by Sherry Lewis
“Are you talking about reincarnation?” Every time she opened her mouth, she said something crazy.
“Of course! Don’t you ever think about it? Don’t you ever wonder why your life is the way it is here? Why your wife had to die and leave you alone? Or why your daughter had to marry a man she doesn’t love? Karmic debt. If we don’t pay the debt in this life, we’ll come back again and again until we do.” Her eyes burned with some kind of fanatic enthusiasm.
Fred had no trouble imagining her choking the life out of Joan, and he felt a sudden, urgent need to get home.
“Haven’t you ever wondered what debt you’re working off right now? What were you in a previous life that brought you here?”
“No,” he said firmly. He tried to squeeze between her and a stubborn stand of scrub oak. “Never.”
Summer shifted a fraction of an inch—as if that would help. “Joan had a serious debt to work off, but she wasn’t interested in making amends. She only wanted to follow her own interests. I tried to reach her, but she turned away from me. She wouldn’t listen. I could see that she was heading for trouble. I could see what she needed to do, but she thought I was crazy.”
Joan wasn’t the only one who felt that way, but Fred didn’t say so aloud. He wasn’t a young man. If she’d overpowered Joan—a young, healthy woman—she might be able to get the best of him. It wasn’t a chance he wanted to take.
“I like to think that those of us who know each other in this life probably knew each other in a previous incarnation. I think we’re here to help each other. What should we do when we see someone following the wrong path? Should we allow her to keep going? Or should we take it into our own hands to help her to work off her debts?”
Fred decided not to respond. It seemed like a safer course of action than actually carrying on a conversation with her. She was crazy! He finally got past the trees and hurried down the path toward the lake. When she didn’t follow, he walked faster to increase the distance between them.
“Don’t let yourself get too upset about Joan,” Summer called after him. “In the end, she’ll be grateful this happened.”
Fred stumbled over a hidden root on the path and inadvertently looked back at her over his shoulder. Summer watched him, her eyes dreamy and glazed over. Fear almost choked him. What if it wasn’t Ramsey who killed Joan—and Brandon. What if it was Summer? What if she’d killed Joan, believing that she had to help her work off some ancient debt and then she’d pushed Brandon into the sinkhole to … to what? Reunite them? Fred was convinced he’d underestimated her all this time. Everyone had.
“I’ve got to get back,” he stammered. “I still have guests.”
Summer smiled. “Kate. She has much to work through herself. She’s carrying a heavy burden. It’s almost overpowering. She owes a lot to people. Can’t you feel it when you look at her? Can’t you feel the tragedy surrounding her?”
She paused and raised her arms above her head, lifting her face to the sun. “I see you every morning when you walk along the path you know. I’ve always wanted to come out here and talk with you.” She lowered her arms and stared intently at him. “We have a lot to talk about.”
Starting tomorrow he’d find a new path. Absolutely. Now, he had to get out of here as quickly as he could. He half-jogged back the direction he’d come, but every step sent pain shooting through his knees. He just hoped Summer didn’t think that he’d ever done anything that needed paying back.
He reached the house in record time, out of breath and limping but relieved to still be in one piece. He’d expected Kate and Madison to be eating breakfast, but the house was empty.
He checked his watch and saw that it was only eight-thirty; too early to do much of anything in town. In fact, the only place open at this time of day was the Bluebird. That had to be where Kate and Madison were. He hadn’t made coffee before he went out and Madison probably woke up ready to eat. Kate’s skills in the kitchen had turned out to be practically nonexistent. Even pouring cold cereal and milk in a bowl seemed more than she could handle.
Enos would probably be there, too. Or he’d be interrogating Logan. But Fred was convinced he’d sent Enos after the wrong person, and now he had no time to lose. He hurried toward the garage and fired up the Buick, backing it carefully onto the street. He didn’t have time to waste walking when Summer might be getting ready to even the psychic scores again any minute.
Every car in town must have been in the Bluebird’s parking lot when he got there. That wasn’t surprising since breakfast was Liz’s best meal of the day. He finally had to settle for parking across the street on Estes and hoping nobody would slide into the car if they took the corner too fast on these icy streets.
Most of the tables had already been claimed, but a small booth by the window and a couple of tables at the back by the restrooms stood empty. Near the window, Kate and Madison sat with Tony Striker. The child shrieked with delight when she saw Fred.
Enos was sitting with Ivan and Grady. Logan Ramsey—not in jail after all—ate his lone breakfast stuffed into a booth two sizes too small for his ample frame. To Fred’s surprise, even Winona there, sitting alone beneath the Blue Hawaii poster, her untouched breakfast cooling on the table while she dabbed repeatedly at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Fred dragged a chair over to Enos’s table and nodded to Ivan and Grady. “I have to talk to you,” he whispered urgently to Enos.
“After breakfast,” Enos said. “The boys and I were up most the night and I don’t mind telling you, we’re tired and hungry.”
“This is important.”
Grady snorted and slid down on his backbone, sharing an amused glance with Ivan who raised his coffee cup to hide his smile. Insolent young bucks!
“Why don’t you get you some breakfast?” Enos said. “I’ll talk with you in a bit. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”
“No, but listen—”
Enos glanced up from his plate, and the look on his face gave no hint of encouragement. For one split second, Fred thought he saw something else in Enos’s eyes, a brief, almost secretive glance in the boys’ direction. A nearly imperceptible shake of his head.
Thinking that Enos had sent him a message, Fred relented and went back to the booth. He ordered white toast and an egg. Liz brought him wheat toast and cereal and sat it before him with a meaningful look. He barked an order for coffee at her as she walked away. She didn’t look back and he knew she wouldn’t bring it.
Angry and frustrated, he tugged on his coat. It had twisted under him as he slid into the booth and pulled uncomfortably at his arms. Something hard pressed into his hip. Feeling more than a little put out by the morning he’d had, he reached into his pocket for the offending object and pulled out the pen he’d picked up several days ago by the lake. In all the excitement of the last few days, he’d forgotten he put it there.
He hadn’t taken the time before to look at it well before, so now he held it toward the light for a good look. He couldn’t see any engraved initials or other identifying marks, but even in the cold fluorescent lighting, it looked new.
He placed it in front of him on the table where he could study it while he ate. To make up for the lack of coffee, he slathered his bread with butter and used every drop of strawberry jam he could scrape from the little packets on his plate. It wasn’t the same thing at all, but it would have to do.
He ate slowly, timing his breakfast to be done at the same time as Enos. He kept an eye on Ivan and Grady, making sure he didn’t eat faster than they did. Just as he polished off the last bite of toast, Ivan pushed his chair back from the table and Grady mopped his mouth with his napkin. At the same time, George Newman pushed away from the counter and came to Fred’s booth.
He slid in behind the table and leaned his elbows onto it. “Say, Fred, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that hunting rifle of yours. Didn’t you say you wanted to sell it last year? Did you get any takers?”
Oh for Pete’s sake! “No, but—�
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“My son-in-law’s interested in buyin’ hisself a rifle. I told him he could do a sight worse than to buy yours. At least he’d know it had been took care of, if you know what I mean.”
Fred watched Enos wipe his mouth and hands on his napkin and settle his hat on his head. He tossed a couple of bills on the table and walked out into the cold.
George rattled on, warming to his subject. “Isn’t this the one you got that buck with? What was it, an eight point?”
“Four,” Fred grumbled. He tried to slide out of the booth but his feet got tangled up with George’s.
“Only four?” George looked concerned. “I thought it was bigger’n that. You sure it was only four? Didn’t you get a bigger one the last time you went out?”
Fred tried to get his feet clear. “No, George. Four’s my biggest. The rifle’s a good one and he’s welcome to buy it, but I really—”
“Well, now, I don’t know if he’d be willing to pay so much for it seeing as how you only got a four point with it when I told him it was an eight.”
Through the window, Fred watched Enos climb into the cab of his truck. Across the street, Ivan and Grady raced away in Grady’s car, a low slung number that made a lot of noise. Inside, Winona folded her napkin and stood. As she passed his booth, she nodded coldly.
“Maybe if you’d drop the price a little,” George pressed.
“Look, George—” Fred finally got to the edge of the bench and tried to stand.
George raised a hand in surrender. “All right, if you’re going to be that way, I’ll just have to tell him you won’t negotiate. But listen, I wondered whether you could show him a thing or two on it so that if he decides he wants it . . .”
Kate zipped Madison into her coat. Madison waved shyly and Fred blew her a kiss.
“. . .you going to sell the scope with it? It won’t be much good without the scope, will it? I’d think for that price. . .”
Tony peeled a couple of bills off the roll in his pocket and tucked them under the rim of his plate. Placing his hand almost intimately on the small of Kate’s back, he guided her past Fred’s booth. Madison stopped to give Fred a hug and then ran after the adults. Tony reached a hand toward Madison, but she ran to Kate’s side and tugged at her coat. Grudgingly, Kate put out her hand and Madison took it.
“. . . Course the case automatically goes with it, doesn’t it? I mean, you wouldn’t have a need for the case without the rifle and the scope . . .”
Logan Ramsey sucked in his stomach and hoisted himself from the booth. He caught Fred’s eye and looked away hastily.
“. . . At least one box of shells or he won’t be able to try it out. You wouldn’t want them in your garage once the rifle’s gone and they’re probably so old, they’re not worth much anyway . . .”
Ramsey settled his tab with Liz and looked back at Fred once more before walking out the door.
“. . . So what do you think?” George finished and leaned back on his chair.
Fred dragged his attention back to George with some difficulty. “What?”
“What do you think? About the rifle?”
“I don’t know,” Fred reached into his pocket for his change, left enough to cover his bill and walked toward the door.
George scrambled to keep up with him. “He’s going to want to know soon.”
Fred pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold with George only a step behind.
“If he doesn’t buy your rifle, he’s got his eye on one in Granby. Frankly, I think yours is better—”
Behind them, Liz pushed open the door and called Fred’s name. He turned and she took a step forward, holding the pen out toward him. He reached for it just as she let go and it fell to the ground with a clatter. As he bent to pick it up, something buzzed past his ear, a high-pitched humming sound and, a split second later, a popping noise.
George made a funny sound, a deep, groaning noise, and sagged at the knees. Confused, Fred straightened, pen in hand. Liz pushed past him and rushed toward George, catching him as he fell. A dark red stain spread across his shoulder and onto his chest. After that, everything happened in slow motion. Fred stared at George, unable for a moment to comprehend what had happened.
Liz fell to the boardwalk and cradled George’s head in her lap. She looked up at Fred and spoke, her mouth stretched wide as it formed the words he couldn’t hear over the buzzing in his ears.
She looked down at George and then back up again. This time when she spoke, Fred understood. “He’s been shot. Find Enos. Dammit Fred, go find Enos!”
twenty four
Margaret did not look happy. She sat on Fred’s sofa next to Enos, their heads together and voices lowered so they could scheme against Fred. Enos had called her the minute he’d shut George into Ivan’s station wagon and sent him on his way, shoulder bandaged, to the hospital. Margaret had rushed to Fred’s side and the way she kept fawning over him, you’d have thought he’d been shot, not George. Her eyes strayed occasionally to Fred’s face as if reassuring herself he was still alive. He was tired as all get-out of sitting in his damn rocker while the gunman got away, but he was fine enough to something about it—and that, apparently, was more than Enos wanted him to do.
Oh sure, Fred knew the bullet had been meant for him. George had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If Liz hadn’t dropped the pen, if Fred hadn’t bent over to pick it up just when he had, he’d be the one racing down the mountain to the hospital. And he’d probably have worse than a shoulder wound.
But he didn’t know why someone had taken a shot at him. What made this morning different than any other? The obvious answer—the only answer—had to be that he knew something now he hadn’t known before. But whatever it was, he didn’t know that he knew it. He’d been struggling with the question all day.
He’d told Enos what he knew about Brandon’s last hours on earth and Enos had talked to both Winona and Logan. But they were both walking around free as you please, so it’s not as if Fred had done any real damage.
He rocked unhappily in his chair where Margaret had moved it, well away from the front window. That in itself rubbed him the wrong way. He wasn’t a child, for Pete’s sake.
Margaret shook her head at something Enos said and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. She looked exhausted, and that was the only reason Fred hadn’t argued with her. As if she could feel him thinking about her, she glanced up and met Fred’s eyes. She choked back a sob, as if she was picturing him lying dead on the ground. He’d never meant to put her through this. He’d never intended for somebody to want him out of the way.
Enos very carefully put an arm across her shoulder; an offer of support and comfort.
Margaret sat still for a few seconds, then stood and strode across the room to stand over Fred. “What on earth have you been doing, Dad? Why couldn’t you listen to Enos and just stay out of this mess? Now look what’s happened! George has been shot, and thank God he’s all right. But Dad, it could have been you!”
What was he supposed to say? That he hadn’t meant for things to get out of control? That he couldn’t have stopped himself any sooner? Neither answer would make her feel better. One thing he sure couldn’t tell her: after this, there’s no way he’d back down.
He’d been drawn back into the investigation, through no fault of his own. His life had been threatened. Poor, innocent, boring George had been shot. And nothing Margaret said, nothing Enos said, would make him turn tail and run.
But they would try.
He had only to look at their faces to know what they had up their sleeves. She didn’t intend to let him out of her sight again. She’d inherited that nasty stubborn streak from her mother.
Enos’s radio, hanging from a belt loop, squawked and crackled. He hunched over and spoke softly, no doubt coordinating the search for George’s assailant. Had the deputies asked the suspects about their alibis? Had they checked and double-checked their stories? So much to be done, and Enos expect
ed Fred to sit here and twiddle his thumbs, watching it all play out without him.
Well, it wouldn’t work. Fred had been shot at. He knew the prime suspects in the double murder case. He’d be more help on his feet than sitting in this chair.
He pushed to his feet and immediately Margaret took his arm. “Are you all right, Dad?”
“Of course I’m all right,” he snarled and reached for his jacket where it had landed on the sofa earlier. Margaret snatched it away from him, her face grim. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going out,” he said in a no-nonsense tone. I’ve got people to talk to, questions to ask . . .”
Enos butted into the conversation, barking orders. His face got all wrinkled and unpleasant again. “Sit down, Fred. You’re not going anywhere. Someone took a shot at you. Someone tried to kill you and if you think I’m going to let you go out after that you have another think coming.”
“Better than sitting around here like a lump on a log,” Fred argued. “Where were all your suspects when George was shot? Have you found out yet? Everyone of ‘em was having breakfast at the Bluebird. Any one of ‘em could have taken that shot. So where was Ramsey? Or Tony? Have you checked the angle from the art gallery? Could it have come from there? Does Winona own a gun?”
Margaret’s face crumpled. “Enos, do something. Talk some sense into him, please.” And then, without giving Enos a chance to even take a breath, she rounded on Fred and demanded, “What’s gotten into you lately?”
When had the roles reversed in their lives? When had Margaret decided to be his parent? When had it become acceptable for her to speak of him as if he were a bad-tempered teenager in need of discipline?
Enos put an arm across his shoulder. “Fred, you’ve got to stay here. I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are at all times. You’ve got to stay inside.”
“Who said I need you to protect me?”