by B L Crumley
“Yes, it is. I think that between Earl’s disorganization and being overly busy that it got overlooked. It was an honest mistake.” Russell defended his former partner, adding a little remorse for extra measure.
“For two years?” I pressed further.
“I’m not aware of the particulars,” he said. “This happened around when Earl was considering retirement, and I think the lawsuit is what ultimately spurred him into selling his share of the business. He’d been doing this a long time and the stress had gotten to him. He was struggling to keep up with everything.”
“He was incompetent,” I implied.
“Oh no, nothing like that.” He shook his head quickly. “It was just an unfortunate mistake.”
I didn’t buy it.
“It’s understandable why she would be upset, and I don’t blame her,” he continued. “But it wasn’t my fault either,” he felt inclined to add.
“She seemed pretty upset when I spoke with her.” I waited to gauge his reaction.
His eyebrow lifted. “Really?” His face registered surprise for a moment. “Well, it was a lot of money, and some people are bitter and like to hold a grudge. It’s awful to think that she would have gone as far as to kill Earl to get revenge over something that was an unfortunate accident.”
His words didn’t sound sincere, leading me to think that he didn’t believe a word he was saying. He didn’t think Phyllis killed Earl, but something told me he might know who did. He seemed fixated on Patty as a suspect, but I wasn’t sold on her, either.
Russell and I chatted for a few more minutes and then I thanked him for his time and left. On my way back to Fern’s, I contemplated my conversation with him, noting that there were too many contradictions in his statements for them to be true.
He claimed Earl was too busy, and that the policy accidentally got overlooked. The dilapidated state of their office was a clear indicator that they were not too busy. And Russell had not once mentioned anything about him being too busy. Both times I’d been at the office there wasn’t another client or customer in sight, and whenever I drove by the place the parking lot was empty.
No, I don’t think this was a booming business. I think Earl knew exactly was he was doing, and I’d bet money that Russell was in on it, too. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any proof. And even if Russell was involved in insurance fraud, it didn’t mean he killed Earl. Not that I could prove. At least not yet.
When I arrived back at Fern’s house, I came in through the side door near the laundry room and walked down the hall to the kitchen. Dropping my coat and purse on a dining room chair, I then made a beeline for the fridge. I was starving.
All the talking and thinking I’d been doing was making me hungry. Well, that’s what I told myself. There weren’t a whole lot of options in the fridge, but enough ingredients for me to make some homemade macaroni and cheese so I pulled out the necessary items: whole milk, Gouda, sharp cheddar, and Monterey Jack. Comfort food at its finest.
While I was waiting for the water to boil to cook the pasta, I headed outside to check the mail for Fern. When I’d gone to see Russell, she’d left around the same time to go out and celebrate her release from jail with her friends from her knitting group.
Even though she wasn’t off the hook yet, Fern took every opportunity she could to find a reason to have a good time. And I didn’t blame her. I’d want to live it up too if I had to spend a night in jail.
She’d invited me to join them when I was done, but I think their group was a bit rowdy for me. I was looking forward to a nice, quiet evening at the house with Moose, my fattening macaroni and cheese, a comfy recliner, and a good TV show.
I crossed the street to the line of mailboxes and opened Fern’s. Inside were several envelopes, probably junk, and a small folded piece of paper on top. That was strange. Unfolding it, I held it up at a better angle to read it under the streetlight.
Charlee — I gasped when I read my name scrawled in what looked like some guy’s practically illegible chicken scratch. Cannery at 8. Don’t be late. A shudder ran through me. It wasn’t signed, but I assumed it was from Floyd. It was a little freaky that this is how he’d chosen to contact me, but then again, he was a creepy guy.
Shaking off the unease the note brought, I walked back to the house. This was a good thing. Right? Floyd must have information about what happened to Earl, information I desperately needed if I was going to get Fern’s name cleared. I still had over two hours until then, so I returned to the kitchen to make my dinner.
Sadly, my appetite had been quashed with nerves. Not that it was going to stop me from eating.
At about a quarter till eight I left for the cannery, plenty early since it was only around a five-minute drive from Fern’s house. I pulled into the cannery’s lot adjacent to the building, then made my way down the side toward the back, where I assumed Floyd would be.
Right as I rounded the corner, an unsettling tingle raced up my spine, halting my steps. I stopped to pull my phone from my purse, holding it tightly in my grip. I really should have taken Preston’s suggestion and bought some pepper spray, or better yet, a taser. Other than dialing for help, my phone was basically useless.
The exterior light on the back of the building flickered, casting a dim shadow over the array of crab pots, crates, and bins. “Floyd,” I whispered loudly. The foghorn blasted nearby.
I screeched, sending my heartrate into warp speed. I took a deep breath.
“Floyd,” I called out in a louder voice. “It’s Charlee.” I took a few steps forward, cautiously looking for any sign of Floyd.
Then I felt ridiculous. It’s not like he was going to jump out from behind the dumpster and say, “Boo!” It was still a few minutes before eight. Maybe he wasn’t here yet.
I considered sitting on a crate for a few minutes to wait, then thought better of it. I didn’t need fish gunk on my jeans along with the frosting, batter, and who knows what other substances they’d acquired during the time I’d been in town.
A stiff breeze rolled in from the harbor, chilling me through my wool peacoat, which still smelled like cigarette smoke. Instinctively, my arms wrapped around myself to ward off the cold.
“Okay, Floyd, where are you?” I checked the time on my phone. 8:04 p.m. “You said don’t be late. Well, I’m here,” I bit out as my teeth started to chatter. Why didn’t I wear a hat? Or gloves?
Fine, I wasn’t going to wait around here all night. Besides freezing in the dark, this place was freaky. Like horror movie freaky. There was probably a pulley with a hook around here somewhere…
My morbid train of thought froze as I spotted something sticking out from the other side of the dumpster. For a second, I thought it looked like a boot. Turning on my phone’s flashlight, I held it out in front of me, slowly inching closer.
Yep, sure enough, it was a boot… dark jeans, a hand with red… Was that blood?
I screamed, dropping the flashlight. Nausea punched me in the gut. Oh, please don’t let this be… I picked up my phone (thankfully it wasn’t broken) shining the light over the body sprawled out on the cement by the dumpster.
“Floyd?” I gulped down the bile working its way up my throat. Summoning courage I wasn’t sure I possessed, I forced myself to shine the light on the man’s face. Sightless eyes stared back. And blood. Lots of blood.
I tried to swallow, then turned quickly, needing to get out of here. I only made it several steps before I stopped, bent over, and threw up. The ghastly image I’d witnessed would be forever stamped on my brain.
Unlike the first body I’d found, where there’d been some blood but nothing too gruesome, this man, who I was pretty certain was Floyd Henderson, was covered in blood from having his throat cut.
Overcome with nausea, I threw up again.
Chapter Nineteen
I really shouldn’t have eaten that macar
oni and cheese. It had been one of my favorite foods. Not anymore. After my stomach quit rolling, I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my coat (which was due for a dry clean. Forget that; I think I might just burn it. And the jeans.) Then I dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?” A woman answered, sounding much too cheerful.
“Hi, I’d like to report a murder,” I croaked.
“What’s your name?” she asked, just as friendly.
“Charlee. Charlee King,” I groaned, feeling sick again.
“Charlee!” she said excitedly. “This is Mindy Fetzger. How are you? It’s been forever!”
“Oh, hi,” I replied, trying to remember the Mindy in question.
“I used to be Mindy Bell, but I married Timmy from our second period biology class—”
“Mindy,” I cut her off before she started talking about anyone else from high school. “Would you please send someone down to the cannery?”
“Of course,” she replied sweetly. “The cannery? Are you there with Kenny?” she asked suspiciously. “Because I heard—”
“No, I’m here alone. And there’s a guy with his throat cut open, so would you please hurry?” I’d lost all patience at this point.
“Yes, they’re on their way.” Mindy’s voice was so sing-song, I could practically hear her smiling. I didn’t remember her being that way in high school. Then again, I’d purposefully blocked most of those memories, and I was so wrapped up with Kenny that I hadn’t had many girlfriends.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome! I can chat with you until they get there. So is it true about you and—”
“Mindy, I’m getting another call,” I lied. “I appreciate your help. Bye.” I clicked off the phone and sighed.
Then I dialed Fern. It went to voicemail. Can’t say I was surprised, and hopefully this meant she was having a good time. At least somebody around here was. I left her a message saying I was pretty sure I found Floyd Henderson murdered and didn’t know when I’d be home.
Slipping my phone back in my pocket, I remembered I had a bottle of water in my vehicle. It would probably be another five to ten minutes before anyone got here so I walked back to my SUV to get the water, when I saw Cole’s sheriff SUV pull in.
Crapola…
Yes, I should have assumed he would show up, but I was really hoping he would be off duty and I would get some deputy I didn’t know. Taking a big gulp of water, I swished it around my mouth and spit it out.
I reluctantly strode across the parking lot as Cole stepped out of his vehicle and another police car pulled up.
“Charlee?” Under the streetlights, I could see Cole squinting. “What are you—? Wait, no, don’t tell me—”
I shrugged my shoulders and gave him an exaggerated grin. “Hi, Cole.”
“What are you doing here?”
I blew out a defeated breath. “Oh, come on.” I left him standing there and marched off. His heavy-booted steps thumped the pavement as he quickly caught up.
He grabbed my arm. “Charlee, are you okay?” He looked me up and down, fearful for a moment.
“Yeah,” I nodded.
His relief was short-lived, as he became furious. “You want to tell me what the heck you’re doing down here?”
I shrugged off his grip and continued walking, stopping before I reached the dumpster. I had no desire to see Floyd again. Not in his present state. “He’s over there,” I pointed.
Cole moved forward.
“Oh,” I stuck out my hand. “Don’t step there,” I cringed. “I threw up.”
He looked over at me, still furious, but also a little worried. Clicking on a flashlight he crouched near the body.
“It’s Floyd, right?” I asked.
Another deputy I didn’t recognize brushed past me and stood next to Cole.
“Yeah, I think so,” Cole said.
The deputy leaned closer. “It’s him. I recognize the tattoo on his forearm.”
Cole stood and walked back to me. “You want to tell me what you were doing here?” He’d asked a question, but his tone said I’d better give an honest answer. And now.
“I found a note in Fern’s mailbox. Wait, I have it.” I rummaged through my purse and pulled it out. “Here.” I extended my hand, but he didn’t touch it. Fingerprints. Wonderful, mine were all over it. I unfolded the piece of paper so he could read it.
He scoffed. “And so, you came waltzing on down here? What did you think you were going to find?” He was livid.
“Well, not this,” I pointed in Floyd’s direction. “I’d spoken with Floyd several days ago, and I thought he had some new information. But it appears that someone got here first.”
Cole was not amused. “Seriously? Charlee, what is wrong with you?”
Nothing, I wanted to say, but didn’t think he would appreciate that. This wasn’t the caring, flirty guy who I’d shared my miserable past with last night.
All traces of that man, who I was finding myself more and more attracted to, were gone. This man, the sheriff, was royally ticked off. At me.
“What do I have to do to keep you out of trouble? Arrest you?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
I didn’t think he was joking with that semi-threat, so I turned my gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” He nudged my chin up with his finger. “Because I don’t think you are. Do you realize that you could have been killed?”
I shrugged my shoulders lamely, refusing to give his question much thought. I’d been scared enough for one night.
“Why don’t you trust that I can do my job?” He sounded hurt… and angry.
“It’s not that,” I started, but he silenced me with a sharp glare.
“Then what is it? You have a death wish?” He raised one eyebrow.
“I care about Fern, and I’m worried—”
“So, you’ve said. But, Charlee, you’re not a cop. You know nothing about this, and—”
“Sheriff,” called out someone new to the scene. Cole looked over to several other people who had shown up with a stretcher and a body bag.
“He’s over there,” Cole gestured. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
He returned his focus to me. “I need to get your statement and we need to process the note. Would you please meet me at the station? I’ll be there in a while.” He was all business, firm and demanding. Then he left and went to talk to the coroner and other crime scene techs.
Without another alternative, I did what he asked and headed back to my car. I had a feeling this was going to be a long night.
Following Cole’s orders, I drove straight to the police station. I was tempted to go home and brush my teeth, but didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his wrath if he arrived and I wasn’t there. Thankfully I had some gum in my purse.
On the way over, Fern called me back. From the screeching voices in the background, it sounded as if she was still whooping it up eating dessert with her knitting friends back at the house.
I told her they were welcome to eat my macaroni and cheese, as I wasn’t going to be touching it (or even looking at it, if possible) anytime soon. My aunt had offered to keep me company at the station, but I turned her down, figuring she’d already spent enough time here.
After about ten minutes of sitting on the hard wooden bench in the station’s hallway, and yawning half a dozen times, I decided to lay down. The bench, however, was not designed to accommodate a six-foot-tall female or any person of similar height, for that matter, so I scooted my knees up and placed my feet on the end. I yawned again, hopeful that I might be able to catch a nap when I heard a man call my name.
“Charlee, are you all right?” My eyes blinked several times, adjusting to the awful fluorescent lighting. Preston stood over me, wearing a worried expression.
“Preston.” I pushed myself up, sliding my feet back on the floor to make room for him. “What are you doing here?”
“Fern called me.” He sat down next to me, clasping his hands together like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. This was one of the few times I’d seen him without his briefcase. I wondered if he felt anxious without it, almost like a security blanket maybe.
“She thought you could use some support.” He hovered next to me, his gaze lingering, the unmistakable interest gleaming in his eyes.
How thoughtful of Fern. No, not really. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Preston’s somewhat odd infatuation with me.
Maybe there was something in the water here? In Portland, I rarely detected interest from any guy. I couldn’t even remember the last time I went on a date; I was too busy working.
Yes, that was it. Here, I had all this free time, and surely, I was reading more into it than there actually was. Maybe not with Kenny, since we had history. And here I’d come full circle back to that again.
I might as well face it: my love life sucked because of Kenny. Correction: My love life sucked because I’d allowed Kenny’s betrayal to hold me back.
I’d like to say that I resolved right then and there to break free of that, only I didn’t. I continued to sit there on that hard, uncomfortable bench, next to Preston who had… great, he was now holding my hand. But frankly, at the moment I was too physically and emotionally exhausted to do much of anything.
Footsteps sounded nearby, followed by a man clearing his throat. I looked up to see Cole staring down at me, then his gaze shifted slightly to the bench where Preston’s hand was covering mine. I tugged it onto my lap.
“Mr. Brooks, Charlee,” he said in clipped tones. “If you’d follow me, please,” he added as an afterthought.
We stood and followed Cole into his office and sat down in our usual spots, as I’d come to think of them, since this room was becoming very familiar to me. It really was a depressing space. Maybe I should buy Cole a plant. A fake plant, since I’m sure he would forget to water it, but something cheerful. A succulent perhaps?