by Reagan Davis
“Brooks Wiley didn’t help you?” Eric asks. “He’s the person appointed by the publisher to look after them.”
“Brooks rushed off to a meeting,” I explain, drizzling olive oil onto the baking sheet of baguette pieces.
“What’s for dinner?” Eric asks, rubbing his flat stomach. “I’m starving.” He’s always starving.
“Pesto chicken with roasted zucchini and red pepper panzanella salad,” I reply.
“Can I help?”
I decline his offer, then add, “There are pita chips in the cupboard and hummus in the fridge to tide you over until it’s ready. How’s the case?” I ask.
“I questioned Piper Peters and released her,” he replies as he sits at the table and digs into the hummus and pita chips.
“You released her?” I ask, sliding the baking sheet of seasoned bread into the oven. “She’s not a suspect?”
“She has an alibi,” Eric explains. “It’s weak, but it’s an alibi. I didn’t have enough to keep her. It took a while to make Piper believe Claire is dead. She’d convinced herself it was some kind of elaborate media hoax.”
“Denial can be strong,” I say. “If Piper killed Claire, she wouldn’t be in denial about her death, right?”
Eric shrugs and swallows a mouthful of hummus. “I’ve seen weirder things.”
“Have you heard anything about Dina and Claire having a loud argument yesterday?” I ask, joining him at the table with a cutting board and knife to slice the red peppers and zucchini.
He shakes his head. “No, but it sounds like you have.”
I tell Eric that Brooks claimed to hear Claire and Dina’s argument from the driveway. Then I tell him about Brooks’s revelation that Claire didn’t warn anyone she intended to stop writing Familia, and Dina’s job ends with the book series.
“I bet they were both angry with Claire,” Eric theorizes, putting the lid on the hummus container.
“Angry enough to kill her?” I wonder out loud.
“We can’t verify Brooks Wiley’s alibi,” he discloses as he seals the bag of pita chips. “We know he was at the cottage the morning before Claire died. He says he arrived at the hotel and was in his room working on his laptop until hours later when Dina called to tell him Claire died.”
“No one saw him come in?” I ask.
“There is video footage of him entering the hotel, and one employee thinks he remembers Brooks entering the hotel, but isn’t sure about the time,” Eric explains. “Brooks didn’t use his keycard. He didn’t enter his room. He hasn’t used his keycard since he left to go to the cottage yesterday morning. The main entrance is the only door with video surveillance. He could’ve come and gone through a different door.”
“I see,” I say, smirking.
“You know something,” Eric accuses.
“I suspect something.”
“I’m listening,” he urges.
“Did anyone access Jules Janssen’s room at the time Brooks claims he entered his room?” I ask.
I tell Eric about the intimate moment Brooks and Jules shared in the alley beside my store. “It definitely wasn’t the first time they met,” I say in conclusion.
Eric types a text to someone, instructing them to ask the hotel for the access history to Jules Janssen’s suite of rooms. Then I remember the second time I saw Brooks Wiley.
“He was across the street when Claire and Dina were at Knitorious,” I recount. “Dina told me who he was, so I assumed he was waiting for her and Claire.” I put down the knife and look at Eric. “In hindsight, I wonder if Jules sent him,” I theorize. “Maybe he was watching for Claire to leave with the gift bag from Jules. Maybe Jules dispatched him to report back to her.”
“You think Brooks might be a double agent?” Eric asks, grinning with amusement at his pun. “You think he worked for both Claire Rivera and Jules Janssen?”
I shrug and carry the chopped veggies to the counter near the oven. “Maybe,” I respond. “You always say motive comes down to either love, money, or ego,” I say, removing the toasted bread from the oven and transferring the bread pieces to a bowl. “Think about it. Brooks would earn a lot of money if Jules convinced Claire to turn the Familia books into a movie. His fifteen-percent cut would be substantial. And from where I was standing, he looked smitten with Jules. Brooks has at least two motives to kill Claire, money and love.” I add the chopped peppers and zucchini to the baking sheet the bread was on and slide it back into the oven.
“Claire can’t agree to a Familia movie if she’s dead,” Eric counters.
“No, but her estate can,” I remind him as I rub pesto into the chicken breasts. “Maybe Brooks thinks it’ll be easier to convince her heirs than to convince Claire herself.”
If Brooks killed Claire Rivera, did he act alone, or did he and Jules kill her together?
Sophie charges down the hall, followed by the thud of the front door closing.
“Hey, Soph.” She stops long enough for Eric and me to greet her before continuing to her water bowl.
“Can you set the table, please?” I ask Eric while I brown the chicken.
After dinner, Zoe and my dad yawn and stretch, their eyes heavy with fatigue. It’s only early evening, and so far today, they’ve had a long drive, learned about Claire’s death, then learned her death was murder. Zoe walked around town, checking out the book fair dressed as a spider. My dad ate too much cake, and between them, they’ve put about fifteen miles on Sophie’s odometer. They’ve had a long day, so I insist they relax and let Eric and me clean the kitchen. While Sophie and her grandparents sink into the sofa and watch the evening news with the volume turned up extra loud, we clear the table, load the dishwasher, and tend to the myriad of other tasks required to make the kitchen look like dinner never happened.
“I’ll get this, and you can check in at work,” I say, taking the broom from Eric and sweeping crumbs toward the hidden sweep inlet under the kitchen cabinet.
Eric turns on his phone and waits for it to come to life. He makes a point of turning it off every day for at least an hour—a gesture I appreciate—but I know when he’s working a big case, it stresses him out to be unreachable.
He reads and replies to texts and emails while his phone dings, rings, buzzes, and vibrates.
“What’s wrong?” I stop wiping the stovetop and look at him when he utters a curse word under his breath.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, babe.” He takes a deep breath. “Your dad is a suspect. I have to question him.”
“What?!” I hiss, putting away the broom.
I peek in the family room. My dad is asleep with his head resting on the back of the sofa, and Zoe is asleep with her head on my dad’s shoulder. Sophie is asleep, sprawled across their laps. I have to imagine their chorus of gentle snores because I can’t hear anything other than the meteorologist on the twenty-four-hour news channel. Thank goodness, they watch the news with the volume so loud and can’t overhear our conversation.
“Is this because he knew about Claire’s nut allergy and made that stupid comment about how he thought her carelessness about it might kill her?” I struggle to contain myself to a whisper.
Eric shakes his head and opens his mouth to answer me, then closes it, and gestures for me to follow him. We tiptoe to the bedroom where I close the door while he turns on the TV and increases the volume.
“My dad couldn’t have killed Claire. He and Zoe were two hours south of here when she died. They pulled off the highway for the night, remember?”
“After they checked in, your dad left the hotel alone. For several hours,” Eric explains. “The hotel has surveillance footage.”
“OK.” I shrug. “That doesn’t mean he drove to Harmony Lake and murdered Claire,” I claim.
“The problem is, I don’t know where he went.” Eric throws up his hands in frustration. “The man turns off his cell phone when he’s in the car. Who does that?” He sounds flustered. “If I could track his cell phone location, this w
ouldn’t be necessary.”
“Why were you looking into him, anyway?” I ask, my voice full of agitation and my cheeks hot.
“I have to eliminate him as a suspect. He was close enough in proximity that it’s within the realm of possibility. And because of Mitchell and Claire’s troubled history, his name is being bantered around social media as a likely suspect.” Eric places his hands on my shoulders. “You might want to avoid reading the social media comments. Some of them are pretty harsh.”
I sigh and sit on the edge of the bed. “My dad isn’t a murderer.” I shake my head and blink away the tears that sting my eyes.
“I know, babe.” Eric sits down next to me. “But you know how this works. I have to eliminate him so when we arrest the actual killer, they can’t suggest Mitchell as an alternate suspect to create reasonable doubt.” He turns his body toward me. “Look at it this way, when I eliminate Mitchell as a suspect, no one can accuse him of killing Claire. I’ll make sure his name and reputation are clear.”
“Do you have to question Zoe too?” I sigh again.
Eric nods. “I won’t take them to the station,” he offers. “I can question them myself, so no one else has to know, and it won’t leak to the media. I can question them here if they agree.”
“My dad might lawyer up,” I warn him. “He won’t make it easy for you.”
Eric shrugs one shoulder. “That’s his choice. If it happens, we’ll deal with it.”
“Not tonight, please?” I implore. “You saw how tired they are. They’re sound asleep on the sofa. Can we talk to them about this in the morning?”
Eric nods. “It’ll give me more time to work up the nerve.” He looks at me. “Your dad barely tolerates me already. He’ll hate me after this.”
If it proves he didn’t murder Claire, it will be worth it.
Where was my dad when Claire was killed? Why did he leave the hotel after they checked in? Why was he gone for several hours? Does Zoe know where my dad was, and what he was doing?
Speaking of Zoe, what was she doing while Mitchell was unaccounted for? If they weren’t together, does she have an alibi? Don’t be silly, Megan. Zoe doesn’t have a vindictive bone in her body. There’s no way she’d kill Claire Rivera out of revenge for stealing her husband’s idea. Would she?
Chapter 13
Saturday, April 17th
“Good morning, Bean!”
I almost jump out of my skin at the sound of the unexpected voice.
“Good morning, Dad,” I say, clutching my chest.
I’m used to being the first person awake in my house. It freaks me out to have another morning person here. Eric is a morning person, but he doesn’t hang around. He either goes for a run or goes to work, leaving me and Sophie to enjoy the early morning quietude on our own.
“You’re an early riser. You get that from me,” he informs me with pride. “Your young man is an early riser too. He’s already gone for a morning run.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
It’s weird to be in your forties and have someone refer to someone else your age as young, but age is relative, I guess.
“I ran into him when I walked to the store to get a paper.” Mitchell holds up the newspaper as evidence and looks at me over his reading glasses. “He was heading to his apartment after his ten kilometre run. He said he’ll come over after he has a shower.”
Eric isn’t staying overnight while my dad and Zoe are here. He’s worried my dad will think it’s inappropriate.
I open the sliding glass door, and Sophie launches herself into the backyard like a missile.
“You can read the news online, you know,” I remind him in jest.
“It’s not the same,” he insists, turning the page and snapping the paper.
“You’re right,” I agree. “The newspaper is less up-to-date than the online sources.”
“Are you sure you want to have this debate, Bean?” he teases, chuckling. “Because I’m more than happy to spend the entire day convincing you.”
“I know better than to debate with you,” I say, picking up Sophie’s bowls so I can refresh her water and fix her breakfast. “How did you sleep?”
“Like this.” He drops his head to his shoulder, closes his eyes, and snores.
I roll my eyes. “Hilarious. I’ll assume that means you slept well.”
He couldn’t have slept worse than me. I tossed and turned all night, worrying about his alibi situation. I return Sophie’s bowls to the floor and open the back door. She bolts past me and runs straight to her breakfast.
We’re alone. Maybe I should ask my dad where he was when Claire died. Maybe if I prepare him before Eric gets here, my dad will warm up to the idea of being questioned and cooperate.
“Dad.” I swallow. He bends the top half of the newspaper toward him and looks at me.
“Yes, Bean?”
Sophie barks. I flinch. The front door opens and closes.
“Why are you so jumpy this morning?” my dad asks. “That’s the second time you’ve startled in ten minutes.”
“Good morning.” Eric smiles. He’s carrying a takeout tray with four coffees from Latte Da. He pulls one of the to-go cups out of the tray. “For you,” he says, handing me the cup and kissing my forehead.
“Thank you.” I crack the lid and inhale the comforting aroma.
I take a moment to savour the first sip of maple pecan latte and let the caffeine touch my soul while the warmth flows down my throat and emanates through my body. In the background, Eric explains to my dad he isn’t sure what he and Zoe drink, so he got them each a medium roast and a bunch of coffee condiments on the side.
After a few minutes of awkward-for-me small talk, I announce I need to take Sophie for a walk, and my dad offers to join me. I thank him but decline his offer. Eric offers to join me in his place, and we tell my dad we’ll leave him in peace to read his paper.
Coffees in hand, we step outside, and for the first time today, I feel like I can breathe. I inhale deeply and try to focus on the warm sun on my face and the birds singing their morning songs.
“You OK?” Eric asks. “It’s like you’re on pins and needles.”
“I’m nervous,” I explain, “and I didn’t get much sleep.”
“Are you worried about how your dad will react when I tell him I need to question him?”
I shake my head. “About his whereabouts when Claire was murdered.” I take a moment to gather my thoughts. “What if his alibi isn’t verifiable? What if you can’t eliminate him as a suspect?”
“Heavy shoulders, long arms,” Eric coaches me as we stop to wait while Sophie sniffs a fire hydrant.
Heavy shoulders, long arms is a mantra I learned in a yoga class in my twenties. I still use it today to remind myself to breathe and to release the tension in my neck and shoulders.
“I couldn’t sleep last night, either,” Eric admits. “Questioning them is just a formality. I’m sure I’ll be able to eliminate him.” The tension in his jaw and eye muscles when he forces a smile betrays the confident tone of his voice. He’s trying to ease my stress about this situation.
“Thank you.” I take his hand. “You’re the best cop I’ve ever met. If anyone can prove my dad is innocent, it’s you.” I stand on my tippy toes and kiss him. “I know you’re in a horrible position. You have my full support.”
“The best way to eliminate Mitchell Monroe as a suspect is to find Claire’s killer.” He smiles and hugs me. “So that’s what I’ll do.”
Agreed. That’s what I intend to do too.
To procrastinate the unpleasantness of telling my father he’s a suspect as long as possible, we walk twice as long as normal. Sophie must wonder what is going on. Her walks are extra long and extra frequent this week. She’s loving the extra attention.
I’m not in a rush. The store will be slow today because the book fair is in full swing. I texted Connie and Marla last night to arrange for them to open the store, and cover for me, in case I’m late
today. They assume I want to spend time with Mitchell and Zoe, and I didn’t correct them. It’s kind of true.
“Ready?” Eric asks, before he opens the door to the house.
“Ready.” I nod.
“You’re back!” Zoe gives us each a hug. “We weren’t sure whether to wait, so we ate without you. Can I get either of you some toast and half a grapefruit?”
“I already ate,” Eric assures her, “but thank you.”
“I’m not hungry,” I add, my stomach in knots. I take a deep breath and pull up my proverbial big-girl pants. “Dad, we need to talk to you.”
“Sounds serious, Bean.” He takes his usual seat in the overstuffed chair in the living room. He pats his knee, and Sophie joins him, snuggling on his lap.
“It is,” I confirm, sitting on the sofa cushion closest to his chair. Eric sits next to me, and Zoe sits across from us on the loveseat. “Why did you get a hotel room on Thursday instead of driving straight to Harmony Lake?”
He looks back and forth between Eric and me. “For days I ruminated over a plot hole in my manuscript, and the solution came to me while I was driving. Just like it always does,” Mitchell explains. “I needed to capture my thoughts before I lost them, so I pulled over.” He shrugs.
“This is how your father works, Megan. It’s part of his process,” Zoe elaborates. “I was the one who suggested the hotel. I knew your father would spend hours working. By the time he finished, it would’ve been late, and neither of us likes to drive at night if we can avoid it.”
“We went to the hotel and checked in,” Mitchell adds, picking up where his wife leaves off. “The Wi-Fi was as stable as a two-legged stool, and the room was uninspiring. Zoe stayed at the hotel, and I went somewhere with better Wi-Fi and more ambience.”
Eric reaches into his pocket and pulls out his small notebook and a pen. He flips to the next open page of the notebook and clicks the top of the pen, then writes. This incites my dad.