by Sherry Lewis
Grady waved a hand at him. “I’m almost done, and I need to get back to work in a few minutes anyway.”
Seeing no easy way to discourage Douglas, Fred kept his smile in place and conceded. “Well, all right then, son. I’ll go get us a table.”
The dining room was empty except for Pete and the new Mrs. Scott near the window, and one other young couple huddled at a back table studying a map as if their lives depended on it. Choosing the booth next to the Scotts’, Fred slid onto the seat facing Pete. Wishing he could remember the new Mrs. Scott’s name, he tried to find an excuse to start a conversation.
With his headful of dark hair that always looked too big for his narrow face and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses pinching his nose, Pete looked dull and bookish. Fred thought he’d been a perfect match for the first Mrs. Scott—Elizabeth—who’d been dull and bookish herself, and who’d run off a few years ago with the electrician who’d rewired their basement.
Pete didn’t dove-tail as well with his new wife. He was at least ten years older in age and eons older in interests, but she seemed content, and he seemed thrilled with his good fortune.
Douglas tromped into the dining room carrying his half-eaten lunch. “Hey, Pete. Welcome back.”
Fred remembered his wife mentioning something about Pete being gone, so he echoed Douglas’s sentiment.
Pete looked delighted that they’d noticed his absence, but he put on a weary expression and wagged his narrow head. “By the skin of my teeth.”
Rolling her eyes in mock exasperation, his wife smiled over her shoulder. “He’s been moaning since he got home last night, but doesn’t he look great?”
Fred thought Pete looked the same as always, and he’d never thought of great as a word he’d use to describe Pete’s appearance, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he held her gaze. “How are you holding up? Are things any better at the office?”
“Since the murder?” She shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. It gives me the willies. I’m just glad today’s Saturday so I can get away from it for a while.”
Douglas slid in across from Fred and sent him a curious glance as he arranged his silverware.
Immediately losing his self-absorbed expression, Pete managed to look protective. “Then don’t think about it, sweetheart. And we won’t talk about it,” he said with a pointed look at Fred.
Fred ignored Pete’s objection and the look. “I just ran into Roy Dennington a few minutes ago.”
Douglas wedged his sandwich into his mouth and bit off a chunk as Pete frowned and sent Fred another look, a little more intense than the first. Fred made a point of not noticing that one either and kept an eye on Mrs. Scott instead.
She looked confused. “Roy Dennington? Where have I heard that name before?”
“I understand he’s a land developer,” Fred suggested.
Though she stared at him out of blank eyes, she pretended to understand. “Then I must have heard his name at work.”
Pete reached across the table and patted her hand. “Let’s not talk about it, honey. Okay?”
Fred frowned at him. They had to talk about it. Now. “I’d imagine that’s where you heard it, all right. He was at EnviroSampl the morning of the murder, you know.”
Confusion clouded her face. “No. I didn’t know,” she said slowly. But all at once she jumped around to face Fred a little better. “Wait a sec. Is he that black guy? The one in the suit?”
Now they were getting somewhere. “That’s the one.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “I did see him.”
Pete scowled darkly. “I thought we decided not to discuss it.”
“You might have decided,” Fred said, “but I never agreed. I just need to ask you a couple of things about that morning—” he began, but broke off when Lizzie stopped by with a fresh pot of coffee. Chafing at the interruption, he flipped over his cup.
Lizzie filled it, pulled her pencil from behind her ear and a pad from her pocket.
“Hot turkey sandwich,” he ordered quickly. “And give me mashed potatoes with extra gravy.”
Douglas stuffed his mouth full again, but he lifted his eyebrows as if he thought Fred needed to explain his choice.
Fred didn’t. A man ought to be able to order what he pleased—complete with extra cholesterol and fat—without having to make up excuses.
Never one to waste time on small talk, Lizzie replaced her pencil and took away the coffeepot, but in that short time the Scotts had already drifted into another conversation, and when Pete noticed Fred watching them, he nearly broke his neck trying to avoid eye contact.
For half a second Fred considered waiting until he could talk with the new Mrs. Scott alone. But the clock was ticking. He couldn’t wait. If he couldn’t tie the murder to EnviroSampl by six o’clock, he’d have to betray Nancy’s trust or watch Enos arrest her in silence. He didn’t like either option.
He leaned forward in his seat and coughed to catch her attention. Even Pete couldn’t fault a man for carrying on a conversation he didn’t start.
Pete raised his voice and leaned a little further into the dialogue with his wife.
Fred cleared his throat.
Both of the Scotts seemed to have developed hearing problems, but Douglas munched a little more slowly and Grady turned around in his seat on the other side of the café.
Douglas wiped his mouth with a napkin. “What are you doing?”
“I must have a frog in my throat.”
“Drink some water.”
Fred drank and kept one eye on the back of Mrs. Scott’s head.
Douglas lowered his fork to the table. “What are you doing?”
“Keep your voice down and I’ll tell you,” Fred snapped. He lowered his own voice and said, “I’m trying to get a few answers.”
“About the murder.”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what exactly?”
“An appointment Adam had the day of the murder.”
Douglas leaned back and let a mocking smile curve his lips. “Oh, I can see how unrelated it must be.”
“If you’re going to interfere, go back to the counter. I don’t have time for any of your nonsense.”
“Well, don’t let Grady hear you asking questions.”
“I’m trying not to.”
Douglas had the good grace to flush. “You know what I mean. Grady says Enos is afraid you think you can make a habit of this.”
“A habit? Not on your life. I only do what I have to.”
Douglas nodded. “Oh. I see.”
Fred could tell that Douglas didn’t understand at all. Abandoning his effort to reason with the boy, he cleared his throat a third time.
This time the new Mrs. Scott glanced over her shoulder.
Success! He leaned forward and spoke just loud enough for her to hear. “So you’d never met Roy Dennington before the morning of the murder?”
She shot a glance at her husband, almost as if she had to ask permission to answer. Pete scowled darkly at Fred but he didn’t speak, so she wet her lips and shook her head. “No. And like I said, I didn’t even meet him then.”
“But you’d talked with him on the telephone.”
Pete’s face flooded with color. “She said she didn’t want to talk about it, Fred.”
“Nobody wants to talk about it, Pete,” Fred snapped. “But she might have information that’s vital to the investigation.”
Her eyes grew huge. “But I don’t know anything.”
“Just tell me why you called Roy Dennington to set a meeting with Adam. What did Adam want?”
Pete shot out of the booth, his narrow face colored such a deep red Fred worried a little about his health. “Tiffany doesn’t know a damned thing about Adam Bigelow’s murder,” Pete shouted.
Tiffany. Fred repeated her name silently and hoped he could remember this time.
“Calm down, Pete,” Douglas said, coming to Fred defense. “Dad’s not accusing her of anything.”
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“Of course not,” Fred said, and held Tiffany’s gaze with his own. “But I think you know things that could help find the killer. For instance, what happened when Philip learned that Adam was accepting kickbacks for gathering phony samples and altering test results on Shadow Mountain? And why did Adam ask you to make that appointment with Roy Dennington? This is a key issue—”
Pete swore loudly, and Grady slid from his stool. With a heavy frown in their direction, he hitched his duty belt up on his hips as if he meant business.
When he saw Grady advancing, Pete tugged at Tiffany’s arm and tried to pull her out of her seat. “Come on, honey. Let’s get out of here.”
Fred couldn’t let her go without answering the questions. He had the feeling that if Pete got her alone first he’d convince her to close up completely. “Will you please tell me what you know about that appointment?” Fred asked. “It’s important.”
Tiffany glanced uncertainly at her husband. “What makes you think I know anything about it?”
Fred spoke quickly, urgently. “Roy said you’d called.”
Grady reached Fred’s booth before she could respond, and parked himself in front of Fred’s only escape route. “Couldn’t help but hear raised voices. What’s going on here?”
Like a frightened school boy, Pete thrust an accusing finger in Fred’s direction. “He’s trying to insinuate that my wife knows something about Adam Bigelow’s murder, and he won’t leave her alone.”
Grady didn’t look pleased. “Is that true, Fred?”
Fred’s temper frayed a little around the edges. “No, it’s not true.”
When Pete made a noise to suggest what he thought of that answer, Fred’s temper snapped. The fool couldn’t even see how important it was to find out what Tiffany knew. Pushing to his feet, he slid out of the booth straight into Grady. Surprised, Grady took a step back and gave Fred the room he needed to get around him. “I didn’t insinuate a blasted thing. I came right out and said she knows something important.”
Douglas clambered out of the booth and put an arm around Fred’s shoulder as if he needed someone to control him. “Dad, don’t cause trouble.”
“I’m not causing trouble. I’m asking a simple question, and I’d like an answer.”
Grady sent him a warning look.
And Fred sent an angry one back. “I didn’t accuse her of murdering him, for tar sakes. All I asked was whether she knew what Adam wanted with Roy Dennington—”
That finally made Grady’s ears perk up. “With Roy Dennington?”
Relieved that finally someone was ready to listen, Fred nodded. “She made an appointment for Adam to meet with Roy the morning of the murder. All I want to know is why. What did Adam want?”
Grady looked interested for half a second longer, but as if he suddenly remembered who he was, he pulled his face back into line and tried to look official. “Do you have Enos’s permission to poke around in the murder investigation?”
Fred didn’t even bother to answer such a ridiculous question.
Taking advantage of the diversion, Pete tugged at Tiffany again. This time she stood. But when he saw Fred following their every move, he shouted, “My wife isn’t answering any more of your questions,” and led Tiffany a few steps away.
Grady made no move to stop them, so Fred pushed past the younger man. “If I didn’t know better, Pete, I’d think you had something to hide. Why won’t you let your wife answer a simple question?”
Pete stiffened and turned, red-faced and almost beside himself with anger. “I want to press charges. That’s libel or slander or something, isn’t it?”
Douglas stepped forward and tried to get in front of Fred. “Now listen, you two—”
“What’s the matter with him? Why doesn’t he want Tiffany to talk?” Fred demanded.
Grady held up his hands and scowled at them all. “I want everybody to calm down right now. Fred, don’t say another word.”
“That’s more like it,” Pete huffed.
“You either, Pete. I want both of you to keep quiet while I talk to Tiffany for a minute.”
Pete drew himself up to his full height, which didn’t look like much against Grady’s. “Not without me, you don’t.”
Grady didn’t say a word, he just fixed Pete with a hard stare and waited until the other man’s posture readjusted itself. But when he turned to Tiffany, all the harshness left his expression. “Why don’t you tell me about that appointment? Do you know why Adam wanted to see Roy Dennington?”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Fred rocked back on his heels and waited for the answer. For the piece that would pull the picture together.
Tiffany shook her head.
“You don’t know?” For a boy as big as Grady had grown, he could sound surprisingly gentle.
“No.”
“Adam didn’t tell you?”
She looked confused, anxious. “I mean I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I never called Roy Dennington.”
Shocked, Fred shot forward. “What? But Roy said Adam’s secretary called—”
Gaining a little confidence now that she’d given one answer, Tiffany shook her head again. “Well, it wasn’t me,” she said, and the look in her face and the set of her jaw convinced him she was telling the truth.
Pete lunged around Grady and put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. “See? Now will you leave her alone?”
Fred nodded. He saw Lizzie come out of the kitchen balancing a tray at shoulder height, and he knew she had his lunch. But all at once he didn’t want to take time to eat.
If Tiffany hadn’t called Roy Dennington, that left only two possibilities: Brooke Westphal or Charlotte Isaacson. One of them must have called to set that appointment, and he wanted to find out which—immediately.
He couldn’t imagine either woman referring to herself as Adam’s secretary. Neither would have set appointments for Adam in the ordinary course of business. But if he had to guess which one had made the call, he’d bet on Brooke. And he didn’t want to let any grass grow under his feet before he asked her about it.
He watched Pete lead Tiffany away. Grady sent Douglas away a minute later, leaving the two of them alone. Grady gave him the usual spiel, warning him about sticking his nose into the investigation. Fred agreed to almost everything the boy said, just to set his mind at ease. He ate half his turkey sandwich, fortified himself with a second cup of coffee, and threw enough money on the table to cover the bill and Lizzie’s tip.
With less than three hours until his deadline, he was back in the Buick and headed toward Mountain Home.
TWENTY ONE
Thirty minutes later, Fred pulled off the highway and parked in the shade of an old spruce tree next to EnviroSampl’s tin building. He didn’t want to be here. He’d rather talk to Brooke later, at home. But Enos’s deadline was growing much too close. He couldn’t afford to wait. The smattering of cars in the parking lot raised the hope that he’d find Brooke here, hard at work. All he needed was a believable reason to interrupt her on the job.
He crossed the parking lot and tested the front door. It opened easily, and he stepped into the tiny reception area. Nobody was at the front desk, but after running into Tiffany at the Bluebird, he hadn’t expected her to be here. He couldn’t see anyone at all, in fact, but the door to Philip Aagard’s office gaped open so he decided to start there.
Philip looked up from something on his desk when Fred knocked on the door frame. He looked puzzled but he beckoned Fred into the inner sanctum with a cool smile. “Mr. Vickery, isn’t it? What are you doing here?”
“I’m trying to find one of your employees,” Fred said. “I know that it’s Saturday, but I saw cars in the parking lot and decided to take a chance.”
Philip tilted back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Oh? Which employee are you trying to find?”
“Brooke Westphal.”
One of Philip’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Broo
ke huh? Well you’re in luck. She’s in the lab today.” Philip gestured toward one of the chairs in front of the desk. Fred sat and waited while Philip punched a couple of numbers on the phone pad. “I don’t imagine there’s any problem with you talking to her—unless she’s right in the middle of—”
He broke off suddenly and focused on the receiver. “Mitch? Is Brooke in the lab? What’s she doing? Great. Have her come up here for a minute, would you? No. No problem . . . just somebody to see her. Nancy Bigelow’s uncle.” He shot a confirming glance at Fred, and Fred nodded. “Right. We’re in my office.” Philip hung up and folded his hands on his desk, smiling benevolently. “She’ll be right here.”
So far, so good. Fred let himself relax a bit. “I appreciate you letting me interrupt like this.”
“It’s all right if it doesn’t take long. I don’t know how much she needs to get done before Monday.” He frowned at Fred and asked, “I was right, wasn’t I? There’s isn’t trouble?”
Other than illegal kickbacks, falsified test results and murder? Fred shook his head. “No, there isn’t.”
Philip almost looked disappointed. “Tell me, hos is Nancy’s doing?”
He looked genuinely concerned, but Fred wasn’t about to discuss Nancy’s troubles. “She’s all right. It’s a difficult time.”
“Yes, of course.” Philip let a moment of understanding silence lapse. “Such a tragedy.”
As if even that word could begin to convey the horror of it all. Fred wasn’t in the mood for small talk, and he didn’t want to talk to Brooke with Philip listening in, so he glanced at the door behind him. “I hate to interrupt what you’re doing. Do you have another office where I could wait?”
Philip looked toward the door as if he expected Brooke to walk through any second. “Just Adam’s, and I can’t let you use that one. I don’t mind letting you talk to Brooke in here. I’m just catching up on a few things, myself.”
He might not mind, but Fred didn’t like the idea.