A Likely Story

by Jenn McKinlay

  She shook herself free from the thought. There was no way to tell what a person would do for money. Robbery, murder, it was impossible to know what sort of heinous act a person could commit when they felt they were owed a better life and had no qualms about taking it by force. Steven Rosen-Grant could be a coldhearted psychopath and needed to be treated as such.

  “I guess it’s up to the courts now,” Lindsey said. “I have the list of names that Emma asked me to drop off.”

  She opened her handbag and was digging around its dark interior when the sound of a car backfiring broke the quiet of the office. Only it didn’t backfire once but three times in rapid succession and was then followed by the screech of wheels on pavement.

  “Lindsey, get down!” Molly yelled, and she grabbed Lindsey’s arm and dragged her to the floor behind her desk. At Lindsey’s bewildered expression, she said, “That was gunfire.”

  “Oh, oh no!” Lindsey said.

  “Stay down,” Molly ordered. She popped up on her knees and peered over her desk. She grabbed the radio from its holder on her desk and spoke into the mouthpiece.

  Lindsey held her breath as Molly asked for a response. Shortly after there was a voice, and Lindsey pushed out a breath when she recognized it was Emma’s.

  “There’s been a 10-71 in the parking lot,” Emma said. The radio chirped, and a buzz of static sounded. “We’re at Code 6. I repeat, Code 6.”

  “Damn it, I’m still new at this,” Molly said. “What’s a Code 6?”

  “Stay out of the area,” Emma said.

  “11-40?” Molly asked.

  “No, 11-42,” Emma said. “We’re all okay.”

  Molly sagged against her desk. “I’ll stand by.”

  “Roger that,” Emma said.

  “What was all that?” Lindsey asked.

  “11-40 is ‘advise if an ambulance is needed,’” Molly said. “11-42 means no.”

  “So, they’re okay?”

  “For now,” Molly said.

  In moments, the radio sounded again. Lindsey looked at Molly’s hand when she turned up the volume. Her fingers were shaking. Lindsey glanced at her own hands and found they were trembling, too.

  “Detective Trimble and I are in the transport wagon with our suspect and headed to the courthouse,” Emma said. “Officers Kirkland and Trousdale are patrolling the parking lot. Wait for them to give you the all clear before you leave the building.”

  “Roger that,” Molly said. She put the mouthpiece back in its holder.

  “Maybe we should move away from the window,” Lindsey said.

  “Good idea. How about some coffee? We can wait in the break room.”

  Lindsey nodded and followed Molly back into the station where they holed up in the windowless break room, sipping coffee and trying to calm their nerves.

  From the clock on the wall, Lindsey could see that fifteen very long minutes passed before Officer Kirkland joined them.

  “The parking lot and the surrounding area are clear,” he said. He yanked his hat off and tossed it on the table. Frustration poured off of him as tangibly as the steam coming off the fresh cup of coffee Molly handed him.

  “Where’s Officer Trousdale?” Molly asked.

  “Out front, checking the security cameras to see if they picked up the shooter,” he said. He looked at Lindsey. “I’ll escort you to the library just to be on the safe side.”

  “We heard three shots fired,” she said. “Any idea who they were aiming for?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “They were definitely trying to take out Steven Rosen-Grant.”

  Molly and Lindsey exchanged a glance. Why would someone try to kill the suspect in Peter Rosen’s murder?

  “Stewart,” Molly said. “Maybe it was Stewart out to avenge his brother’s death.”

  “Well, thank God he’s a lousy shot,” Kirkland said.

  “We don’t know that it was Stewart,” Lindsey said. “It could be someone else.”

  “I’m sorry, Lindsey, I know you’re fond of Stewart, but who else would have a motive?” Molly asked.

  “I don’t know,” Lindsey admitted.

  “Look at it this way. If it was Stewart, at least he’s alive and wasn’t murdered like his brother,” Kirkland said. “Now all we have to do is find him.”

  “Because we’ve had so much luck with that so far,” Molly said.

  “Yes, but it’s different now,” Kirkland said. “He won’t be in hiding if he thinks the man who was out to kill him has been caught, right?”

  Lindsey listened to their debate and chewed the bottom of her lip as she thought it over. She wouldn’t believe that Stewart was the shooter. She just wouldn’t. It had to be someone else, but who?

  Kirkland walked her to the library even though she insisted she was fine on her own. They were both quiet, and she noticed that Kirkland was scanning from side to side as they walked. It was a relief to reach the familiarity and safety of the library.

  “Will you let me know when you hear from Emma?” Lindsey asked. “I want to know that they’re okay.”

  “Absolutely,” Kirkland said. He looked uncomfortable for a moment but then said, “If Stewart should come to the library, I know you’ll call the station right away.”

  Lindsey met his gaze, and she knew he was not making a suggestion but rather giving her an order. She nodded. She could respect his position.

  “I will,” she said. At his flat stare, she added, “I promise.”

  Officer Kirkland left, and Lindsey turned and went into her office. The adrenaline was wearing off, and she desperately wanted to put her head on her desk and take a power nap. She was just sinking toward the desk’s surface when there was a knock on her door.

  Milton stood there, looking concerned. “Is it true? Was there a shooting at the police station?”

  Lindsey gestured for him to enter. “It’s true. No one was hurt, and the shooter got away, but the police believe that he was aiming for Steven Rosen-Grant.”

  Milton’s gray eyebrows shot up on his forehead. Lindsey knew he was thinking the same thing that had occurred to her and Molly, but like Lindsey, he rejected it.

  “It wasn’t Stewart,” he said. He sat in one of the chairs opposite her desk.

  “I don’t think so either, but it would sure help if Stewart would appear so we knew he was all right and so we could prove that he’s innocent.”

  “The shooter has to be someone who would gain by Steven’s death,” Milton said.

  “Could it be someone from his life in Illinois?”

  Lindsey glanced at the door to find Sully there with his arms crossed over his chest, studying her. There was a look of relief on his face that told her more than words just how much he cared about her well-being. She smiled at him.

  “It’s possible, but I don’t know how we could prove that,” she said.

  “You could check the Illinois newspapers,” he suggested.

  “Are you suggesting I butt in?” Lindsey asked him in surprise.

  “You won’t listen to me if I tell you not to,” he said. He pushed off of the doorframe and took the seat beside Milton.

  “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, eh?” Milton asked.

  “Something like that,” Sully said.

  “I’ll check the papers in Illinois to see if he’s mentioned, but I can’t help but feel like this is connected to Steven being a Rosen,” she said.

  “In what way?” Milton asked. “I thought we agreed that we didn’t think it was Stewart.”

  “I don’t, but isn’t it convenient that Peter Rosen has been murdered, Stewart Rosen is missing and possibly dead and now the only other heir to Star Island was almost shot and killed?”

  “So, you think it is someone who wants the island,” Sully said. “And they’re willing to kill to get it.”

  Lindsey shrugged. “I’m just saying it’s possible.”

  “Who?” Milton asked, and then he blinked. “Wait. That makes more sense than you know.”


  Sully and Lindsey both turned to him.

  “After we talked about how odd it was that Evelyn Dewhurst had bought the three Alston Islands first, I did some research on the Alston family,” he explained. “Turns out one of the reasons Alston lost his fortune was because of Mrs. Rosen.”

  Sully leaned forward. “Do tell.”

  “She was the one who outed him for his relationship with a thirteen-year-old girl. He fled the country with the young girl, leaving his wife penniless. She had to sell everything just to survive.”

  “How does that tie the islands to Evelyn Dewhurst?” Lindsey asked.

  “I can’t prove anything,” Milton said. “There was no documentation, and we’d have to use other sources to verify, but . . .”

  He paused, and Lindsey gestured for him to continue.

  “Alston’s wife was named Allison Evelyn,” he said.

  “So, we’re thinking long-lost relative?” Lindsey asked. “There seem to be a lot of those cropping up. I’d feel better if the name was more unusual, like Philomena or Clarissa.”

  “Maybe it was just coincidence that Evelyn picked those three islands, or maybe there is something about those islands and the Rosen island that she is fixated on,” Milton said. “Like size or shape or location.”

  “That’s a good angle,” Sully said. “I can’t think of a similarity off the top of my head. They all have different houses, they’re in different locations . . . No, I’m not seeing a connection.”

  The three of them were silent for a moment. Lindsey could feel an idea forming in her mind. It was a bad idea. It was fraught with risk and danger, and she had promised herself she would not do anything that might get someone hurt. Still . . .

  “I think we need to draw the shooter out,” Milton said. Lindsey glanced at him. He was reading her mind.

  “If they shot at Steven thinking he was the last heir, then all we need to do to tip their hand would be to announce that a new heir has been found,” Sully said.

  “How’d you know that’s what I was thinking?” Milton asked.

  “Because I’m betting that’s what all three of us were thinking,” Sully said. He raised an eyebrow when he glanced at Lindsey. “Am I right?”

  “Looks like great minds do think alike,” she said. “The gossipy article you mentioned got me to thinking: if we could get something into tomorrow afternoon’s issue of the Gazette about a newly discovered heir to the Rosen estate, we might be able to pique the killer’s curiosity.”

  Milton pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling Saul, the editor, now. I’ll tell him I’ve uncovered information at the historical society leading to another Rosen heir.”

  “Wait!” Lindsey cried. “We haven’t worked out all the details yet. I’m not sure this is the best idea. It could put you in terrible danger.”

  She thought about how upset Ms. Cole would be and actually flinched.

  “I appreciate the concern,” Milton said. “But whoever this person is—or, more accurately, whoever these persons are—they knocked me down, they abused my trust, they shook my faith in my fellow man. How can I not do everything in my power to bring them to justice?”

  “Hear, hear!”

  Lindsey turned to the door to find Ms. Cole standing there. Dressed all in shades of yellow today, she had a sort of pudgy banana thing going, but the pride that shone on her face as she looked at Milton made her positively radiant.

  “Eugenia,” Milton said. He rose from his seat. “You understand why I must do what I can?”

  She nodded. “I don’t like it, and you have to promise me you’ll be careful, but I do understand, and I’m, well, proud of the warrior within you.”

  Milton hugged her close, and Sully and Lindsey both glanced away, catching each other’s gaze and smiling in mutual embarrassment as they waited for the clinch to break up.

  “So, I hear there’s more snow in the forecast,” Sully said.

  “Really? More, you say?”

  A flash of yellow caught her attention, and Lindsey turned to see Ms. Cole approach her desk.

  “I owe you an apology,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault Milton was attacked, and I’m sorry I was not as understanding as I could have been.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Lindsey said. “Emotions were running high, and these things happen.”

  Ms. Cole gave her a brusque nod and turned and left the office, pausing beside Milton to whisper something in his ear that made his bald head glow like a beacon.

  It was agreed that Milton would be in the historical society office the following evening after the news story came out. Lindsey and Sully would also be there, but in hiding, to bear witness to whoever came in to query about any more Rosen relatives.

  It was as the men were leaving her office that Lindsey felt her first surge of hope and doubt.

  “Lindsey, isn’t that . . . ?” Sully pointed to an object behind her office door.

  Lindsey moved around him and glanced down. “My box. It’s my box of books.”

  They exchanged worried looks, and Lindsey knew Sully was thinking the same thing she was. This was either a message from Stewart that he was okay, or someone was messing with her head. Of course, if Stewart had been here, he could very easily have been in the parking lot of the police department earlier, shooting at the man he believed was responsible for his brother’s death. Lindsey blew out a breath, trying to ignore her sudden feeling of unease. It couldn’t be Stewart, she was sure of it, mostly.

  * * *

  Sully and Lindsey arrived at the historical society an hour before the Gazette was available. Milton ushered them through the back door, and the three of them went over the plan in a windowless office in the center of the one-story brick building.

  “I’ll stay in the main room while you two keep out of sight in the file room,” Milton said. He opened a door off of the main room that housed two rows of large steel file cabinets full of clippings about the town and its residents for more than the past century.

  “We’re assuming that the person—” Lindsey began, but Milton interrupted.

  “Persons,” he said. “There have to be two people involved, remember? One to draw me out and one to whack me from behind.”

  “You’re right. We’re assuming the persons responsible for Peter’s death are going to see the Gazette article right away,” Lindsey said. “It could be that they don’t see it at all.”

  “Oh no, everyone is going to see it,” Milton said. “Saul told me that the front-page story is the arrest of Steven Rosen-Grant and the shooting in the parking lot. He said they’ve doubled their print run anticipating the demand.”

  Lindsey smiled. “Saul must be in his glory.”

  Saul Potts had been a big-city newsman all his life. He’d retired to Briar Creek several years before but had been muscled into taking the job as the editor of the Briar Creek Gazette when his wife, Jeanie, threatened to leave him if he didn’t find something to do besides follow her around.

  “He’s positively giddy,” Milton said.

  “As soon as the person arrives asking about the heir, we will call the police,” Sully said.

  “You have to make sure you play it very carefully,” Lindsey said to Milton. “They’ve already killed at least once. If they think you suspect a connection, they might harm you . . . Oh, I don’t think we should do this!”

  “Lindsey, it’ll be okay. I’ll knock twice on the door to let you know when someone enters the building,” Milton said. “I know what I need to do. Trust me.”

  Milton closed his eyes and did some pranayama breathing while Sully closed the door behind them as they ducked into the file room. Lindsey’s last sight of Milton showed him with his head back and his eyes shut, looking the picture of peace or, as her dark side kicked in, a man about to meet his doom. A feeling of dread filled her, and she felt her heart rate kick up and her hands began to sweat.

  “We should call the police right now,” she whispered to Sully. “To put them on al
ert.”

  “There’s nothing to report yet,” he said. He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to Milton.”

  “I wish I knew who we were dealing with and why,” Lindsey said.

  “We will soon enough,” Sully said.

  * * *

  He was wrong, so very wrong. An hour and a half passed. They could hear the occasional “Om” as Milton practiced his yoga. Lindsey would have joined him, but the file room only had a narrow aisle running down the middle. There was barely enough space for the two of them to sit, never mind practice yoga.

  They agreed to spend their time going through the files. It was a long shot, but they focused on the late fifties and early sixties hoping something about the Rosens would pop.

  She was amazed at how long they worked without speaking. She would have thought it would be awkward, but instead it was companionable, as if they understood each other well enough for no words to be necessary.

  Still, it was cramped. They kept the light on in the small room, which helped to keep it from feeling claustrophobic. They had both switched the sound off of their phones to keep from having a text or a call come in at the worst moment possible. Still, Sully checked the scores to the Celtics game on his while she checked the time on hers every fifteen minutes or so.

  The Gazette was distributed to homes and the local businesses by an intrepid group of paperboys and girls, and Saul Potts usually dropped a stack off in the library on his way home from the Gazette office. Lindsey knew he took great pride in making the weekly paper a periodical with substance and not just birdcage liner or fish wrap.

  When she glanced at the clock on her phone for the umpteenth time, she realized the paper had been out for over an hour now. She really hoped that whoever had shot at Steven Rosen-Grant was reading all about their handiwork and that Saul had featured the information Milton had given him prominently in the story.