by Sherry Lewis
“My fishing club meets there once a month.”
Janice snorted. “Fishing club! An excuse to imbibe, that’s what I say. Nothing but an excuse. . .”
“The same one Roger Franklin belongs to?”
Bill adjusted his pocket protector. “Roger? Yes, he’s in the group.”
Well, imagine that. At least one alibi checked out.
“. . . or he used to be, anyway.” Bill looked up innocently. “But I haven’t seen him for the past few months.”
Scratch that alibi. Fred didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, so he said, “Are you sure? Maybe you just didn’t see him.”
Bill nodded and shoved his glasses up on his nose. “Positive. I’ve been watching for him. I wanted to ask him about the fly he used to get that six-pound rainbow trout last summer.”
Fred had another question all ready to ask, but the front door opened again and Bill turned away, his expression suddenly the one he used for business. “Well, hello Eileen. Children.”
Fred nestled his magazine back into the rack and looked up at Eileen Kinsella. Short and round, with dark plain hair and a plain face, she always moved slowly—even more so when she was pregnant. She had half the brood with her today, the dark-haired boy and two red-headed girls.
While the boy and the older girl scampered around Eileen, reaching for things on the shelves, popping in front of her and back out of her way, the younger girl—the one about Alison’s age—walked sedately, eyes down, at her mother’s side.
Fred coughed, then gave his best grin when Eileen smiled at him in that ineffectual way she had. “Hello, Eileen.”
“Hello.”
“How are you? And how’s the family?”
She hesitated as if she had to give it some thought. “Fine.” She looked back at the bread.
She’d never been on Fred’s list of people he’d most like to have a conversation with, and her lifeless responses this afternoon reminded him why. He didn’t have the energy it took to pry words out of her.
He reached for the handle to the front door when Janice stopped him. “Weren’t you going to buy something?”
“Not today.”
“Then what did you come in here for?”
“To browse.” He pushed open the door and looked back at the Kinsellas. Something about that quiet girl bothered him. Had she always been a replica of her mother? Or was her quiet the unnatural kind Alison suffered with? He watched her a second or two longer, but when he realized Janice, in turn, watched him, he let the door go.
Just before it closed he heard Janice say, “Men. And they try to claim women are gossips. You’d never imagine in a million years what he was just talking about—”
TWENTY FIVE
Old boards creaked underfoot as Fred walked away from Lacey’s. Since Cutler’s Main Street stretched only eight blocks from one end of town to the other, Fred often walked the gamut to stretch his legs or clear his mind. And today, he needed to do both.
An hour ago, he’d been convinced of Suzanne’s guilt, but now everything jumbled together in his mind—Olivia’s inheritance, Roger Franklin’s broken alibi, Garrett’s perversion. . . which trail was the right one? Or did the answer lie along some other path he hadn’t even discovered yet?
When he reached the corner of Porter Street and had to step down to the road, he glanced down the block at Locke’s Fine Furnishings—or maybe he should call it Olivia’s now. Maybe he ought to talk with Rusty Kinsella again. Asking the questions that echoed through his mind would be a sight more productive than trying to walk them off.
He started across the street, but before he took half a dozen steps, Celeste stepped out of the trees on the side of the road. “Pssssst.”
“Celeste? What in blazes—”
“Shhhh.” She beckoned him urgently and her jewelry jingled furiously. “Come here. Please.”
Good grief. He slipped closer to her hiding spot, taking care to keep several feet between them.
“I just came from the Sheriff’s office. Did you know they have Suzanne there?”
“Yes, I know.”
“And do you know they’re questioning her about Garrett’s murder?”
“Yes.” He carefully avoided revealing that he’d been the one to point the finger at her. The less said about that, the better.
“How are we going to get Douglas and Suzanne back together now?” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically, releasing a fresh wave of perfume.
“Well, now . . . Maybe getting them back together isn’t the best thing.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course it is. Suzanne found herself a good man. A really good man. She can’t lose him now.”
Fred appreciated her opinion of Douglas, but her obsession with pushing the kids together was beginning to irritate him. “Listen, Celeste. Douglas and Suzanne’s marriage is over, and nothing you or I do is going to change that.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true. Leave it alone.”
She blinked, obviously confused, and took a step toward him. “But—”
He held up his hands to keep her back. “I’m not going to do anything to get those two together again. I try really hard to keep my nose out of things that aren’t any of my business—and this is one of them.” Having made his point he strode away, but she ran after him.
“But you don’t understand—”
“I understand more than you think I do.”
She tugged at his arm. “Don’t you even care what happens to Suzanne and Alison?”
“Of course I do.”
“How many good men do you think there are out there? How many chances do you think Suzanne’s going to get?”
He stopped and faced her, taking her by the shoulders as if by holding her still he could get through to her this time. “I know it’s not easy to find the right person. Suzanne might be alone for a while. Douglas might, too. But in the end, they’ll be all right.”
She shook her head emphatically and whispered, “You don’t understand.”
“I know you’d like to see them work things out, but it’s not going to happen. And with everything that’s gone on the last few days, maybe it’s for the best.”
“I will never believe that.”
Fred dropped his hands. It was hopeless. He’d never find the words that would make her see reason. “Celeste, I’m truly sorry it’s so hard for you to accept their decision. But I really need to go. I’m this close to figuring out who killed Garrett.” He held up his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart.
“Who?”
“I’d rather not say anything until I know for sure.”
“Do you know why he was killed?” Her eyes glittered.
“Not for sure.”
She smiled up at him, not her usual pink smile but a hard-edged one he’d never seen before, and for the first time Fred glimpsed a woman capable of parlaying her imagination into a successful career. “Keeping secrets from me?” she asked.
“They’re not my secrets to share. Not unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”
She stiffened and pulled away from him. “I see. And once you’ve found your murderer what will you do?”
“Tell Enos, of course. A man’s life was snuffed out. Whoever did that needs to pay. That’s all I care about. And it’s the only way Douglas—and Suzanne—will be able to get on with life.”
“Well, I see you don’t have the same hesitation about sticking your nose in the middle of murder. Maybe it’s only affairs of the heart that frighten you.”
She wore him out. She honestly did. And he didn’t have what it took for him to deal with her now. “I’ve got to go, Celeste.”
“You won’t help Suzanne?”
“There’s not a blasted thing I can do.”
“Then you’re not the kind of man I thought you were, Fred Vickery. Not at all.”
“You’re probably right,” Fred admitted. But he didn’t necessarily think that
was a bad thing. He turned from her and crossed the street, stepping onto the boardwalk at the corner. Almost afraid to look, he glanced back over his shoulder, but when he saw that Celeste had disappeared again he breathed a sigh of relief.
He moved on past Silver City Bank and tried to calculate how long until Logan Ramsey finished his prison sentence for embezzlement, but gave up. His mind was too full of other things.
He’d just started across Porter Street when a door opened halfway down the next block and a woman stepped out onto the boardwalk. If she hadn’t already seen him, he would have tried to avoid her. But she walked in his direction without taking her eyes from him.
When she drew abreast of him, she brushed stray hair from the corner of her mouth. “You came. I wondered how long it would take you.”
“Hello, Summer.”
“Did she find you?”
“Who?”
“Celeste. She was anxious to find you.”
“Now look here, Summer. If you’re encouraging Celeste in any way—”
Summer cocked her head to one side and a curtain of pale hair slid from her shoulder and caught the sunlight. “It’s not my doing. I’m only an instrument.”
“Well don’t encourage her.”
“I don’t encourage or discourage. It’s not my place to push people toward their destiny or to keep them from it.”
He should have known talking with her would be as senseless as reasoning with Celeste. But he tried again. “I am not Celeste Devereaux’s destiny. Douglas and Suzanne are divorced. But it’s exactly that kind of nonsense—”
“We can’t always see our own destiny, Fred. But neither can we avoid it.”
Her foolish talk made him uncomfortable. He stepped around her, intent on going his own way, but she followed.
“I could give you a reading if you’d like.”
“No.”
“It might help.”
“I don’t want anything to do with that nonsense.”
She fell into step beside him and brushed her hair back out of her face. “Don’t disregard an entire science because of some archaic belief from your past.”
“A science? Biology is a science. Chemistry’s a science. Telling fortunes is not a science.”
She stopped suddenly and grabbed his arm. Tilting her head a little to one side, she looked like she was listening to something. After several seconds she nodded and loosened her grip. “You’re deeply troubled, aren’t you, Fred?”
And getting worse by the minute. First Celeste. Now Summer. How much more should a man have to tolerate in one day?
“My guides can sense it. They want me to tell you how much you could gain from a reading.”
“No.”
“They could give you the answers you seek—”
He took several quick steps away. If she wanted to start talking to imaginary friends, she could do it when he wasn’t anywhere near.
“You’re skeptical,” she called after him, “but sooner or later you’ll come face to face with your destiny, and I only hope you recognize it before it’s too late.”
Ignoring her, he pushed open the door to Locke’s. The bell over the door announced him, but the showroom was empty. On first glance, the place looked no different. But he felt a difference in the atmosphere immediately.
It might have been the subtle aroma of cigarette smoke that testified to Olivia’s presence. Or the sound of her throaty laughter coming from the back room. Or the evidence of take-out cartons from the Bluebird and ashtrays on the desk. But Garrett’s stamp of ownership had disappeared and Olivia’s had replaced it.
The bell on the door jingled again when the door closed, and this time Rusty Kinsella poked his head out of the back room. But when he saw Fred, his welcoming smile faded. “Fred? What—? Is something wrong?”
“Have you got a minute?”
“Sure. I guess. . . Now?”
“If Olivia doesn’t mind.”
“I don’t mind, Sherlock,” Olivia called. “Just don’t keep him too long. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
Rusty glanced nervously over his shoulder, then joined Fred near the front of the store. “What is it?”
“I’d just like to ask you a few more questions about Garrett.”
“Can’t it wait? Olivia’s in the back—” He spoke in a whisper and darted repeated looks at the door that concealed her.
But Fred didn’t want to wait. He wanted answers. Now. “Tell me about that little girl of yours. The quiet one. What’s her name?”
“Kayla? Why?”
“I just saw her at Lacey’s with Eileen. Is she always that withdrawn?”
Rusty started to shake his head, then looked at Fred in confusion. “Just the last couple of months. Why?”
“Did she ever have anything to do with Garrett?”
“Not really. She came in here to see me after school once in a while and I’m sure she ran into him from time to time, but nothing more than that.”
“Did you ever come across Garrett alone with her?”
Rusty straightened his stance slightly but dropped his voice even lower. “What’s going on, Fred? What are you trying to say?”
Fred had to force the words out. “I found out last night that Garrett molested my grand-daughter Alison. And I’m told he molested his own daughter. Now I’m trying to figure out whether he bothered any other girls in the area.”
Rusty’s red coloring faded. “You’re not serious?”
“I’m deadly serious. And I think someone found out and killed him.”
“A parent?”
Fred nodded.
“Me?” Rusty’s voice broke out of its whisper.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Because you think Kayla was one of his victims?” Rusty gulped in deep breaths of air and reached out for a nearby chair to steady himself.
“Look, Rusty, we’re sure about Alison. I’m guessing about your daughter.”
Rusty didn’t take much comfort in Fred’s reassurances. His knuckles turned white from the effort he used to brace himself.
“It’s just a guess,” Fred repeated. “There was just something familiar about the way she was acting just now over at Lacey’s. Something very like Alison. Is she always so withdrawn?”
“She’s very much like her mother, if that’s what you mean. But she has been quieter than usual lately. Eileen thought it was just one of the signs of growing up—” He broke off and colored brightly.
“There wasn’t anything in particular that happened just before she changed?”
Rusty shook his head and would have spoken again if Olivia hadn’t stepped out of the back room at that moment.
Like Janice said, she’d had her hair cut, and it looked a shade darker, but she didn’t look like a new woman at all—just a more expensive version of the same old one. She still wore jeans, but they weren’t old and faded. She still wore tennis shoes, but they had a brand name on them now. And she still wore a t-shirt, but Fred could read this one.
She lifted a cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply. “What are you two whispering about up here? I’m dying of curiosity and I can’t hear a thing.”
Rusty darted a warning look at Fred before he shook his head. “Nothing.”
She glanced at Rusty, but dismissed him with a shrug. “Come on, Sherlock. Out with it. You’re asking questions about Garrett again—I can feel it.”
Fred thought about denying it for less than a second. Olivia would see right through him, and his conversation with Yvonne had left more holes in Olivia’s story.
“I went to see Yvonne yesterday.” He didn’t say more—he knew he didn’t need to.
Olivia’s mouth tightened. “Really? You look like you learned something interesting there.”
“Yes.”
Olivia smirked. “She told you about the money, didn’t she? All right, I confess. My brother screwed me out of a lot of money and we didn’t exactly get along. Satisfied? But I didn’t kill him over i
t. No matter what he did, he was my brother and I loved him.” Her lips curved into a smile. “I just didn’t like him a whole lot.”
“Yvonne told me about Jenny.”
Olivia’s expression froze. “I might have known she’d say something eventually.”
“You knew about Garrett, but you kept it quiet. Why?”
Rusty whipped around to face her. “You knew? And you didn’t say anything?”
“He was my brother.”
Fred pulled in a steadying breath, but the words came out easier this time. “He molested my granddaughter.”
“Which one?”
Did it make a difference? “Alison. Douglas’s daughter.”
Olivia’s eyes widened in horror an instant before she sagged against the wall. “I didn’t think he’d do it again.”
“You could have prevented what happened?” Rusty’s voice rose to a shout.
“Maybe.” She looked up at him with pain-filled eyes. “He told me he’d had counseling—I thought he was cured.”
Rusty’s coloring rose to a dangerous level. “Didn’t you have any idea he was doing it again?”
“How would I know?” she cried.
Rusty flicked his hand at her in disgust.
“What should I have looked for? Garrett and I didn’t even see each other very often. We weren’t exactly close—you know that. Besides, you would have seen it before me. You’re the one who was with him every day.”
Her barb found its mark and Rusty took a step back.
“Did he ever do anything that made you wonder?”
“No. He seemed . . . normal.” Rusty wiped his eyes with his fingertips. “But if anything happened to Kayla, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“You’ll get her counseling and you’ll see her through it,” Fred said helpfully. “It’s the best thing you can do.”
“With what? I can’t even afford the damned baby doctor, Fred. You know that.”
Olivia lifted her cigarette to her lips with trembling fingers. “I’m so sorry. If I’d had any idea he was still so sick, I would have said something.”
“Would you?” Fred wanted the words to sting her, but she seemed to draw a challenge from them.