I’d hoped for more information, but it would have to do. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure Hal would do what he’d said, but I knew that if I continued to bug him, he’d for sure do nothing at all. I glanced at Ian, who confirmed my thoughts with a quick nod.
I wrote my name and phone number on a piece of receipt roll that Hal pulled from the cash register, and we moved outside to rejoin two of the other men I’d kissed.
I took a deep breath. I was about to do something that would test even the most patient of people, but I thought it would be better to do it with Ian present. “You okay if I ask Sam to come have coffee with us?” I asked Ian.
“Sure,” he said after only the slightest hesitation.
“I think it’s time to tell him what I found behind the shooting gallery, don’t you?”
“Actually, yes, I do, Becca. I think that’s a very good plan.”
I had no idea what Sam and Scott had been talking about when I spied them on the other side of the bays, but whatever it was, I thought that Sam should be armed with the knowledge I had. It was unusual that I wanted to share, but I also didn’t have much motivation to spend any more time in Orderville, South Carolina. I didn’t want Scott to be involved in the tragic events that had happened at the fair. He’d been right when he’d mentioned that he was the better of the two Scotts. He was, but keeping what I knew from Sam was just some misplaced and long-expired loyalty. If it had been the other Scott, I might have called a meeting of all law enforcement in South Carolina. But it wasn’t, it was the better Scott, not one I ever wanted to be married to again, but better nonetheless. And he had a stepson, a family.
Still, if he was involved in a murder or even an attempted murder, the police needed to know, and Sam was the officer I wanted to tell. If Scott wasn’t involved, all the better, but Sam should still know what I’d found.
Fortunately, as we approached Sam and Scott, Scott announced that he had something else to do. He gave us a hurried good-bye, his eyes locking with Sam’s an instant too long. I was even more certain they hadn’t been discussing cars, but I didn’t think Sam would give me the details.
“Sam, you want to join Ian and me for coffee, dessert, something at the diner?” I asked.
“Oh, well, I need to get back to Monson,” he said in a tone that didn’t sound quite like him.
I peered into the bay. The hood was up on his Mustang. “How were you planning on getting home?”
“My car should be ready any minute.”
“Sam,” Ian interrupted. “We knew this moment was bound to happen. I’m okay, and you and I were pretty good friends before . . .”
“I ruined it,” I offered. That made Sam cringe briefly, but then he forced a smile.
“Anyway, Becca wants to tell you some things. If you’re uncomfortable around me, I’d be happy to wait in my truck,” Ian said.
“No, no,” Sam said too quickly. “I’m fine. Sure, let’s go. Let’s talk.”
I couldn’t remember one other time that Sam had acted rattled. His professional demeanor was so unflappable that there were times I tried too hard to make him crack a smile.
“Don’t suppose we could all laugh about this soon. Like today?” I said.
Ian smiled.
And then a beat later Sam smiled.
Then they smiled at each other.
“We are adults, I suppose,” Sam said.
“Well, you and Becca are. I’ll get there someday,” Ian said.
Then we laughed. It was only a small laugh from each of us, but it was genuine and real. I felt the weight of my inappropriate kiss lift just a little bit.
The diner was still busy, but it looked like a different group this time, except for the waitress, Liz.
“Well, hello again. Y’all rushed outta here like the devil himself was chasin’ ya. But you left a nice big tip. Welcome back. Same rules apply: sit wherever you want.”
This time we took the booth closest to the front windows. The nearest customers were three booths away. As we drank coffee and ate chocolate pie that rivaled not only the fruit pies of my friend Linda and the cream pies of Smithfield Market’s Mamma Maria but also surely the blue-ribbon winners I’d admired just a few days ago, I told Sam everything about my time at the fair.
I looked to Ian to help me fill in spots that I’d told him about earlier. Ian described our visit to Virgil’s house and the porch furniture that might mean nothing at all but that had struck us as odd.
Sam listened, sipped his coffee, and finished his pie, and when Ian and I were done, he surprised us both.
“Well, I don’t think you’ve come upon anything that implicates your ex-husband in any crime, Becca. I think your imagination might be in overdrive, though.”
“Wait. I’m not looking to send Scott up the river, and I guess I can understand why you might think some of it is my imagination, but what about the pictures behind the shooting gallery? What about the arrow pointing at the spot in the coaster tracks that almost gave way and killed a bunch of people?”
“I question that memory, but only a little bit.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. A combination of hurt and anger simmered in my chest. It wasn’t that Sam was acting condescending, but he was questioning what I had seen. For the first time ever, I was putting everything out there, laying it on the table. I was being one hundred percent honest and forthcoming. No matter how little I’d told him in the past, he’d never questioned the information I gave him. His reaction was unexpected to say the least.
He shrugged and looked into his coffee cup before he looked back at me. “Becca, while I don’t know your ex-husband all that well, I know that he was working on some of the rides at the fairgrounds, fixing them. Maybe that’s what the sketches were about. As for the location of the arrow, I think that might truly be your memory getting a little shaky. You beat yourself up, literally, when you ran out of the fairgrounds. You were bound to misremember some of the details.”
“Sam,” Ian said, “I hear what you’re saying, but I really don’t think Becca is misremembering. I agree that the sketches might mean nothing, but you know Becca’s not one to exaggerate or make something of nothing.”
Sam shrugged again. “Well, I’ll look into it, but I really do think your ex is a pretty good guy. He wouldn’t kill or plot to kill anyone.”
I blinked. His icy blue eyes were steady on my own. I didn’t think he was trying to get under my skin. He didn’t seem angry or vindictive about anything, including the kiss.
“Listen, Becca, this might be one of the craziest situations you’ve gotten yourself into, and you’ve had your fair share of crazy situations. I’m going to look into what you’ve said, I promise, but really, Scott didn’t kill anyone, that I’m certain of.”
Sam rubbed his hand over his late-day stubble.
And I suddenly realized: that was new.
Sam Brion didn’t allow late-day stubble on his face. Even on his days off, he was barely able to set his hair free from the thick gel that kept it combed back and neat when he was on duty. What had he been doing all day that he had stubble on his face? He was in his civilian clothes. What had he been up to?
“Sam, what were you doing before you brought your car to the service station?”
He blinked. “I was on my way into town.”
“What about before that? What were you doing in Monson?”
Ian tapped his knee on mine. He probably wondered why I cared and why I sounded kind of snotty when asking the questions.
“Working in my yard. Why, Becca?”
“Even when you just work in your yard, you shave,” I said.
Sam’s unshaven face was even more curious than the feminine furniture on Virgil’s porch. I knew Sam. I knew him so well that . . . I just knew that stubble meant something.
&
nbsp; Sam laughed. “I got up a little late today. It happens, even to me.” He stood. “Thanks for the information, Becca. I don’t think I’ve been as appreciative as I should be. This is a big step—you telling me what you know. Thank you. You, too, Ian. Really.”
Ian and I watched him put some money beside the cash register on the front counter and then leave the diner.
“What do you make of all that?” Ian said.
“I have no idea.”
“I’ve never seen Sam act like that, but I don’t think it was because . . .”
“Because?”
“I don’t think that had anything to do with what happened, what happened between you two. Becs, you’re more uncomfortable than Sam and I are about . . . what happened. Sam rushing out of here was something else, though. He was either in a hurry or didn’t want us to know about something that he knows about.”
“That’s likely.”
“What were you getting at with all those comments about him not shaving?”
“He never doesn’t shave. He’s anal, he’s OCD, he’s annoyingly predictable when it comes to personal grooming. You’ve noticed how he looks when he’s in his uniform, right? You’ve noticed how wrinkles are afraid of him? They stay away. Something happened—not that he overslept—something happened to keep him from shaving. It might have absolutely nothing to do with murders or attempted murders at fairs in Swayton County, but something pushed him off his normal routine this morning. I’d like to know what it was.”
Ian looked at me for a long moment. He smiled with only half his mouth and said, “No, I didn’t notice those things, but you have some good points. Come on, I think we’ve seen enough of Orderville, South Carolina, for one day. Let’s go home.”
I had an urge to tell him I was sorry. Ian didn’t say anything more about my observations of Sam’s grooming, but I realized what I’d said sounded too personal, too knowing of someone I wasn’t supposed to pay that close attention to.
As Ian drove us back to Monson, I silently made some decisions.
Ian was right; I’d been more concerned and worried than both he and Sam had been about . . . everything. And we were bound to all run into each other. If today’s inadvertent rendezvous between me and the men in my life, past and present, didn’t highlight how truly small a world it was, then nothing would. Time to grow up and get over past mistakes. I’d been trying not to hurt anyone’s feelings further, which might be a noble idea, but in the process I’d been less than fully honest with myself and with the people I cared about.
If my hippie parents had raised me to be anything at all, it was to be honest. I decided I wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone’s feelings, but I was going to have to stop worrying about what I said and how I behaved as long as I was being true to myself.
I was just going to have to be me, and me was going to have to be good enough, no matter what.
Nineteen
Of course, me being me meant that Hobbit and I slept alone that night. The solitude was the unexpected outcome of yet another kiss. One that occurred when Ian dropped me off after our adventure in Orderville. I suspected it would probably prove to be pretty significant, but other events soon pushed it from my immediate thoughts.
I was awakened at six by my cell phone buzzing on the nightstand. Actually, I was awakened by Hobbit’s insistent nose nudge. She was awakened by the phone buzzing on the nightstand.
Probably because of all the recent craziness, I was wide awake quickly, my heart pounding hard as I tried to remember what day it was and what I’d missed to warrant such an early call.
“Becca Robins?” said the stern female voice on the other end of the call.
“Uh, yeah.”
“I’m calling for Renard Bellings. You would like to speak to him regarding the possibility of a farmers’ market in Orderville?”
“Yes.”
“He can meet with you today, this morning at seven thirty. Otherwise, he won’t be available again until next week, but we can schedule for that time if that works better for you.”
“No, no, I’ll be there today. Where should I go?”
“There’s a diner on Main Street. You can’t miss it. He looks forward to meeting you.”
“Excellent, I’ll—” I began, but she’d clicked off on her end.
“Who are these people?” I said to Hobbit, who would have preferred to still be sleeping.
I got ready quickly and left a message for Allison regarding my plans. I was just irritated enough at Sam not to want to let him know what I was doing. And I knew Ian was busy today, and . . . well, after last night, I wasn’t quite ready to face him again.
After a slice of buttered toast and with a travel cup of coffee in hand, I was ready to roll.
I’d slipped on some jeans instead of overalls today, and they covered well the continually transforming bruise on the top of my thigh. I’d applied a fresh butterfly bandage to my chin and was pleased to see that the cut was coming together evenly, though I would still have a scar. The bruise around the cut had taken on an interesting hue, which I tried to cover with a little makeup, but it was still visible.
The drive to Orderville was as uneventful as it had been the day before, until I got to Virgil Morrison’s house. I had no intention of stopping again, but nonetheless I pulled the truck to the side of the road. Something was different, and it only took a few seconds to realize what it was: the porch furniture was gone. The white rocking chairs and wicker tables were missing, and there was no sign of a lawn chair or spittoon either. The porch was now completely empty. I was beginning to think a real estate agent was responsible for the two transformations.
Of course I realized that since Virgil was gone, his house would have to be emptied at some point, but for an instant it sat funny with me that the porch had been cleared the day after Ian and I noticed it and mentioned it to others. Who had we talked to about it? Dianna Kivitt and Sam, I recalled. I didn’t think we’d brought it up with anyone else. I hurried down the front walkway and peered inside the windows. The interior of the house seemed undisturbed.
The porch had been cleared but nothing else?
Strange. Or maybe not.
I hurried back to the truck and filed the discovery to the back of my mind. If an opportunity to ask someone about it presented itself, I would—even if I did not know yet who that someone would be.
Oderville’s main drag had a bit more foot traffic this morning. Mostly, kids with backpacks darted here and there. I hadn’t seen a school, but there must have been one somewhere close by. Still, I was able to park my truck right in front of the diner.
It was crowded, much more crowded than the two times I’d been there the day before. I looked around at the many customers, none of whom struck me as someone who could be named Renard Bellings.
“Ms. Robins,” said a man from the end stool at the counter.
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Renard. I got us a couple of stools. That’s the best I could do. Sorry. If a table opens up, Liz will grab it for us.”
Renard Bellings wasn’t anything like I’d expected. I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d expected, just definitely not the man who greeted me.
Renard was close to my age, maybe a little older, and handsome in that dark-haired, fit, friendly looking way that men were handsome. He was probably six feet tall and dressed perfectly in slacks and a long-sleeved button-down reddish shirt, the color of which brought out the amazing green of his eyes; in fact, the red-green combination reminded me of Christmas. He kind of took my breath away, but I could tell he was somewhat accustomed to such a reaction. He smiled and waited a patient beat while I composed myself.
It was rare that my head was turned by a pretty . . . everything, but Renard was difficult not to just stare at.
“Please, pull up a stool,” he said as he
guided the way.
“Thanks,” I finally uttered. I scooted up to the stool and swung it a little so that we were facing each other.
“Thanks for coming here so early. I have to leave town later this morning and won’t have time to meet again until next week. Hal called me and told me you wanted to talk about putting a farmers’ market in town. I’d like to know more. In fact, Lucy told me that she told you what we were considering.”
I didn’t feel bad that I was there under false pretences, but I wasn’t sure how to lead into the questions that I really wanted to ask. Finally, I just said, “Who are you and why are you so mysterious?”
Renard laughed. “I am kind of, huh? Both my brother and I are. Please understand that many people want our attention. We have to pick and choose who we spend time with, which might seem rotten and mean and arrogant, but we’d never get anything done if we didn’t.”
“Okay, but still, who are you?”
“Fair enough. My brother and I . . . well, we own the town. My grandfather started a tobacco farm right over that way”—he pointed toward the front window—“and my brother and I continue to run the family business. We own pretty much every business in Orderville. We’re a small community that would have faded away a couple decades ago if someone hadn’t invested in it to create a viable economy. Gramps put up the money so he could keep the community together and employed.”
“Wow.”
Renard laughed again. “Well, Gramps was the good guy. Sebastian and I just show up and get to work every day.”
“Sebastian and Renard,” I murmured, visualizing the brothers next to d’Artagnan in a ferocious sword fight.
“Family names. Gramps was Sebastian Renard Bellings. They split it for the grandsons.”
“And your grandmother was Jena Bellings?” I said quietly.
“Yes.”
I had a million questions about her, but most of them came from the information my mother had shared with me, and though I hadn’t had to offer a blood oath, I’d promised not to reveal Monson’s secrets about Jena. I decided I’d have to just see if Renard offered anything more.
A Killer Maize Page 17