hill. You live all the way on the farm?” I asked, perplexed.
My mom laughed again. “Living all the way out here, as you say, doesn’t mean your dad and I live in the Ozarks, dear. Laura McGuire called me late this morning with the news.”
“Oh.”
“She also mentioned you hadn’t been to see her lately. Or brought the kids.” There was the slightest tone of accusation in her voice.
I squirmed. Laura McGuire is my mother-in-law. And mom was right, I’d been so busy lately that I hadn’t really had the time to connect with my in-laws. It’s not because they’re a set of contention to me. On the contrary, since David’s death, they’ve done whatever necessary to help me, all the while, having to go through their own mourning. I sighed. “She’s right. I haven’t been by lately.”
My mom was silent for a second. “How about the kite flying day next week at Reeve’s Field? I’m sure that Robert will be there with his two little girls. So will Laura and Katie, more than likely. Since you have to be there, why don’t you make plans to get together?”
“How did you know I’d be at Reeve’s Field this year?” I asked curiously.
“Because I knew you wouldn’t want to disappoint the boys and this was something that David taught them to love. It helps remind them of him.” There was the softest laugh. “Ought to be interesting, though.”
I gave the phone a sour look. “Thanks, mom.”
She laughed. “I love you, sweetheart, but facts are facts.”
I sighed. “Does this mean I can count on you and dad helping me that day?”
“Oh, you know we’ll help where we can.” A hint of accusation came back into her voice. “Now, you know, Sophie, Laura isn’t the only one who hasn’t seen her grandkids—”
I spent the next few minutes saying goodbye and promising that I’d drop off Simon and Steven on Saturday morning for a visit. It made sense. With the twins at the grandparents and Paige at the birthday party, I would have a day to work on this mystery unhampered. It took me forty-five minutes to throw on some presentable clothes and drive out to the Butterfield Office about ten miles from town.
Richard has worked for the Butterfields for over twenty-five years. He’s been married to his wife, Ramona for about eighteen of them. I pulled into an open space and put my black GMC Yukon into park. The wooden walkway creaked under my feet as I made my way to the door and tapped firmly. A moment later, Richard Moya poked his head out of the door.
“Hey, Sophie.” He motioned me inside. “Come on in.”
The sun has burned a permanent tan onto Richard’s face from being outside year round. With his balding head and short beard and mustache, he’s a slightly portly man of fifty-five who’s still very active in helping manage the fields of flowers throughout the surrounding area. He’s the main foreman for the Butterfields, hired on by the late Tom Butterfield himself.
I grabbed a chair near the desks. There were ordered piles stacked neatly all over. Richard placed his hands together and gazed at me intently. “How’s the family?”
I smiled. “Boys growing like weeds. Paige is entering those wonderful teenage years.”
Richard laughed and shook his head. “Yeah. Thought my dad would kill me before I made it out of mine.” He leaned back in the chair. “Well, what brings you here? You picking up an order for your mother?”
An idea clicked. I had wondered how to approach the subject and here it was. “Sure, that’s it. You know my mom really likes flowers. I thought she’d appreciate some bulbs to plant. The boys are seeing her on Saturday and it would give them something to help her do.”
Richard scratched his hand through his hair. “We have some nice tulip bulbs I can pull for you. And how about glads? Your mom likes those, I believe?” He stood. “Here. Let me check in the shed out back. I had brought a few things up already packaged. One minute and I’ll see.”
He stepped out the door. I heard the clump of feet on the walkway. I looked around. The office was small. Shelves littered one side, filing cabinets the other. There was a large glass window behind the desk and I watched as Richard made his way to a bulb shed in back.
The wall by the door was covered with framed pictures and documents. I stood and walked over, looking in detail. Most cited Butterfields with some form of commendation that Richard and others had passed for various duties including pesticides and such. Of the pictures, I noted that a lot of them were of Richard, or Richard and Ramona with the workers or a member of the Butterfield family, usually Thomas or Peter, who spent vast amounts of time out in the field.
I continued around till I came to the shelves. More pictures were propped up there in front of the books. One at the far end puzzled me. I picked it up. In it, two men were reclined against the front of a truck hood. They looked relaxed and comfortable. Someone had taken a pen and written along an edge the numbers – nineteen eighty-three and the words, fall festival. It took me a moment to realize that I was staring at a much younger Richard Moya an
d Tom Butterfield.
The young part wasn’t what had stunned me. What had was that I had never realized just how similar Richard and Tom had been. In the picture one might have assumed that they were brothers. They had the same height, the same short, straight black hair and dark eyes. They had even carried themselves the same. It was interesting. I wondered who had taken the picture. Whoever it was, both men had been completely comfortable with them. The door opened behind me.
“Sophie, I have a package of the glad bulbs in the shed if you wanted something that you could take with you now,” Richard asked as he entered, stamping the dirt from his feet.
I nodded as I turned. “That’ll be fine, Richard. I’ll take one bag.” I showed him the picture. “I had no idea how much you and Tom Butterfield resembled one another.”
Richard glanced at the picture and laughed. “That was a long time ago.” He nodded. “Ramona mentioned that too. I guess I never really thought about it.” Richard walked around and sat down at the desk, pulling out a pad to write a receipt of goods for me.
“Who took the picture?” I asked.
“Elenora did. I remember we’d had an excellent showing at the festival. We were in a celebratory mood that day.”
“Did Elenora help Tom a lot in the fields?”
Richard shrugged. “When she was younger and they were just starting out, yes. As she got older and there were children to think about, Tom wanted her to stay at the house more.”
I walked back over and sat down. Pulling out my checkbook, I started filling out the essentials, thinking quickly as I did. “I was wondering, would you mind answering a question for me?”
Richard looked up. “What, Sophie?”
I tapped the pen against my knee. “I guess you’ve heard about Johanna and the death of Rebekah Peterson?”
Richard rolled his eyes. “She’s a Butterfield. Of course, I have. It’s been the main topic of discussion up at Shadow Oaks.”
I straightened up. “Then you’ve heard what Rebekah was claiming: that Tom Butterfield was her father?”
Richard snorted. He pointed the pen he was holding at me. “I knew that man most of my life. He loved two things on this earth – growing things in the earth and his family. He would never have done that to Elenora. That girl was lying with what she said happened between Tom and her mother. Johanna reacted foolishly at the café.”
“By her mother, you mean Cindy Peterson. What about the rumor that there was something between you and Cindy?” I asked bluntly.
Richard drew back as if stung. He threw the pen down on the desk and stared. “Who told you that?”
I couldn’t very well mention the journal so I shrugged and prayed as I plotted my way through, hoping it sounded right. “I talked to several of the people who were around during that time. A few mentioned seeing the two of you together. Not in town but out here around the farm.”
Richard put his hands together and leaned his head against them. He drew a deep breath. A moment later, he spoke, “Yeah, Sophie. I knew Cindy Peterson. Knew her very well, if you get my meaning.”
“Is there any chance that Rebekah could—”
“No,” he broke in bitterly. Richard stood abruptly and turned to look out the window. “You got to understand. When I heard what happened at the café and then at the motel, I was shocked.” He looked back at me. “At first I thought that maybe it was a coincidence, someone with a similar name. But, no.”
I studied him, puzzled. “You just as much told me you had a relationship with Cindy. What makes you know that Rebekah wasn’t yours?”
He took a deep breath. “Right before Cindy left town, I found out that she was pregnant. I went to her. I offered marriage as an acceptable way to keep living in Merry Hill without the busybodies wearing her out. I felt responsible.” Richard sighed and rubbed a hand across his bald spot before he continued, “Do you know what she did? She laughed. Told me it wasn’t mine; that she didn’t want to be married to me. She had big time plans and that what we’d had was just for kicks.”
I could still hear pain in his admission. Wow. It shed light on Cindy Peterson. I tried a different rabbit hole. “Did she mention who the father was?”
Richard laughed but it sounded miserable to my ears. “I took from the way she spoke that it had to be someone who had money or was from a respectable family. It was what she was looking for, money and respectability, something she felt I didn’t have.
Poor Richard. “That must have hurt, Richard. I’m sorry. But she never said who it was?”
He shook his head and jabbed a finger in my direction. “No, but it wasn’t Tom Butterfield. Like I said, he wouldn’t have done that to his family. Tom wasn’t interested in other women. He loved Elenora. The land was his only other love and Elenora was willing to share him with it.
I frowned. “But it makes no sense. If she wanted to get pregnant by some rich guy and did, why leave town?”
He shot me a puzzled glance. “I never figured it out. She tells me that and a month later, she’s gone. I never saw her again. The next year I met Ramona at a flower specimen show and,” he shrugged, “well, you know the rest of the story.”
I smiled. “Yeah, I do.” I studied him for a moment. “Do you have any regrets about Cindy?”
Richard sat down in his chair and leaned back. He shook his head. “No. Looking back, I was young and too foolish to recognize Cindy for the person she was. I guess I should be grateful that she was looking for a bigger fish to catch.” Richard shuddered. “The thought that I might have married her sends chills through me when I think about it.” He grinned. “The experience made me grow up and look at women a lot more seriously. And then, I met Ramona.”
“Does she know?”
He nodded. “I talked about Cindy when we first started to get serious. I wanted her to understand why I could appear so withdrawn at times or slow to grow in our relationship.” He leaned forward and finished writing, then tore off the sheet and passed it over.
I glanced at the amount and quickly finished the check. Tearing it out, I passed it over. We walked out together and I waited while Richard went around back and brought back my bag of glads.
When he put it in and closed down the back, he turned to me. “Look, Sophie. I know you’re trying to help Johanna more than buy your mom some bulbs.”
I squirmed under his watchful gaze.
Richard’s smile was gentle. “It’s okay. I understand. I can’t picture Johanna doing something like this either.” He pressed on. “I take it you think whoever was the real father to Rebekah killed her? You know, that’s pretty harsh when you think about it.”
His smile eased my tight chest. “I know that Johanna didn’t kill her but someone did. I just have to find out who had the best motive and finding the man who was her father is a pretty good start. That person might not be the real killer but it could help put us on the right path.”
Richard nodded. “Just be careful. I’d suggest discretion; probably not asking every possible male in the vicinity point blank would be advisable. Someone was willing to kill Rebekah to cover their tracks, someone who won’t hesitate about killing anyone else.”
8
I thought about Richard’s words on the way back into town. He had a point; one that made me nervous. I had to be careful. There were my children to think about. They’d already lost one parent. They didn’t need to lose the other. But I couldn’t let it go.
The more I dug, the more it intrigued me. Why kill Rebekah? Even if she had been able to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was someone’s daughter, what extreme harm could it have done today? She had been nineteen. There would no longer have been a responsibility for her by the father on a legal sense.
Yes, there would have been some scandal to set the tongues wagging and I could have seen how Rebekah might have been paid to leave by the family but killing seemed like such an extreme measure. How could having Rebekah for a daughter been so damaging? When I discovered this, I w
ould have my answer.
I parked my Yukon at the house and left the bulbs in the back. They could stay there till Saturday. I walked toward the waterfront. As I crossed Second Street, I saw George Wilkins out in front of his grocery. I remembered Jane’s words. George Wilkins had been seen with Cindy Peterson.
The George I have always known is a quiet man. His wife, Susan is the same. They don’t socialize much and prefer to be either at the store or home. I can’t quite picture this George with the wildness that was Cindy, although I’m sure he was an attractive younger man. Even though his hair is gray, it and his mustache are full and thick. He occasionally plays Santa when the library holds their annual Christmas party. He’s known as a joyful and silent Santa who quietly goes around and passes out gifts of books.
I watched him add fresh collards to a bin set up outside the storefront as I made my way down the sidewalk. “George.”
His smile was soft. “Hey, Sophie. How are the kids?” George wiped his hands on his apron and stuck out his hand.
I returned the handshake. “They’re well. Steven said those peaches from last week were wonderful.”
George’s smile grew wider. “Well, we have a few more left of the batch I got in,” he said with a nod toward the store. “You want me to pack some up for you?”
With George, I felt that underhandedness was the wrong approach. He wouldn’t appreciate being tricked. And the most he could say was nothing, right? I bit my lip in apprehension. “Uh, George, that would be good but that’s not why I stopped by.”
He had turned back toward the store but now looked back puzzled.
I pressed on. “I take it that you’ve heard about Johanna and this Rebekah Peterson who died?”
George tensed. He hesitated, and then nodded. “Yes. I read the paper and you can’t help but hear the gossip that floats around. It was sad. I hope Johanna didn’t do it. I know she’s prone to rashness occasionally but I really just can’t imagine.” He shook his head in bewilderment.
I nodded in what I hoped appeared understanding, “Neither can I. In fact, that’s why I’m here; trying to figure out the truth from the lies that Rebekah was spreading. I was talking to some of the people who remembered when Cindy Peterson was working for the Butterfields. The thing is, while no one ever saw her with Tom Butterfield, a few said that you were seen with her on occasion.”
When No One Was Looking (Sophie McGuire Mysteries) Page 14