by Kylie Logan
“So . . .” The way he said it—so casually—made me realize he knew exactly what was up. “You’re thinking, and what you’re thinking about is investigating, right?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised by the question. After all, Declan had been in on parts of my investigation when the Lance of Justice, that investigative TV reporter, was killed a few months earlier. In fact, Declan and I were together when we found a second victim.
Still, it was one thing sitting alone in an office and thinking about going off and finding a killer.
And another thing to actually admit it to someone who also happened to be a someone who was an attorney.
Tell that to the certainty inside my head that told me that no way, no how, was I going to back down.
“I’m not going to back down.” I gave voice to the thought. “I’m not going to let this go. You know and I know that Rocky didn’t kill herself.”
“If that’s true, Tony will find the evidence.”
“Not if he’s not looking for it!” I threw my hands in the air and did a turn around the room, but since it’s a pretty small office to begin with, I didn’t have far to go. I found myself right back where I started from, face-to-face with Declan, in no time at all. “I’ve got to do something,” I told him. “I’m not going to stand around and watch the authorities wrap everything up nice and clean and quick. That’s not fair. It’s not fair to Rocky and, you know what, it’s not fair to the creep who killed her, because that person—”
I wasn’t trying to be funny, so the spark in Declan’s eyes stopped me cold at the same time it made my blood boil.
I guess he knew it because he reached out a hand and took my arm. “I’m not laughing at you.”
I yanked my arm out of his reach and crossed my arms over my chest. “It sure looks like you are.”
“Well then, I’m sorry.”
I backed up a step and turned away. See, here’s one of the things I’ve learned from always being on my own and never having a family and never having to rely on anyone or share with anyone. It’s the same thing I’ve learned about never trusting anyone because every time I’d taken the chance and tried, I’d had my heart ripped out and stepped on.
I wasn’t comfortable being on the receiving end of I’m sorry.
I didn’t know what to say, how to react, what was expected of me.
I couldn’t respond so I just turned and stared at Declan.
“I wasn’t smiling because I thought you were being funny,” he said, and he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a white envelope. “I was smiling because I was thinking about you this morning and I figured this was exactly how you’d react to Rocky’s death. In fact, I’ve got something here that might help.”
I eyed the envelope. “Something for me?”
He shook his head and a curl of inky hair fell over his forehead. “Something for Sophie. Is she in the kitchen?”
She was, and there was no way on earth I was letting him go in there with whatever was in that envelope without me.
I beat Declan out of the office and pushed through the kitchen door just a couple of steps ahead of him and we found Sophie sprinkling powdered sugar on three plates of French toast.
“I know. It’s not authentic. Not really French.” She stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“We can make it a little more French,” I told her. I went to the fridge and pulled out a jar of raspberry preserves and spooned some on each plate. “That’s how they serve it in France,” I said. “They call it pain perdu. It means ‘lost bread.’ In other words, they make it out of the bread that’s stale and would otherwise be thrown away.” I wouldn’t have known any of this if I hadn’t been told the story by the housekeeper of Meghan Cohan’s French country hideaway. “They always serve a dollop of jam with their pain perdu.”
Sophie swiped her hands over her white apron. “Told you she was smart,” she said to Declan, and I wondered when they’d been talking about me and why at the same time she rang the little bell that told Inez there was an order for her to pick up.
Declan stepped forward. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but Laurel might have a chance to prove how smart she is.” He offered the envelope to Sophie.
She didn’t take it. Instead, she wiped her hands against her apron again and she looked at that envelope like it was a snake, reared back and ready to bite. “What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Again, he poked the envelope in her direction. “It’s sealed.”
“Well, where did it come from?”
Another poke. “If you opened it, you’d find out,” he told Sophie.
She ran her tongue over her lips, took the envelope, and flipped it over, but she didn’t open it. Instead, she weighed it in one hand, then glanced up at Declan. “There’s something in it. Something heavy. It’s from Rocky, isn’t it?”
With a look, he urged her to open the envelope and find out.
I got a knife and handed it to Sophie and she slid it under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper and two keys. One was certainly a house key. The other, I wasn’t so sure about. It was maybe two inches long and very flat.
“The key to a jewelry box?” Sophie asked.
“Maybe the letter will tell you,” I suggested.
Sophie drew in a breath. Her lower lip quivering, she unfolded the letter and read it to us. “‘Dearest Sophie,’” she said. “‘I hope you don’t mind and I hope it doesn’t mean I’ve caused you too much trouble or too much work, but I’ve made you the executrix of my will. With any luck, neither one of us will care about this for a long time to come, but you know how uncertain life can be. I’ve left this letter with Declan for when the time is right. He has my will and he’ll make sure everything is handled as it should be. He’s a good man. Make sure you remind our dear Laurel of that from time to time. Just in case she forgets!’”
Sophie gave me a grin.
I returned it with a grimace and refused to look Declan’s way even though I could feel his gaze on me.
She kept reading. “‘Here is the key to the back door of Pacifique, just in case you need to get inside. Remember me. Adieu.’”
Sophie sniffled and looked from Declan to me. “Executrix? What does it mean? What do I need to do?”
“You said you weren’t her attorney.” I stepped between Sophie and Declan before he could answer. “You told me—”
“That I couldn’t discuss anything Rocky had told me if she was my client. I never said she was—”
“You never did. But it would have been nice to know,” I said.
“It didn’t matter. Not until last night. Not until Rocky was dead.” The reminder was like a punch in the gut, and I sucked in a breath, but I didn’t take it personally. Declan was right.
I pulled in a shaky breath. “So what’s the other key for?”
Declan shrugged.
“And what does it mean?” I asked him. “If Sophie can come and go at Pacifique—”
“It means that when the police are done with the house, so as long as Sophie says it’s all right, you can go over there and have a look around.”
• • •
DECLAN INSISTED ON driving over to Pacifique with me so that I didn’t go off poking around (his words, not mine) by myself. He said he’d be back right after church and he’d bring the family along so they could get lunch while we were gone.
The Fury family at the Terminal is a good thing; there are lots of them.
But waiting for Declan to return . . .
Well, I’m the first to admit that patience isn’t one of my virtues.
No sooner was he across the street and into the car where Uncle Pat and Aunt Kitty (who owned the beauty salon directly across the street from the Terminal) waited for him then I told Sophie I’d be back in a couple of hours, grabbe
d those two keys, and took off.
And it was a good thing I got to Pacifique when I did.
If I’d waited for Declan, I might have missed what was happening when I pulled up the long driveway and found a woman with her face pressed up against the front window, peering into the dining room.
She didn’t move, not even when I parked the car.
She did, however, jump nearly as high as the top of the dining room window and spin around when I slammed my car door.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
The woman was seventy if she was a day, stick thin, and dressed in jeans with mud caked along the bottom hems, beat-up sneakers, and a neon yellow T-shirt from someplace called Dave’s Happy Bar. The outfit was finished off with a maroon cardigan that was longer on one side than the other thanks to the fact that she’d buttoned it cockeyed. Her hair was a mishmash of mouse brown and white streaks and it hung in uncombed clumps over her shoulders. Between all those stringy hanks of hair and the bangs that were so long they covered her eyes, it was just about impossible to see her face.
My car keys in one hand, I stepped closer. “I asked if I could help you.”
She swiped a finger under her nose and looked me up and down with a sort of laser-point accuracy that made me squirm in my (recently ill-used) ballet flats. Her voice reminded me of sandpaper scraping across wood. “Maybe it’s you, not her.”
“Maybe it’s me doing what?” I asked her.
“No, no.” She wasn’t talking to me. She mumbled the words, shook her head, then nodded as if confirming that she knew she was right. “Not her. The other one. Has to be the other one. Has to be her.”
“Her who?”
She tipped her head toward the house. “You know. Her. That Frenchy.”
It was too soon after Rocky’s death to hear her dismissed so flippantly, and I pounded across the space that separated me from the odd little woman so I could return stare for stare. “Rocky’s not here right now. Maybe I can help you.”
The woman’s top lip curled and she spun back around and raced to the other side of the front door and the parlor window. Once again, she pressed her nose to the glass. “I know she’s in there. Tell her . . .” A dash to her left and she pounded the front door with her fist. “Tell her Minnie Greenway knows what she did.”
Somehow, I managed a smile. How’s that for putting my people skills to work? “I’m sure she’d like to see you, but she can’t come outside right now. Like I said, Rocky’s not here.” This close, I could see that Minnie had a sharp nose, dark eyes, and a mole on her left cheek. Her lips were thin and cracked and caked with what looked like peanut butter and toast crumbs. She stepped back and pointed one bony finger my way. “You’re lying. I know. I know she’s not going to come outside. On account of what I did to her.”
It was hardly a confession, but I couldn’t help myself; my stomach went cold. I swallowed hard. “Did you do something?” I asked Minnie. “To Rocky? What did you do? When?”
She squealed her delight, revealing teeth that were jumbled one on top of the other and a gaping hole where a few of them were missing. “You bet I did! I came over here and I—”
“Sorry!”
At the sound of the voice calling from behind me, I jumped and pressed my car keys to my heart. I turned to find a man in khakis and a golf shirt hurrying up the driveway. He was middle height, paunchy, and as bald as a billiard ball, and he was breathing as hard as if he’d just run a marathon.
Huffing and puffing, he stopped next to me and put his hands on his knees. “She was supposed to stay inside,” he said, looking at Minnie. “I thought she was inside. I went out to the mailbox by the road to get the Sunday paper and Minnie . . .” His eyes dark with concern, he pressed his lips together. “She promised me she’d stay in the house.”
I’d been to Rocky’s so many times, I knew there were no close neighbors, but I looked right and left anyway, and the man got the message.
“Over that way,” he said, pointing to our left where there was a stand of maples, their leaves a deep, burnished red that sparkled like rubies in the morning light. “We live about a half mile over that way. Greenway Farm. That’s what we call it. And Minnie, she promised she’d stay in the house.” Once again he looked at the woman who stood near the door, staring at the tips of her sneakers and mumbling to herself. “You promised me, Minnie,” the man said, his voice breaking over the words. “You said you were going to stay inside.”
“Had to come see her.” Dragging her feet, Minnie walked by as if we weren’t even there. “Had to see if she liked what I did to her.”
It was obvious Minnie wasn’t going anywhere fast so the man turned back to me for a moment. “Otis,” he said, and extended a hand. “Otis Greenway. I’m sorry if my wife startled you. She sometimes . . .” He glanced over his shoulder to where Minnie shuffled up the drive, sending puffs of dirt around her as she went until pretty soon, she was so lost in the cloud, I could barely see her at all. “Minnie’s not well,” was all he said before he started after her.
“But . . .” When I spoke, he turned back around. “What was she talking about? She said she did something to Rocky.”
Though it was a chilly morning, there was a sheen of sweat on Otis’s forehead and he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “You’ll have to excuse Minnie,” he said. “She sometimes . . . well, she doesn’t always know what she’s talking about.” He checked the drive again and Minnie’s progress. “Tell . . .” He glanced at the house. “Tell Rocky . . . er . . . Miss Arnaud . . . tell her I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Tell her I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
I watched him catch up to his wife and wind one arm through hers, and together they disappeared around a bend in the driveway.
I didn’t need to make a mental note about the encounter. Before I went around to the back of the house and into the barn, I called the Cortland Police Department and left a voice mail message for Tony, telling him all about it. To my everlasting credit, I told him he might want to talk to Minnie Greenway without pointing out that while he was sure Rocky’s death was the result of suicide, I’d already found one person—and a pretty crazy one from the looks of things—who admitted she’d done something to hurt Rocky.
Once I ended the call, I pushed open the barn door and stood quietly for a moment, letting my eyes get adjusted to the deep shadows.
Rocky did not now and never had kept animals on her farm. At least that’s what I’d heard from Sophie. She used her barn for repotting plants, for starting seeds in the spring, and for storing all her gardening equipment, from hoses to trowels to clippers.
I looked through it all and found exactly what I thought I’d find. Or more precisely what I knew I wouldn’t find.
Rocky was a believer in all-natural farming.
There wasn’t one container of insecticide to be seen.
This, too, I would mention to Tony Russo, only I didn’t bother with another phone call. I wanted to drop this little tidbit on him when I saw him in person and could watch his expression as he realized he’d been dead wrong (poor choice of words) about Rocky’s suicide. How could a woman poison herself with cyanide when there was no cyanide to be found on her property?
I kept the thought in mind when I left the barn and went into the house, stepping into the small mudroom outside the kitchen.
It was awfully quiet.
I tossed my cars keys and the back door key on the kitchen table and flinched at the sound of them jingling, but I kept the other key—that small, flat one that had been in the envelope Rocky left for Sophie—in the pocket of my pants.
This early, the sun was just above the trees, and it sent shafts of golden light through the kitchen windows. There were pots of herbs on the windowsill, just like there were in the parlor, and I caught the scent of rosemary and basil and breathed in deep, will
ing myself to calm down, telling myself that if I was going to discover anything, I could only do it with a clear head.
I’d washed the coffee cups before we’d left the night before and eager for something to do, I grabbed them and the creamer from the dish drainer and put them back where I’d found them, quickly looking through the cupboards while I was at it. Still no sign of anything that might contain cyanide. Done with that, I glanced around, wondering where to begin and what to look for.
I figured the scene of the crime was as good a place as any to start.
I didn’t figure on how just walking into the parlor again would make my stomach swoop and my heart pound.
My knees were rubbery and I dropped into the nearest chair and stared at the place across the room where less than twelve hours before, Declan and I had found Rocky dead. The wine bottle was gone and so was the wineglass, and remembering what Tony had told me, that wasn’t a surprise. There was gray fingerprinting powder on the table where the bottle and glass had been, and I told myself I’d clean it up before I left, before Sophie came to the house and had to look at it.
Just knowing I had a plan (however insignificant) helped calm me, and I decided that I would start upstairs and look through Rocky’s bedroom, the rooms she used as guest rooms, and her office. There might be something—a jewelry box, a diary—that would fit the small key she’d left for Sophie.
My mind made up, I’d just gotten up to go upstairs when I heard the back door creak open.
It was then I remembered that I’d forgotten to lock it behind me.
Chapter 6
Fight or flight?
I knew I didn’t have more than a second or two to decide. Whoever had come in through the back door was now in the kitchen; I could hear footsteps on the wooden floor.
I glanced toward the hallway and the front door and wondered if I could make it that far, but the footsteps were getting closer fast and I was pretty sure I couldn’t. That’s when I looked around for some kind of weapon. With no other options, I grabbed that coffee table book about the Statue of Liberty by Andrew MacLain. Talk about heavy reading!