When No One Was Looking (Sophie McGuire Mysteries)

by Jenny Rebecca Keech

I held up a hand. “Fine. I’ll stop pushing. It’s only my best friend that I’m trying to help.” I leaned my head against the glass door. “Just give me a call if you can think of anyone that you recall hanging around the rear of the store where you kept the new merchandise; anyone who might have seen it, okay?”

  “Okay. But everyone that was there knew about it. I remember mentioning that it was going to be out the next day on display.”

  I spent a few more minutes reassuring her that we would find the person responsible before I hung up. My only problem was that I didn’t have a clue who the person responsible might be. The only suspect I had on my mind was George, and it seemed like he might have been a tad noticeable standing in the midst of all the other ladies, especially since Johanna’s shop only catered to women.

  I kept going back to what Gabe had told me about Chloe’s findings: the possibility that a woman had killed Rebekah. Or, maybe a man making it look like Rebekah had been killed by a woman. I groaned. I wasn’t limiting my field of suspects. It was growing. It now included the entire town.

  I breathed out heavily and sighed as I continued to look out toward the back yard and the birdhouse. The bluebirds were back. The female was perched outside the house, the male sitting farther away on a limb. The female popped inside the house. Apparently, the house was a sell. I smiled, stretched, and rose. It was time to wake the kids.

  *

  I was waiting at the library door at five to nine. It was unlocked by June Gardner, the head librarian. I quickly outlined what I was looking for under the impression that I was researching it as an interest. June was quick to show me the files set up about local history and historic families. I mentioned family estates and June flipped through the files in a drawer and pointed out several areas of interest.

  She left me and I set to work. I dug through my bag and pulled out the journal I’d found at Rebekah’s. I’d stuck a sheet inside with the letters ‘S’, ‘M’, ‘L’, and ‘B’ and some additional notes jotted down. Now I knew that ‘M’ stood for Marabou which had been George’s family estate. ‘L’ had to have stood for Seth’s home, Larrinaga.

  The note I’d found proved that. That left me with ‘S’ and ‘B’. I dug into the assorted files with the compiled information and started sorting. Two and a half hours later, my neck had seized in what I was afraid might become a permanent crick as I tried to straighten from my bent position over the files. The muscles eased as I twisted my neck gently from side to side.

  However, there was victory: I had found my names. Daniel Wolfe had a family estate called Wolfe Run. That had stumped me for a while ‘till I realized that it was relatively new. He had bought it for himself about fifteen years ago, restored the house and changed the name of the place to carry his name.

  But as I looked over that information, Daniel’s middle name had caught my eye. Bellamy. I had forgotten his mother’s maiden name of Bellamy and that Daniel was raised with her and his grandparents on that estate after his father was killed in an car accident when he was five. The fact that there had been no other estates starting with a B twenty years ago hadn’t hurt either.

  The ‘S’ proved more difficult. It made me think immediately of Shadow Oaks, the Butterfield family estate. It, like Larrinaga has been around for several hundred years. Still, I dug deeper, and low and behold another ‘S’ surfaced. Saarland was the family estate of Michael Kirkwood’s family. It too, was an old estate and Michael had sold off the land around the same time that the Wilkins’ had, but apparently for different reasons.

  With both of his parents deceased, he had used the money from the sale to buy and restore A Stone’s Throw, the B&B that he and Charlene now ran. My eyes flickered between the two names. Either could have been ‘S’. Still, Michael’s name had been mentioned in connection with Cindy by several people. The only person who had connected Cindy to the Butterfields was Rebekah.

  I leaned back and studied the sheet. The question was, why? Was it because the Butterfields were such a powerful and wealthy family that Rebekah had assumed they might pay up some money to avoid the possible embarrassment? Or, maybe she’d had more information than me. Maybe she had known some detail that would implicate Thomas Butterfield, something not kept in the journal but on her person, possibly something that the killer had taken away.

  I hadn’t thought of that. That there was possible evidence missing that the killer might have taken away. Obviously, the only reason that the journal was still around was that the killer hadn’t thought to look under a toilet lid. If I could find the evidence, I’d find my killer.

  I stood and stretched. And, promptly groaned at the tension in my neck. I looked at my watch. Nearly twelve. Rebekah’s memorial service was at one-thirty. I’d have to hurry home if I was going to be ready at one, as I’d told Jane. At least I still had Paige to look after the twins for one more day. I was pretty sure that after this week’s punishment she wouldn’t be late for quite some time.

  I closed the files and slid them back into their assorted spots in the filing cabinet. Everything looked right so I packed the notes and journal in my bag and headed to the door. I was headed out when a motion caught my eye. It was Lily Knoell. She was standing behind the circulation desk, checking in books and placing them on a stocking cart. I walked over.

  “Hey, Lily.”

  She beamed. “Hello, Sophie. The boys with you?”

  “Not today, Lily.” I watched her work for a moment. She finished with the checking-in process and started to push the cart out into the main library floor. I walked with her. “Lily, do you remember the other day when we were talking about Cindy Peterson?”

  She slid a book on a shelf and reached for another. She blinked and looked at me vaguely. “The girl who was murdered?” Her look sharpened and she spoke intently, “Her mother? Yes. I remember Cindy Peterson.” Lily nodded with a soft smile. “She worked for the Butterfields, that girl did. I was surprised Elenora kept her as long as she did, though,” Lily added with a frown. “That girl was constantly running around. It was very unladylike. I remember telling Harry that,” she said with a nod. “Very unladylike.”

  I persisted. “Do you remember if there was ever any connection made between her and Thomas Butterfield?”

  Lily’s head snapped around. “Thomas Butterfield was a good man,” she snapped.

  She spoke so sharply, I took a step backward. I’d never seen Lily become upset this quickly. I tried a different tactic. “Of course he was, Lily. What about Michael Kirkwood?”

  Lily relaxed and turned back to the bookcase. She shelved another book and started pushing the cart down the aisle. “That was a sly one. Juggling one girl in plain sight and another on the side.”

  I gave her a wry glance. “Are you telling me that Michael was dating Cindy Peterson at the same time that he was dating Charlene?”

  Lily snorted. “Dating is not exactly what I’d call what was going on between him and Cindy Peterson.”

  I raised my eyebrows in shock. Lily hadn’t been this forthcoming and plainspoken in quite some time. Interesting. What had happened between Michael and Cindy was reminiscent of George’s tale. “What happened between Michael and Cindy? He chose Charlene?”

  She smiled. “In a way. Cindy got tired of him or maybe he didn’t have whatever she was looking for because she dropped him. He had no choice but to go back to Charlene. He was lucky. If Charlene had found out, he’d have lost her for good.” Lily reached for another book and turned back toward the shelf.

  I pursed my lips. “You mentioned someone she met in the dark. Was that Michael?”

  Lily turned from the shelf. She gave me a puzzled glance before looking around befuddled. “Hello, Sophie.” She put her hand to her face. “I didn’t see you standing there. Did you need something?”

  The door to that particular part of her past had closed. I smiled gently. “No, Lily,” I spoke softly, “I just stopped to say hello and see how you were doing.”

  Lily nodded. “I�
��m doing fine.” Her eyes brightened. “Oh, and Harry loved those turtles. I’ll have to stop by and get him some more sometime.”

  I bit my lip. “Of course.”

  Lily stared at her cart and picked up a book. She frowned at it and set it back down before looking around, puzzled. She had lost her direction.

  “Stacking?” I interjected.

  She looked back at the cart and then beamed at me. “Exactly.”

  I grinned. “Stop by the shop anytime, Lily.” I patted her shoulder, “I always look forward to seeing you.” I waved goodbye and waked away.

  At the door, I glanced back. Lily was busily going down the aisles, pushing her cart. I could hear her humming as she went. I sighed. Although Lily had been informative, I wished she could have told me more. I also wondered how Lily had known what she’d known about Michael. I hadn’t thought they’d been close. Maybe Effie would know, I wondered as I pushed through the doors and went out.

  At the house, I did a mad dash to get ready, racing down the hall and into my bedroom, throwing off clothes as I went. I couldn’t decide what to wear. What does one wear to a memorial service of a perfect stranger? In the background I could hear Dude barking from the backyard where he was locked out of the house. He’d heard me come home and was hoping I’d let him in. Comet quickly joined in with baying.

  I thought about what to wear as I rushed into the bathroom and did my makeup and hair. Thirty minutes later, I was finished with everything but my clothes. I stared at the array in my closet again before selecting a black, jersey wool knit dress. It had been one of David’s favorites. The last time I’d worn it had been for his funeral.

  I pulled the hanger off the rack and the dress all but slipped off into my hand. I took it and slid the dress over my head and slip, smoothing the snug knit down my body with my hands. It felt comfortable and familiar. I closed my eyes. For a second, I could almost feel David behind me, ready to wrap me in his arms.

  I fought with myself to hold the feeling. I couldn’t help it. I opened my eyes and looked behind me. Nothing. With a sigh, I reached back into the closet. The black leather heels I snagged slid on easily. I almost left the black wool wrap, but I snatched it and the black purse I’d left lying on the bedspread.

  The doorbell pealed. I took one last look around the room before exiting. Jane turned as I opened the door. She was dressed in a somber brown pantsuit and low heels. However, Jane can’t be somber. It’s just not in her to be subdued. An example? She wore a neon orange scarf wrapped around her neck. She looked good, in a depressing and mournful kind of way.

  Jane whistled. “Girl, are we going to a funeral or are you looking for a guy?”

  I threw her a dark look. “I’m dressed for a memorial. I’m wearing black, Jane.”

  “Well, you should wear black more often. And don’t worry about the when. There’s always time later, after the funeral,” She stated with a grin.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re looking. I’m not.”

  “Maybe you should reconsider,” Jane said thoughtfully as she looked me over. “I think you have a few good years left.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m glad to know I’m not completely over the hill yet.” I moved past her and pulled the door shut behind me. She followed me down the steps.

  She was driving what I call her ‘jalopy’. It’s really not that bad. It’s a Volkswagen Thing. It’s an obsolete vehicle rarely seen today, kept only by eccentrics who I feel want a vehicle that’s a discussion piece. And Jane has a discussion piece – especially when she has painted hers bright orange.

  I winced as the glare of the sun reflected off the paint. Jane keeps her showpiece well waxed. I’d forgotten how bright orange can be. It seems so nice as a small piece of fruit. Imagine that fruit the size of a small compact, add windows and wheels and, well, there you go.

  I sighed. “Jane, if you’re going to have this jalopy, why can’t we have it repainted, I don’t know, maybe a pretty red?”

  She slid in and slammed her door with a clank. “The painting part sounds good. You know I like change. I’ve had the orange for the past three years. I was already considering a nice canary yellow. What do you think?”

  Yellow. The thought I had was, wow, bright, just like orange. And so Jane. What’s a best friend to say? “Sounds like a change,” I muttered.

  “That’s what I was thinking.” Jane turned the key and the engine roared to life. She put it into gear and the vehicle moved forward with a lurch from the curb.

  It took us about twenty minutes to get to the graveyard site. One the way over, I took the chance to fill Jane in on what I’d found out about the letters. She was in agreement with me that it sounded like the ‘S’ was Michael Kirkwood, not Thomas Butterfield.

  The graveyard is the Boone Cemetery. When the Boone family estate was auctioned off about twenty-five years ago due to lack of heirs and heavy debt, the cemetery had been opened to the public. The county allows plots for the deceased, who either have no family or have family with no money for a burial plot.

  Rebekah Peterson sadly fit this description. The Boone Cemetery lies at the end of a rock road off Graylyn Road. If one goes farther down Graylyn, the entrance to the old Boone estate is visible, the ancient rusted iron gates locked to prevent trespassers from appropriating what’s left of the deteriorating mansion that was bought up by – you guessed it – Merryweather Corp.

  Graylyn also holds one other familiarity for me. David died near the end of it, on Reigel that leads down along the river. I haven’t been down Graylyn since the day David’s body was found.

  I could see Jane throwing furtive glances my way as she pulled onto the gravel lane off Graylyn. The jalopy crunched along till we came to a small parking area. There are normally not a lot of crowds who make their way to a funeral at Boone Cemetery.

  The amount of cars I saw though, surprised me. I counted five vehicles. I hadn’t thought there would be this many people. I wondered at the possibility that a killer stood amongst them.

  I slipped out of the jalopy with what decorum I could manage. It can be difficult to appear dignified climbing out of a bright orange vehicle and I was glad no one was around to watch.

  Jane and I made our way down a mulched path to an open area. Pastor Joseph Walker waited by an open grave with a simple casket set to one side. Gabe stood beside the minister, talking and nodding. Off to the other side, Daniel Wolfe stood by himself staring at the casket. I felt Jane jerk when she saw Daniel.

  “What’s he doing here,” she muttered, more to herself than to me.

  I shrugged. “He had a connection to Cindy Peterson. Of course, maybe he’s just being nice like we are.”

  “Hmmm,” she mumbled with narrowed eyes. “We’re not being nice. We’re here being nosy. Why’s he here, being nosy?”

  “I’m not being nosy,” I stated indignantly. “I found the woman. I feel a little bit responsible. What if Johanna and I had gone over earlier? Rebekah still might be alive.”

  Richard and Ramona Moya stood close and silent. They nodded at us as we came up. I wasn’t surprised to see them. I felt that Richard had been upfront and honest with me when we talked. A part of me saw him closing a door on a painful part of his past by coming.

  Dr. Chloe Saito stood close by Gabe, silent and dignified as she stared at the coffin. Everyone stood in these isolated huddles; so close to one another, yet separated by a chasm of silence. I moved closer to Gabe.

  His look was introspective. “I guess I should have expected to see you here.”

  “I felt like I needed to come.” I glanced around. “I honestly didn’t expect to see this many people here.”

  Gabe nodded. “I felt like I should be here; too. Chloe’s the same way. It is interesting who else showed up.”

  He tilted his head in my direction. I looked back at the mulch path. Michael Kirkwood stood just in the open area. He had a wariness surrounding him as he made his way toward
the rest of us. Looking behind, I could understand his feelings.

  Elizabeth Sauls stood on the edge of the path, staring thoughtfully at the group before her. She moved to the edge of the open area. I could see why she didn’t want to intrude. Elizabeth was here looking a story. I had a feeling that if she dug deep enough, she’d find one.

  I looked back at Gabe. “I see what you mean.”

  Gabe glanced at Jane. “Let me guess. You got Sophie in that old orange bug of yours?”

  Jane grinned. “It’s not a bug. It’s a thing. And you betcha. She crawled in and out like a pro.”

  “She’s here,” I muttered, “listening to you talk about her like she’s not.”

  Gabe chuckled and turned to Pastor Joseph. “I take it you’ve seen Jane’s ride?”

  Pastor Joseph smiled. “Yes. My car broke down one day out of town and Jane was polite enough to stop and offer help. A unique vehicle. I was glad for the aid, though.”

  “And I was glad to help,” Jane responded.

  Pastor Joseph looked around. “I believe it’s time to start.”

  He turned and stepped closer to the grave. I was about to follow when I noticed that the gathering had grown by one. I watched George Wilkins step from the path and out into the open area.

  He was dressed casually and looked nervous as he skirted clusters of people and moved closer. When his eyes fell on Elizabeth’s speculative ones, George visibly winced.

  I turned back and watched Gabe. He had a mystified expression as he took in the dissimilar group. I knew what he was wondering. What would bring men together who didn’t normally deal with one another on a daily basis? The only one missing was Seth, and I had a feeling that only death had kept him away.

  As if sensing there would be no new interruptions, Pastor Joseph started the memorial service. I let my mind drift as he spoke. Jane was right in so many ways. I wasn’t here just to see Rebekah buried. I was here wondering if a killer would be bold enough to come to the funeral of their victim.

  There was one thing which still bothered me. The difficulty of how these men might have acquired Johanna’s scarf or earring. Southern Comfort didn’t cater to men. I did remember seeing Michael there with his wife and George might have been there during the day with Susan but what about Daniel, who was single? There was also Richard, who could have gone with Ramona.