by Gin Jones
"What about Hollister?" I said. "I saw him almost get arrested by Detective Ohlsen yesterday. Are you sure he's going to stay in his car in the parking lot and not cause any more problems for the guild?"
Fields glanced across the street. "I think he'll be okay for today. And probably for the long term as well. His beef is really with Lawrence, and the guild was just collateral damage."
"What's his problem with Lawrence anyway?"
"There's been friction there since the day the Donnellys moved to town," Fields said. "Not because of Lawrence. The anger is all on Hollister's side. See, he owns a body shop about a block away from Donnelly's Garage, and the previous owner of the repair shop used to send all his customers to Hollister for body work. Not Lawrence though. He doesn't think Hollister's work is any good, so he found someone else for his referral business about a month after buying the garage. Hollister wasn't happy about it, but he didn't get too upset until he took his old muscle car to Lawrence to get some minor engine work done, and then things went downhill from there. Hollister used to race in the local circuit years ago. Can't do it anymore, not with his terrible eyesight, but he likes to relive his glory days, so he likes to drive around in his old muscle car. He thinks Lawrence sabotaged it, when my guess is the car was simply on the verge of showing its age even before Hollister brought it to the garage."
"How serious is their feud?" I couldn't go over to the parking lot and question Hollister directly, at least not right now. I'd be foolish to try it when my presence would only remind him of his anger and undo whatever magic Fields had performed to calm the man down. Hollister was definitely on my suspect list for Brooke's murder, so when I questioned him, there was a chance he'd lose his temper. If I talked to him, it had to be somewhere there were lots of witnesses, not in a parking lot full of empty cars when everyone's attention was focused on the parade. Until I could question him, I'd have to settle for secondhand information from Fields. Fortunately, he was an excellent judge of character, so I could trust his insights. "Do you think Hollister might get violent, or is he just a big talker like Ryan Murchison?"
"Hard to tell," Fields said. "But Hollister is definitely on my list of people to keep an eye on while emotions are running high in the wake of Brooke's death. Mostly, he just does stupid things when he's out of his mind with rage. Like a couple of months ago, when a longtime customer told him he was taking his business elsewhere, Hollister blamed Lawrence for the defection and made some pretty intense threats in front of about a dozen customers. Specifically talked about shooting people. We brought him in for a long talk, and a decision was made that it would be best if he didn't have access to guns for a while. He used to be a hunter, although he doesn't go out much anymore. In return for not pursuing charges based on the threats, he let us confiscate his guns for a year as a cooling-off period."
"Do you know what kind of guns he favored?"
"You thinking he might have gone after Brooke as retaliation for what her husband did?"
"It's a theory."
"I never really thought he was anything but a bigmouth," Fields said. "Besides, while he did have several guns similar to the one found at the murder scene, he doesn't have them anymore. He turned them in well before Brooke died."
"Are you sure he turned them all in?" I asked. "And he didn't replace them?"
"No one in town would have sold him one. We made sure the possible sellers knew about the situation. Just about anyone else in town could have gotten a gun like the murder weapon easier than Hollister could have." Fields nodded up Cliffside Drive toward where it crossed Main Street. "Most folks get them from the sporting goods store just past the pier, and the staff there knew it wouldn't be a good idea to sell to Hollister."
"That's where Ryan Murchison works, right?"
Fields nodded.
"And they cooperate with the police there? Providing records of gun sales, I mean."
"As far as I know," Fields said. "Not really my jurisdiction, but I'm sure Bud Ohlsen is looking into possible sources of the murder weapon. I heard he's been working around the clock, even spending all day today at the station, going over the evidence, determined to do everything possible to find Brooke's killer."
I took that as a subtle reminder that there was an official police investigation and I should stay far away from it. Fields was always in favor of citizens providing information to the police, and he'd seen how I'd used knowledge of the quilting community to identify killers in the past, but he also saw a bright line between what mere citizens should do and what should be left to the professionals.
"Don't worry," I said. "I'm just looking into the quilt angle, not the murder itself. Brooke gave me a sampler quilt she'd made that seems to be autobiographical, and I'm trying to see if there's any information in it that might help Detective Ohlsen. I think she was afraid of someone, so I'm trying to match what's depicted in the quilt with the people around her. If I can connect anyone with her quilt, it might be a useful lead for Detective Ohlsen to follow up on."
"I'm sure Bud would appreciate that," Fields said. "I'm glad I'm not a detective, having to get inside the minds of killers. It's hard for me to imagine why anyone would want someone like Brooke dead. Everyone says she was an excellent teacher."
"But hardly anyone was close to her," I said. "Even her best friend, Tricia, was only her friend, out of pity, I think. She felt bad because no one else liked Brooke much. But you're right that as far as I can tell, no one hated her, except for Ryan Murchison, and she didn't seem to think he was a big threat. And yet, it's pretty clear from her quilt that someone had scared her, and she'd been anticipating her death for more than a year, long enough not just to get inspired to make the quilt but also to finish it. A bed-sized sampler quilt with the degree of hand embellishment she did takes a long time to make."
"More than a year, huh?" Fields glanced across the street to the beach's parking lot again. "Hollister's feud escalated about a year and a half ago."
"And Ryan Murchison had been harassing Brooke for about that same time frame," I said.
"Want me to mention them both to Bud Ohlsen to look into them?"
"Not yet," I said. "I'm not even entirely sure I'm reading Brooke's quilt right. I need to study it some more, see if I can find something more solid than my gut reaction to it. My first impression isn't always correct. I've identified enough blocks to know that it's definitely autobiographical, but the section that's about her life since moving to Danger Cove isn't at all clear, and it's got some confusing parallels to an earlier time in her life that I don't know enough about. I need to study it some more. I may not have the physical quilt anymore, but I do have pictures, and they're enough for me to figure out if Brooke left behind any clues to her killer's identity."
"Call me or Bud if you find anything solid."
"You know I will."
I'd had enough experience with killers that I wasn't taking any chances this time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Officer Fields wandered off in the direction of the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery handcart. I wished I could join him since I'd heard that they were also offering mulled cider from the Pear Stirpes Orchard, perfect for dipping their cranberry scones into. The weather was mild, but it was still November, and with the stiffer-than-usual breeze off the ocean, something warm to drink wouldn't be unappreciated. Too bad I hadn't thought to mull some cider myself to serve with Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe next year. Assuming this year's dinner wasn't as much of a disaster as the lead-up to the parade.
I hurried to catch up with the quilt guild's float. It was just at the edge of Elizabeth Ashby's property on Cliffside Drive when I took up my position at its left side and began handing out flyers for the miniatures exhibit at the museum. The author was on her porch, waving to the people in the parade, while Merri Sinclair, the owner of Dangerous Reads, was behind a table in the driveway, packing up the few books left over from the autographing that had been held before the parade had begun.
I concen
trated on handing out the flyers for the next half hour as we marched along first Cliffside Drive and then Main Street. I knew the local residents loved the parade, but I hadn't realized just how much of a tourist attraction it was until I caught sight of sidewalks packed with several times more people than the entire population of Danger Cove. We proceeded past the Historical Museum, the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery, and Dangerous Reads until we came to the intersection with Pacific Heights and turned left.
As the guild's float arrived at Some Enchanted Florist, the parade paused so various groups could do stationary performances. It had happened three times before, so I knew what to expect. The high school marching band would do a number, the pirate krewe from the Smugglers' Tavern would hand out fake jewels and doubloons, and pet sitter extraordinaire, Lizzie Jones, would put on a show on behalf of the Second Chance Animal Rescue, leading half a dozen dogs and one oversized cat, all on leashes, through a brief series of impressive tricks.
I never tired of the animal act and was totally wrapped up in it until Matt appeared and tugged me over to the sidewalk. "I've got some intel on Ryan Murchison," he said, leading me over to the shelter of the canopied entrance to Some Enchanted Florist, which was closed for the holiday, so it gave us some privacy.
"Are you really going to write about Ryan's attempt to remove Brooke's memorial banner? That doesn't sound like your kind of story."
"It's not," he said. "I won't include any of what I learned about Ryan in my story. The Cove Chronicles just expects a nice review of the parade and quotes about what a great time the locals and tourists had. But I knew you'd want to know more about Ryan's stalking of Brooke, so I interviewed him for you as if I were doing a story on him."
"You really know the way to a woman's heart," I said.
"Just one woman's," he said with a grin. He seemed much more himself today, perhaps because he was working on a story that might help to identify Brooke's killer. "And to be honest," he added, "it wasn't entirely selfless. I also wanted to set my mind at rest about whether he was a risk to you. Stalkers tend to transfer their interest from one person to another, if the first person is no longer available to be harassed."
I should know better than to underestimate the breadth of Matt's knowledge, but he still managed to surprise me every time he talked about criminal activity. "Don't tell me. You wrote a story once about stalkers."
He shook his head. "Never could make myself do it. The research was too personal."
"Someone stalked you?"
"It happens to celebrities all the time." He grimaced, which only drew my attention to the incredible good looks that had made him famous. "Not just with the paparazzi either. They're not dangerous. They're just doing their job. The scary ones are the unbalanced people who start to believe they know you personally after they see you on television or online, and either they want to be your new best friend or they think that because you're so knowledgeable when reading a script that you know more than you do and you have the answers to all their problems. The paparazzi don't take it personally if you reject them, but the others, well, it's hard to know how they'll react. Sometimes they're just sad or embarrassed, but sometimes they get angry and the hero-worship turns to violent hatred. It's that uncertainty about which way they'll respond that can be especially worrisome. Sometimes they'll accept a restraining order, and sometimes legal action will just drive them into mindless, violent fury."
"So what do you think about Ryan? How would he respond?"
"It's hard to tell if he could be the dangerous type," Matt said. "He's definitely extreme when it comes to advocating for his son. I know it's hard for a parent to see their kid's faults, but Ryan goes beyond looking through rose-colored glasses. He's completely blind to Nevin's own role in his academic troubles. When Ryan realized I was a reporter, he immediately demanded that I do an investigation into corruption at the high school. Said there was some big conspiracy to keep his son from ever graduating and going to college. None of it made any sense, but he clearly believed it. He refused to consider that maybe he and his son had some responsibility for Nevin's success in school, or lack thereof."
"Did you get to talk to the son?"
"Briefly," Matt said. "He seemed like a typical kid. Totally embarrassed by his father's behavior. And I got the impression that he might have been getting bullied, possibly in part because of the way Ryan was pursuing his feud with Brooke."
"With a name like Nevin, he'd be an easy target for bullies, even without an embarrassing parent," I said. "I would think that bullying might explain Nevin's school problems better than anything else would. Did Ryan give any reason why he thought Brooke was treating his son unfairly?"
"Not that I could understand," Matt said. "I think Ryan believes he's the real target and his son is being used to get to him. He didn't give any reasons, just kept repeating that Brooke was the leader of some big conspiracy, spreading false rumors about him, and that her friend Tricia had helped. What really worried me though was that he said he'd finally been able to end Brooke's teaching career."
"You think he meant by killing her?"
"He wouldn't say what he'd done," Matt said. "Just shook his head and told me I'd understand in a few more days when all the truth came out. And that he'd taken care of Tricia too for her part in what she'd done to his son. He insisted that it was for the best, and now neither one of them could ever target another kid again."
"There was a minor incident at the school a few days ago that could have gotten Tricia into trouble, but Tricia didn't seem particularly worried about her job," I said. "I talked to her before the parade started, and she seemed fine. Besides, Brooke caused the trouble, not Ryan, and apparently it didn't do any lasting damage."
"I thought maybe Ryan was talking about the break-in at Tricia's house," Matt said. "If you don't try too hard to make the theft seem rational and just view it as a way to make Tricia look bad, then Ryan could have been the miniature-quilts thief. It happened shortly after Brooke got the restraining order, so it could have been his way of venting his anger about that. He could have been watching her, seen the quilts being carried into Tricia's house, and decided to take them to embarrass her."
"But why target Tricia primarily instead of Brooke?"
"Ryan might be rational enough to know he shouldn't risk getting caught near Brooke's house because of the restraining order, since that could get him locked up and his son put into foster care. So instead he targeted Brooke's friend, who is conveniently also someone he believes is part of the conspiracy against him."
"That makes sense, in an irrational sort of way." I saw movement toward the front of the parade, suggesting it was about to start up again. Lizzie Jones's little troupe of dogs and one cat had ended their act, and she was sorting out the various leashes so they could resume marching. I needed to get back to the float, but not until I finished questioning Matt. "I wonder why Brooke waited so long to get the restraining order. Lindsay told me Ryan had been a problem for over a year."
"Ryan insisted that the judge was in on the conspiracy against him and that there weren't any legitimate grounds for a restraining order," Matt said. "He insisted he hadn't been doing anything different from what he'd done any number of times before. According to him, the restraining order came out of the blue. He was at her house, sitting on the porch and waiting for her to come home from school, just like he always did, so he could reason with her about his son's problems in school, and the next thing he knew, there was a cruiser screeching to a halt in front of the house. They gave him a lecture about staying away from Brooke or he'd be arrested, and then they gave him the restraining order."
"Sadly, a restraining order isn't much protection against a bullet," I said. "I know Ryan sells guns as part of his job, so he definitely has access to them. But I don't suppose he admitted to owning one or perhaps 'borrowing' one from the store?"
"He's not that out of touch with reality that he'd admit to having a gun with the intent to use it," Matt said. "The t
hing is, it's entirely possible he's not violent. Delusional, yes, but that doesn't necessarily coincide with violent. I once had a stalker-ish fan who was convinced she was my fiancée, and it took a lot of work to convince her that I wasn't interested in her that way, but when I finally did make her believe it, her response was to pull some stupid pranks, like calling my clients and cancelling gigs, but nothing that would have hurt me physically. If you're right about the break-in at Tricia's being Ryan's handiwork, then that falls more in the category of annoying prank than violence."
"If Ryan did that break-in, he wasn't even very good at pranking," I said. "The thief cut himself and bled all over her rug."
Matt frowned. "I'd forgotten about that. Ryan did have a large bandage on his forearm. I noticed it when his son tugged on the sleeve of his sweater, trying to get Ryan to leave with him, but I didn't put it together with the break-in at Tricia's. Or Brooke's. There was blood on the broken window there too."
I hated to leave him with those memories, but the guild's float had started to roll down the street again. "I've got to go now. Are you going to march with us?"
Matt shook his head. "I do still have to write my story for the Chronicles. And I'll see if I can find Ryan again and ask him about the bandage."
"Will I see you before dinner?"
"Of course," Matt said, his frown softening. "I'd never abandon you. No matter what. You should know that by now."
His tone was light, but there was something in his eyes that made me wonder if he knew I had a secret, one that I'd been reluctant to share with him, and he was hurt by my apparent distrust of him.
Emma's calling my name interrupted my speculation, and now wasn't the time for a serious discussion. I would tell him everything as soon as we had a few minutes of privacy.