by Sherry Lewis
“She’s in good health, isn’t she? No risks involved?”
No answer.
“Did you ever talk to Adam about the baby?”
Doc growled and turned away. “Who said there was a baby?”
“Who said there wasn’t?”
Doc wrenched open the door to the examining room. “You’re quite a piece of work, you know that? No wonder you can’t sleep at night—your imagination’s working overtime and the guilt you feel for trying to poke into Nancy’s personal life must be terrible.”
Fred chose to ignore that comment and followed Doc into the corridor. “Did you? Talk to Adam about it?”
Doc whirled to face him. “Why? Whether or not Nancy’s pregnant, why do you want to know?”
Fred barely managed to avoid running into him. “Because Adam’s dead.”
“What does Nancy being pregnant have to do with that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard a few things, and I’ve got to admit I’m a little worried. Trouble is, I’m not even sure the pieces I’ve managed to pick up are from the same puzzle.”
For one long moment, Doc didn’t speak. He didn’t blink, he didn’t smile, he didn’t even move a muscle. “I can’t tell you anything about Nancy’s health.”
“Okay. Tell me she wasn’t pregnant. That’ll do. If you can tell me that, it gets rid of one of the pieces.”
Doc didn’t look pleased. “I’m not telling you anything.”
“I knew it,” Fred said unhappily. “She is.”
Doc fished Fred’s file from the filing cabinet and made a couple of notations inside. “Does Enos know you’re poking around in Adam’s murder?”
“I’m not poking around in the murder.”
“He doesn’t know, does he?” Doc slipped the file away and chuckled as if he’d just heard something amusing. “Well, he’ll find out, Fred. And what do you think he’s going to do then?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You’re dreaming. He’ll be livid.” Doc started toward the front of the house again.
But Fred stepped in front of him. “Are you going to tell him?”
“I might.”
“Well, you go right ahead and tell him I was here, but be honest. Did I ask you even one question about the murder?”
Doc thought long and hard. “No,” he conceded at last.
“I’m here because I’m concerned about my niece. Since she’s staying with me, and since I’m the one providing her moral support right now, I figure the more I know about what she’s going through, the more help I can give her.”
Doc didn’t say a word, but he did manage to look sheepish.
Indignant now, Fred pushed on. “I believe Nancy might be pregnant. And I’ve been told Adam wasn’t happy about it. That’s hard enough for a woman to go through, but now that he’s dead, it’ll be even worse—especially if she’s arrested for her husband’s murder.”
Fred thought he had Doc cornered, but the old goat’s face tightened again. “I might almost buy that answer, Fred. Except for one thing.”
“What?”
“Adam wasn’t unhappy about the baby. He was overjoyed.” And with that, Doc tried to push past him.
Fred held firm. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. They’d been trying for years to have a baby.” This time Doc managed to get around him.
Confused and frustrated, Fred started to follow, but he stopped after a couple of steps. He was going in circles. Everyone he’d talked to painted a different picture of Adam, of Nancy, and of their marriage. Were any of them accurate?
Doc reached the hallway to the house and looked back over his shoulder. “Now what?”
“I don’t know. I’m confused.”
Doc’s expression softened. “Look, Fred, I think you’re a little paranoid. Nancy hasn’t been charged with anything.”
“I know,” he admitted. But he couldn’t voice his great fear aloud. He knew she would be. Eventually.
“Listen, I know as well as you do that Nancy couldn’t have done it. Adam’s murderer stood less than three feet behind him, held the gun to the back of his head and pulled the trigger. Nancy’s not that heartless.”
Doc’s faith heartened Fred a little. “Does Enos believe that?”
“Of course he does.”
Hope began to stir. “Then he doesn’t consider Nancy a suspect anymore? Or Porter, either?”
Doc looked away. “I didn’t say that. I meant that in his heart, he knows. There’s just no proof. But he’ll find it.”
Just like that, Fred’s hopes evaporated. “That’s not good enough.”
“He’ll find it, just be patient.”
Patient? While everyone suspected Nancy of killing Adam and the real killer got away? While Fred couldn’t sleep for worrying?
Doc studied his face and frowned. “You can’t get involved this time, Fred.”
Exasperated, Fred crossed to the outside door. “Did I say I was getting involved?”
“I’ve known you all my life,” Doc called after him. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“You couldn’t possibly know that,” Fred shot back, “or you’d have kicked me out of here already.”
Doc didn’t rise to the bait. “There’s nothing you can do, Fred.”
Fred yanked open the door and growled, “That’s where you’re wrong, Doc.”
He slammed the door behind him and rushed back up the path to the driveway. Inside the Buick, he fished his list from his pocket and stared at the names left there. Mitch Hancock. Roy Dennington. He pulled out his pen and added two more.
Porter Jorgensen. Because Fred wanted to ask exactly what Porter knew about Nancy’s marriage, what he and Adam fought about that day at Adam’s office, and where Porter went the night of the murder.
And Brooke Westphal. Because Fred wanted to know the truth about the rumor concerning her and Adam. And he hoped with all his heart she’d deny it.
ELEVEN
Fred drove back into town, debating whether to go home or try to talk to one more person on his list. Questions raced through his mind. Had Adam been murdered because of his personal life or his professional one? Was Mitch Hancock lying about delivering test results the morning Adam died? Or had Charlotte Isaacson misled him about the test results going directly to Philip?
Who had called Adam on his private line the night of his murder? And who did he call? Was Adam a faithful, loving husband excited by the impending birth of his first child? Or a cheating husband who didn’t want the responsibilities of fatherhood? And why had he chosen that night to ask Nancy for a divorce? Did anyone know the real story? And would anyone tell it to Fred?
He wanted to pursue his leads, slender as they were, but he had no idea where to turn. Brooke Westphal and Mitch Hancock would still be at work—and even Fred couldn’t justify visiting EnviroSampl twice in one day. He still had no idea where to find Roy Dennington. And he’d have to be awfully creative to come up with an excuse for approaching Philip Aagard again.
He felt restless. Anxious. Too keyed up to rest. Too agitated to sit around home and wait for Enos to do something. He cruised slowly past the Bluebird Café and thought about stopping in for lunch. But if Margaret started looking for him she’d head to the Bluebird first, and he wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation.
He drove out of the city limits and into the forest beyond, still without a destination in mind. When he rounded a curve in the road, the towering red and white sign for Jefferson’s One-Stop caught his eye. He let off the accelerator and turned into the parking lot. Whatever he decided, it couldn’t hurt to have a full tank of gas. With all this driving, he’d probably have to fill up twice this month.
Fred waved to Glen Jefferson as he pulled up to the no-lead pump. Glen, tall, heavyset, dark-haired and blue-eyed, waved back. He was a nice enough guy, but he had a few ideas Fred didn’t agree with.
He’d been heard to say that people were going to profit from the growth ar
ound Cutler, and that he aimed to be one of them. He felt so strongly about it, he’d sold his car repair shop last year and opened the One-Stop in hopes of cornering the market. He did a decent business during the summer months when passing tourists stopped in for gas and goodies, but Fred didn’t know how he made enough to support his small family the rest of the year. But no matter how skewed their thinking, local people ought to stick together, so Fred gave Glen his business.
After inserting the nozzle into his gas tank, Fred watched the numbers flash across the digital display while names of possible murderers flashed through his mind—Mitch Hancock, Brooke Westphal, Roy Dennington, Charlotte Isaacson, and Philip Aagard. Fred was convinced one of them had shot Adam, but why?
He checked his watch again. He’d been gone since early morning. By now, Margaret would almost certainly know he wasn’t home. No doubt she’d be worried about him and Douglas would be trying to calm her down. Fred wondered whether he ought to head back home. After all, Nancy was there and he supposed he should be with her.
But other than providing comfort, what could he do at home? Sit in his rocking chair and stare out the window? No, thank you. Comfort wouldn’t get Nancy very far, and he couldn’t steer Enos in the right direction from his rocking chair. He certainly couldn’t ask Nancy to come with him to question suspects, so the only answer was to let Margaret and Douglas fill in for him while he was away.
Fred paced a few steps away from the pump, and watched a couple of cars pass on the highway. He admitted grudgingly that Porter and Nancy might each look guilty on the surface. With her marriage falling apart, a baby on the way, and her husband possibly carrying on with another woman, Nancy had strong enough motives for murder.
And Porter— Porter’s tendency to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation didn’t help his case any. He’d had two arguments with Adam shortly before he died, and that made him look like a prime suspect. Why had Porter gone to Adam’s office? What had they argued about? And where had Porter gone the night of the murder? Shaking his head, Fred looked back at his car.
Obviously, he needed to ask Porter a few questions. And there was no time like the present for asking them. Leaving the tank filling on its own, Fred started across the parking lot toward the pay phone on the side of the building.
Glen Jefferson leaned against the door frame and studied him with interest. “Trouble, Fred?”
“Not a bit, Glen. Thanks. I just need to use the phone for a minute or two.”
Glen pushed himself up and took a step or two after him. “You’re welcome to use the one inside. I don’t let everybody, but I don’t mind if you use it.”
Fred smiled and kept going. He appreciated Glen’s offer, but he might be overheard in there, and he didn’t want to start any fresh rumors. “This is fine,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.” He dropped a quarter into the pay phone, but didn’t dial until Glen took a few reluctant steps away.
Porter answered on the fourth ring.
“Porter? It’s Fred. Have you got a minute?”
“For you? Any time. What’s wrong?”
“Is Harriet around?”
“She’s outside hanging up the wash. Should I go get her?” He sounded apprehensive.
“No, that’s all right. It’s you I want to talk to.”
“Why?” Porter’s voice dropped. “Is something wrong with Nancy?”
“No. No, nothing like that. I just have a couple of questions about Adam.”
A brief pause. “What about him?”
“I stopped by his office today, and one or two things came to light that I want to ask you about.”
Porter made a noise. “I don’t suppose Enos has managed to make an arrest yet.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, I don’t know what’s taking him so long,” Porter huffed. “I told him it’s that boss of Adam’s who did it.”
At the possibility Porter might know something, Fred’s pulse skipped. “Philip Aagard? Why do you say that?”
Porter barked a laugh. “You ever meet him?”
“Just this morning.”
“What did you think?”
Fred considered for a second before he answered. “I didn’t see enough of him to form a judgment, but he seemed all right.”
“The guy’s a dirt bag,” Porter said. “He hasn’t got any morals. Or ethics. He asked Adam to do things—” He broke off and the only sound Fred heard was Porter’s ragged breathing. Finally Porter managed to go on. “Enos ought to park himself in that guy’s office and not leave until he finds enough evidence to drag him away in handcuffs.”
Fred glanced over his shoulder to make sure Glen hadn’t moved any closer. He hadn’t, but Fred kept his voice down anyway. “What kind of things did he ask Adam to do?”
“Work too late. Stay away from his family too much. . .” Porter drew in a deep breath. “If you ask me, this divorce business was all his fault. Adam was the best son-in-law a man could ask for—treated Nancy like a princess—until last year.”
“What happened then?”
Porter grunted. “Philip Aagard took over EnviroSampl, that’s what. Everything fell apart after that.”
Fred wanted specifics. Something he could hang his hat on. But he wasn’t likely to get it like this. He couldn’t tell whether Porter’s accusations had any basis in truth or whether they were just a man’s desperate attempt to fasten blame on someone.
He decided to try a new tack. “The receptionist mentioned that you dropped in to see Adam a couple of days before he died.”
Heavy silence hummed between them for a while. “I guess maybe I did,” Porter said at last. “Why?”
“She said you and Adam had an argument.”
“We may have. I don’t remember.”
“Porter that was on Monday. He turned up dead on Thursday morning—less than seventy-two hours later. How can you not remember?”
“All right, I remember. But it wasn’t anything important.”
Well, it seemed important to Fred. “If What’s-Her-Name told me about it, she’ll tell other people. I didn’t exactly have to pry it out of her.”
No response.
He tried reason. “Look, Porter, I’m trying to help.”
Dead air stretched between them for a few seconds before Porter said, “I don’t need help,” as only an extremely short-sighted man could say it.
Obviously, reason wasn’t working so Fred decided to try fear. “What do you think will happen when Enos hears that you and Adam fought twice in the days before he was shot in cold blood?”
“Nothing. Why should anything happen?”
“For Pete’s sake, Porter. You had a fight with Adam at his office in front of witnesses. You fought with him again the night he died. How do you think that’s going to look?”
Another few seconds passed, but just when Fred thought he’d struck out again, Porter asked, “What did the receptionist say?”
“She heard you tell Adam you wouldn’t let Nancy suffer because he couldn’t control himself—or words to that effect.”
Muffled sound drifted through the wire, and Porter mumbled, “Hell’s bells.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t talk right now. Harriet just came back inside.”
“Then we have to talk later.”
“Sure. Sure.” Porter must have cupped his hand around the mouthpiece because the words sounded muffled.
“When?” Fred demanded.
A heavy sigh. “Soon.”
“Tonight?”
“No, tomorrow.” Porter paused, then said, “I promised Harriet I’d drive her down to see Nancy about noon.”
Good. Fred thought Nancy needed her parents—whether she knew it or not. “We certainly can’t talk at my house. We’ll have to meet somewhere. You name the place.”
“Hell, I don’t know.” The tone of Porter’s voice changed so suddenly, Fred figured Harriet must have come into the room.
“How abo
ut the Bluebird?” Fred suggested.
“No, I’d rather not do that.”
“The Copper Penny?”
A slight hesitation. “I guess that’s all right.”
“I’ll see you at noon, then.”
“Fine. Yes. I’ll see you then.”
Porter disconnected before Fred could manage another word, but at least they’d made a plan to meet. Fred ran a hand across his chin and slowly replaced the receiver. That conversation hadn’t gone real well. Porter sounded as if he was hiding something, and Fred didn’t like to think what that could mean.
For half a heartbeat, Fred wondered whether Porter had killed Adam, but he pushed the thought away as quickly as it formed. Porter might be a hot-head, but he wouldn’t kill anybody. Fred would bet his own life on it.
He started back toward the Buick, but stopped for a dark‑colored low‑slung sports car that pulled up to the pump. The driver, a sandy-haired young man, leaned over and opened his glove compartment. He dug around for a few seconds, then slammed it shut and straightened to look behind one of his sun visors.
Fred knew he’d seen him somewhere before, so he watched him closely. After a few seconds he recognized him as the cowboy who’d come looking for Nancy yesterday.
The young man apparently found what he wanted in his car and pushed open his door. But when he found himself face to face with Fred, he blinked his surprise. “Excuse me. I didn’t see you standing there.” He tried to walk around Fred, but Fred didn’t budge.
Instead, he smiled. “Good morning.”
The cowboy studied him as if trying to remember where they’d met before. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“I think we met at Porter and Harriet Jorgensen’s house yesterday.”
The cowboy nodded. “Yes. Maybe that was it.” He held out his hand for a shake. “Name’s Kelley Yarnell.”
Fred shook hands. “Fred Vickery. I’m Nancy’s uncle.”
When he moved aside, Kelley busied himself with his gas cap, but he spared a glance for Fred. “How’s she doing?”
“About as well as you could expect. It’s hard on her.”
“Yeah. I guess it is.” Kelley gave an embarrassed laugh. “I can’t even imagine.” He squinted into the hot August sun. “How’s she feeling?”