by C. C. Wood
My eyes widened at the thought of the two of them “helping”.
“Okay, what exactly did you have in mind?” I asked.
“Well, if you didn’t mind, I thought we could meet at your house and see what we can learn from the list of friends that Trisha gave us yesterday. I figured that maybe one of Hank’s friends might know something she didn’t.”
“What time?” I asked, squinting at the digital clock next to my bed.
“In an hour?”
That would give me just enough time to brew a pot of coffee and get ready. “Sounds good. Bring breakfast.”
“Uh, what am I supposed to bring?” he asked.
“The cantina downtown serves breakfast. I want a Roberto’s bowl.”
“Hang on, hang on. I’m gonna write this down. You said Roberto’s bowl, right?”
“Yeah. It’s one of their best breakfast dishes.”
“All right. Breakfast coming right up. We’ll see you in an hour.”
I hung up and rolled out of bed. I needed to shower and dress, but first, coffee.
Exactly an hour later, my doorbell rang. And rang. And rang.
I hurried through the living room and peeked out the window just as Stony rang the bell for the fifth time.
“What the hell, Stony?” I asked.
“Outta the way, woman. This shit is HOT!”
Stony pushed past me and ran for the kitchen. Mal and Blaine followed at a more sedate pace.
“Hey, Zoe,” Blaine greeted me.
“Hey, guys,” I responded. “What’s up with Stony?”
“Oh, nothing. I just have first degree burns on my forearm,” the man in question replied as he emerged from my kitchen, a bag of frozen peas held to his arm. “They didn’t warn me that they heat those refried beans to the same temperature as molten lava.”
He removed the peas and showed me the patch of bright red skin on his inner arm. I grimaced in sympathy.
“Damn. Sorry, Stony. If it’s any consolation, I appreciate the sacrifices you made to bring me breakfast. Very chivalrous of you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No way,” I answered, doing my best to look innocent.
“Well, if you feel that badly, there is one little thing you could do for me…” he trailed off suggestively.
“Okay, so I was making fun of you,” I quipped.
“Dammit!”
I laughed at his disappointed expression. “Stony, if you really thought I’d say yes, I don’t think you’d ever talk to me this way.”
He blinked at me rapidly. “Why do you think that?”
“Because you talk to every other woman the same way, whether they’re twenty-five or sixty-five,” I answered.
“Well, shit, there goes all my fun,” he grumbled.
I stifled a laugh. “How about you talk to me the way you do Blaine and Mal?”
“Blaine?” Stony asked incredulously.
“Good point. Talk to me the way you talk to Mal,” I insisted.
“All right,” he sighed. “You’re the boss.”
“Are we done setting Stony straight?” Blaine asked. “Because I’m starving and that food smells amazing.”
We gathered around the kitchen table and Mal passed out food as I poured coffee and orange juice. The atmosphere was familial as we ate breakfast.
“Oh God,” Stony moaned. “I’m moving here. This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.”
I grinned as he rolled his eyes in mock ecstasy. The food was fantastic as usual.
Once the empty containers were cleared away, Mal asked Stony and Blaine to search for more information on Hank Murphy and his wife online. When we spoke to Trisha yesterday, she gave us a list of names and numbers of friends we could contact. Mal suggested we split it evenly and start calling people in hopes that someone could give us more insight on Hank’s life.
By my third phone call, I was beginning to wonder if maybe Hank had been confused when he died. It was just as Trisha said; everyone who knew Hank loved him.
The final name on my half of the list was Sharon Kemper. When she answered, I went through my spiel about researching Hank Murphy for a documentary on small town life. Sharon seemed excited at the prospect of appearing in a film, even if it was an independently financed documentary. She was also a bit of a gossip.
I learned more about Hank and Trisha’s sex life than I needed to and that they’d had a shotgun wedding because Trisha was pregnant.
“Bless her heart, she lost the baby a few weeks later. Almost died too, the poor thing,” Sharon said solemnly. “She never could get pregnant again after that, no matter how much they tried.”
I decided a change of subject was in order. “How was their marriage when Hank passed away?”
Sharon paused for so long I thought she’d hung up.
“Sharon?”
“I’m here.” She took a deep breath. “Will this be off the record?” she asked.
My heart skipped a beat. She knew something, I could sense it. “Absolutely.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure Hank didn’t know, but Trisha was screwing around with his best friend. Had been for about six months before he died.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it. Hank was one of the best men I’ve ever known, why Trisha would risk that for Steve, I’ll never know.”
“Steve?” I asked, thinking the name sounded familiar.
“Oh, Steve Dwyer. She’s married to him now. Has been for nearly twenty years. They got hitched, let’s see, eighteen months after Hank passed. Couldn’t bring myself to go to the wedding, knowing that she’d been cheating on such a fine man and marrying the guy so soon after her husband’s death.”
I realized I had stopped taking notes as Sharon spoke and quickly began to scribble the information in my notebook.
“I had no idea,” I murmured automatically when Sharon paused.
“Well, of course not, dear. It’s not something that Trisha would want to advertise. No one blinked an eye when they hooked up after Hank’s death though. People thought it made sense that it would happen since he claimed that Hank would want him to take care of her.” Sharon made a sound of disgust. “Karma’s a bitch though. I think they’ve been making each other miserable since a year or two after they got married anyway. Don’t know why they never got divorced.”
I had an idea. If they planned Hank Murphy’s murder together, neither of them could walk away from the marriage without risking the other turning them in to the cops.
“Well, I really appreciate the information, Sharon.”
“And this is just between us?” she asked.
“Of course.”
After she disconnected, I slowly lowered my phone to the table and looked at Mal.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I think I know who might have wanted Hank Murphy dead and why.”
Chapter
Mal stared at me, shock plainly written on his face.
“Trisha Murphy was having an affair with her husband’s best friend, Steve Dwyer?”
I nodded. “At least according to Sharon. If we could find at least one other person to corroborate, that would help.”
Mal looked at his list of names. “I have two more people on my half of the list. If neither of them know anything, maybe we can call the others again.”
An hour later, Mal got off the phone with the last man on Trisha’s list, Bill Collins.
“Collins knew that Dwyer and Trisha were having an affair. He found out the week before Hank died and intended to tell him, he just didn’t have a chance.”
Mal rubbed his hands over his face. “Now, we just have to figure out if Dwyer acted alone or if Hank’s loving wife was in on the murder.”
“How are we going to do that?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he answered.
“I feel like we’re stumbling around in the dark here, Mal. Neither of us are detectives. How a
re we supposed to prove that any of this happened? It’s been twenty years and the crash was written off as a horrible accident, not a homicide. No law enforcement official in their right mind is going to listen to us.”
“Are you saying we should give up?” he asked.
I wanted to say yes, to tell him that this was useless and we should stop wasting our time, but my promise to Hank stopped me. I had given my word that I would try to get him justice and right the wrongs done to him.
“No,” I sighed. “I’m just lost as to what we should do next.”
“Maybe we should see if we can get our hands on a copy of the accident report,” Mal suggested.
“I tried, but the state archive doesn’t hold reports after five years.”
“What about the local sheriff’s office?” he queried.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I do think we’d have a hell of a time getting a copy. The sheriff hates me, remember?”
“Let me see what I can do,” Mal stated, picking up his phone.
I lifted my hands in surrender. “That’s fine. While you’re making calls and likely getting shot down, I’m going to take a quick walk and stretch my legs. All this sitting is making my body stiff.”
Blaine and Stony didn’t look up from their screens as I rose from my seat. Both wore ear buds and their heads were bobbing in time with whatever music they were blasting.
I took a quick walk around the block, soaking in the warmth and sunshine of the late spring day. I realized I hadn’t gotten any exercise for several weeks and I needed it. I wasn’t used to inactivity and all the web searches, reading, and television meant my ass had been glued to the couch far too often.
My mood was much better as I bounded up the steps to my house. When I entered, I found Mal staring down at his phone where it sat on the table in front of him.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“Well, I can get a copy of the accident report,” he replied, his tone even. “But I have to wait until someone sifts through twenty years worth of files because all the paperwork between 1995 and 1997 was misplaced.”
I bit my bottom lip to keep from laughing at the look of consternation on his face. “It is a small town, Mal. Things aren’t always run as efficiently as they are in a larger city.”
“I said I would be willing to come down and go through them myself, but I’m not allowed.”
“So all we can do is wait, right?”
Mal sighed and leaned forward, resting his forehead against his palms. “Yeah.”
“Well, while we’re waiting, why don’t we focus on something else? Are there any more sites you want to film while you’re here?”
“Several.” Mal looked up at me. “But there’s not much time left in your contract.”
I took a deep breath. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to continue working on Hank’s case until it has run its course.”
“It could take weeks,” he stated.
“I know.”
“Are you saying you want to work with us permanently?” he questioned.
“Will you be angry with me if I say I’m still not sure?” I countered.
“No. Are you still unsure?”
“A little,” I answered. “This is a completely new career path for me. I never thought about being on camera before now. It was never a consideration for me. It’s—” I paused, searching for the right thing to say. “It’s unnerving.”
I hated to admit a weakness to Mal, but I wanted him to understand that I wasn’t a flake.
“I understand, Zoe,” he assured me. “Take your time. Help us for another few weeks.”
“Thanks.”
“What’d I miss?” Blaine asked, pulling an ear bud out of his ear.
I grinned at him. “Nothing. Just me telling Mal that y’all are stuck with me for a few more weeks.”
“Awesome!”
Stony flinched and looked up from his computer. “Dude, why are you yelling?” He removed his own headphones.
“Zoe is staying with us for a few more weeks.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic!” He turned to Mal. “So what’s next, boss?”
Several hours later, I booted the men out of my house. They had taken over the kitchen, then the living room, and were quickly eating through all the food in my fridge and pantry.
If I decided to work with them on a permanent basis, I would have to set some boundaries.
However, once they left, the house felt too quiet. Teri was nowhere to be found and there was nothing that captured my attention.
My mind kept wandering back to what happened at my parents’ house the night before. I felt much better after talking to my father, but it was difficult to break a lifetime habit of reaching out to my mother and apologizing for whatever I’d said to upset her. I caught myself staring at my phone, contemplating calling her.
But I couldn’t do it. If I caved and gave in to my urge, none of the issues my mother had with me, or that I had with her, would be resolved.
Finally, I couldn’t sit still any longer. I snatched up my cell phone and dialed.
“Jonelle? You busy tonight?”
Chapter
I woke up the next morning with a vicious headache, the taste in my mouth made me wonder if I’d licked the floor at Birdie’s, and my stomach lurched.
I was lying on my stomach, but I wasn’t in my bed. Cautiously, I opened one eye and realized that I was stretched out, face down, on Jonelle’s couch. The room was blissfully dim and there was a can of Sprite on the coffee table in front of me with two ibuprofen tablets sitting on top.
When I moved to sit up, I flinched as the ache in my head became unbearable for a split second. I held myself very still and waited for the flash of pain to pass. Lifting my right hand slowly, I picked up the can and dumped the pills into my left palm. Now that I was upright, the sickening sensation was no longer relegated to my stomach. I had a bad feeling that if I moved to fast, the twisting and turning in my gut would get nasty very quickly.
I hissed when I cracked the top on the can. The sound seemed to echo in the living room. With great care, I dropped one tablet into my mouth and washed it down with the fizzy soda. I waited for several minutes, wanting to be sure that my stomach wouldn’t reject either before I took the next.
Once the pills were down, I hauled myself to my feet and made my way down the hall to the bathroom. The shades were drawn in there as well, a fact for which I was extremely grateful.
I avoided looking at myself in the mirror, knowing that I wouldn’t want to see my own reflection if I looked half as rough as I felt.
I washed my face with cool water and rinsed my mouth out with the mouthwash that Jonelle kept by the sink. I also borrowed a comb. She kept a vat of Barbicide in her bathroom anyway, so I knew she wouldn’t mind.
Still moving stiffly, I made my way back into the living room and heard the sounds of Jonelle moving around in the kitchen. When I came around the corner, she glanced up and chuckled.
“Damn, girl. I don’t think I’ve seen you look this bad on a morning after since you graduated from college.”
“Tell me about it.” I eased myself down into one of the chairs at her dining table.
“Here, drink this. It’ll help,” she commanded, setting a glass in front of me.
“Uh, this better not be a Bloody Mary,” I warned. “I’m pretty sure my stomach couldn’t tolerate any more alcohol this morning.”
“No, it isn’t the hair of the dog that bit you. It’s that tomato and vegetable juice blend you hate.”
I grimaced at her. “Seriously? You just said I hate it, so why are you giving it to me?”
“It’s either that or eating a banana. Which do you prefer?”
“Neither,” I groaned, resting my aching head in my hands.
“It’ll help balance out your electrolytes and stuff,” she insisted. “It’s a trick I learned from a nurse friend of mine. When you plan to drink a lot, or you already have, eat or drink something hi
gh in potassium. Tomatoes have a lot of potassium, so….drink up.”
Gingerly, I lifted the glass, willing to drink almost anything if it would help with this heinous hangover. I struggled not to gag after the first sip. “Why’d you let me drink so much anyway?” I asked. Then I thought for a moment, my memories hazy. “Wait a minute, you didn’t let me. You actually encouraged me to get wasted!”
I moaned and clutched my head when my voice grew louder.
“Why would you do this to me?” I whispered.
“Because you needed it,” Jonelle answered, setting a cup of hot tea in front of me. “You’ve been wound up tight since you lost your job months ago and after that fight with your mom, you needed to cut loose and forget about responsibilities and family obligations for a night.”
I drank more of the red juice, pleased that there was only half a glass left. Gathering my courage, I drained it and shoved the glass away from me, sputtering and shaking.
“That’s probably true,” I admitted, “But you know I don’t like to drink enough to make myself sick and I am definitely sick as a damn dog this morning.”
“Okay, you’re right. Once we got started, I lost track of how many tequila shots we did, so your hangover is on me.”
“Tequila?” I asked. “You let me drink tequila? You know that’s a bad idea. I always end up doing stupid shit.” Then I took a moment to truly look at her. “And why in the hell aren’t you hung over?” I snapped.
It was true. Jonelle’s eyes were clear and sparkling and she looked well rested. While I, on the other hand, probably looked like a piece of road kill she’d scraped off the asphalt.
She shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
I groaned and lowered my head to the kitchen table. The cool wood felt wonderful against my throbbing head.
“Did I do anything I’ll regret last night?”
“You mean besides kissing half the men in Birdie’s?” Jonelle retorted.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” I demanded, lifting my head to stare at her balefully.
“I am,” she chuckled.
“Bitch,” I muttered.