by Jeff Shelby
I finished the cookie and reached for another one. “Well, between these cookies and accomplishing some unpacking, I’m beginning to feel a bit more human.”
He nodded. “Good, good. I know you were a little down, and understandably so. I'm glad things are turning around.” He grinned, a little shyly. “And I’m glad I could be a little part of that.”
I guided him to the couch and we both sat down. “You’ve been a big part of it,” I told him. “And not just because you keep bringing me food. Although that helps.”
“Whatever it takes.”
I leaned back into the couch. Declan Murphy felt like a friend, and I needed a friend right then. I thought about my other options. Laura was a definite no. She was in class and besides, even if she were free, she’d freak out if she thought people were planting evidence on my property and subtly accusing me of murder and arson. I could talk to Mack. But he’d throw caution—and my objections—to the wind and show up with guns blazing, ready to expose the dirty little secrets of every person in the town who’d looked at me side-eyed. I thought about the friends I’d left behind in Arlington: Rita and Suzanne, my neighbors, and Lily, the librarian I’d befriended over our mutual love of murder mysteries. They were friends, yes, but I wasn’t about to have my first phone call to any of them be one of desperation, filled with complaints over the move that was supposed to be the culmination of my dreams.
I’d considered Gunnar a friend, but he was definitely out. He’d flat-out lied to me. Who did that leave? Sophia? She had been nice enough, but I was still on the fence over the level of her sincerity.
But Declan Murphy, the shy redheaded pastor who had proven to be a constant source of support and friendliness? The pastor who was also new to Latney, and who could relate to my feelings of being an outsider? Was he a friend, someone I could confide in?
I decided to take that chance. “It'll probably take a little more, though.”
He tilted his head to the side. “What does that mean?”
I recounted for him my run-ins with both Gunnar and Sheriff Lewis and what I'd learned from Sophia.
He set his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “Gosh. That's a lot to take in. I'm sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Well, I know, but it's quite the burden to be inundated with all of this as soon as you arrive in Latney,” he said. His blue eyes were on me, full of sympathy. “I'm sorry for that.”
“Me, too.”
He offered a smile. “I suppose I could espouse all of the reasons why it's a charming town, but I'm not sure now's the time.”
“It's most definitely not,” I told him. “Another day.”
He nodded, understanding. “Of course.”
I folded my hands behind my head. “Any advice?”
“Do you want it?”
“I don't know.” It was the truth. I didn’t know if I wanted advice or if I’d just needed to vent. “Give me some and then I'll tell you.”
He chuckled. “Hmm. Alright. I'm not sure if it qualifies as advice, but here's what I can tell you. I've gotten to know Gunnar well enough and he seems like a good person. I can't explain why he might've lied to you, but he’s always struck me as a guy who people rely on around here.”
At that exact moment, I couldn't imagine ever relying on him, but I let it pass.
“And as far as Sheriff Lewis goes, I can't really say,” he continued. “Is he friends with Mr. Konrath? Yes. They've been to a couple of after-service breakfasts we've done, and I've seen them together around town. Though I'd argue that really isn't all that strange in small towns. People pair up early in life and if no one leaves, the relationships take root. As far as the sheriff’s ability to do his job, I haven't had enough interaction with him to know whether he's competent or not.”
“Well, now you're just making me feel all judgy,” I said.
His cheeks reddened. “I'm sorry. That wasn't my intent.”
I waved a hand in the air. “I'm kidding. I know it wasn't, and I appreciate your input. I really do. I'm just feeling…a bit outnumbered at the moment. I'll be fine.”
“Well, I'm on your side,” he said, smiling. “For what that's worth.”
“It's worth quite a bit right now,” I told him, sitting up. “Thank you.”
We sat there for a moment, smiling at one another, and there was this weird air surrounding us, like we were teenagers on our first date together. Except we were both well past that age, and he was a pastor and I was a divorced woman who really wasn’t looking for a relationship. I didn’t know where the feeling had come from, but it was just there now, sitting between us like a blinking neon sign.
Before I could say or do anything to embarrass myself, my phone vibrated on the kitchen table. I stood quickly to get it, grateful for the distraction.
I didn't recognize the number on the screen. “Hello?”
“Hello. Ms. Day? This is Mary.” And then, when a second of silence passed, she added, “Your insurance adjustor?”
Recognition hit. “Mary. How are you?”
“I'm great! Thanks for asking!” She paused. “I was calling about your property.”
“I assumed so.”
“Yes, right, of course.” She paused again. “I'm afraid I don't have the best news.”
I glanced at Declan on the sofa. He was scrolling through his own phone. It struck me as odd for a moment that a pastor might have Facebook.
“Is that right?” I said.
“Unfortunately, no,” Mary said. “We are going to have to deny your claim.”
My attention snapped back to the woman on the other end of the phone. “Excuse me?”
“We are going to have to deny your claim,” she repeated.
“No, I heard you,” I said, my voice rising. “I mean you have to be friggin' kidding me.”
Declan turned toward me, his expression one of confusion and concern.
“I am not actually, uh, friggin', kidding you, Ms. Day,” Mary said, her voice a little shaky. “I submitted all of the paperwork and it's been denied.”
“Why?” I asked, my own voice going up another level. “You saw the damage! It burned down. How can there be any question?”
“Oh, there isn't,” she answered quickly. “Of that, I mean. You are quite correct; the structure was definitely ruined via fire.”
“No friggin' kidding, Mary! I saw the flames with my own eyes. So how in the world are you denying the claim?”
Declan's eyebrows went up.
“To be clear, Ms. Day,” Mary said. “I am not denying your claim. It's the insurance company itself.”
My hand tightened on the phone. “Mary, right now, you are one and the same. Because you are the one telling me you're denying the claim.”
“I believe it's important to make the distinction.”
“I don't care what you believe,” I said. “Why is the claim being denied?”
Papers shuffled on the other end of the line. “Because the fire to your bungalow is now part of a potential homicide investigation.”
TWENTY FIVE
My stomach twisted and my breath caught. “A what?”
“Homicide investigation,” Mary repeated. “It's when the police believe—”
“I know what it means!” I said. “But they found the bones before the fire! How are they related?”
“I believe that's the question the authorities are asking,” Mary said. “But as of right now, the company is denying the claim. There was some mention of DNA being recovered at the site, which moved it into the possible homicide category. I'm not an expert on these things, though. When everything is resolved, we can resubmit the claim and maybe we'll have better luck.”
My temples throbbed. I couldn't believe that they were denying the claim and that it was now part of a murder investigation. I was being left out of several loops and it did not please me.
At all.
“I did have one question for you, Ms. Day,” Mary said. “If you
don't mind.”
I did mind. My head was spinning and the last thing I wanted to do was answer more questions from a woman who was telling me I was under investigation for murder. “What is it?” I snapped.
“The gentleman who was at your property?” she asked. She cleared her throat. “Would you happen to know if he's, um, single? Or have his—”
I punched the off button on my phone, wishing greatly for the days of yesteryear, with phones that allowed for slamming down the receiver on someone.
I tossed the phone on the table and it clattered across the wood surface. “They're denying the claim. The insurance company.”
Declan stood. “I gathered. And…homicide?”
My brain was kicking into overdrive. “Who is the medical examiner? He was out here, but I don't remember his name.”
“That would be Melvin Clark,” Declan said. “Why?”
I grabbed my phone off the table. “Because I'm calling him.”
“Now, Rainy, I think you'd—”
I held up a hand to stop him. “I appreciate your patience with me, but the second you start telling me what to do is the second I ask you to leave.”
Declan sat on the couch.
I scrolled through my phone until I found the direct line to the medical examiner's office. I took a deep breath and touched the number on the screen.
“M.E.,” a gravelly old voice said. “Melvin here.”
“Mr. Clark?”
“Doctor,” he corrected.
“Dr. Clark,” I said. “This is Rainy Day. You were here removing the remains from my bungalow the other day?”
He coughed. “Alright.”
“Do you recall?”
“I believe so.”
I took another deep breath, trying to find patience. It was in short supply. “I was just informed that the case is being classified as a homicide investigation.”
“I am not sure I'm at liberty to discuss that with you.”
“You're not? It happened on my property and my insurance company is now withholding compensation for my burned-down bungalow because of it. So if I were you, I might find the liberty to discuss it with me or I will find someone who can.”
Declan's jaw tensed, but he didn't say anything.
“Uh...um...uh...well. It's complicated.”
“Why?”
“Uh...um...uh...well, again. I'm not sure—”
“Anyone else I can talk to there, Doctor?” I asked. “Or should I just start calling around, making your life miserable?”
He coughed again, a horrible phlegmy sound that made me cringe. “Ms. Day, I understand your frustration.”
“I really don't think you do,” I said, my temples starting to throb again. “Because not only is my insurance company refusing to pay for a part of my property that was set on fire, but you're telling me that a bag of bones is now being classified as a murder. So I don't think you understand my frustration at all. You couldn't possibly understand my frustration.”
Declan winced from his position on the couch.
“Because I am having a very hard time understanding how a pile of old bones went from being a pile of old bones to a murder,” I continued. “I am looking for some enlightenment because I'm entitled to at least that.”
The good doctor coughed in my ear again. “Well...I...uh. Well, shoot. Look, ma'am, I'm not trying to make your life any harder. I hear you. But it's old Willie.”
I frowned. “Old Willie? What's old Willie?”
He cleared his throat. “The bones we found. We have a…a process to look for DNA.” By the way he said it, it didn’t sound as though he was entirely clear on the process. “And, well, I just found some. A few minutes ago, actually. Those bones are old Willie's.”
“Who exactly is old Willie?”
Dr. Melvin Clark coughed again, expelling what sounded like a hairball from this throat. “Len's uncle. Old Willie Konrath.”
TWENTY SIX
I hung up the phone and set it down on the table.
“What's the matter?” Declan asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
I walked over and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa. “Maybe I have.”
“What?”
“Melvin told me that the bones belonged to a man named Willie Konrath,” I told him. “Len Konrath's uncle.”
Declan thought about that for a moment. “Uncle?”
My mind revved into overdrive. The body that was found in my bungalow belonged to a relative of the former owner of the farm. A man who hadn't wanted to sell the farm.
“As disturbing as that might be, I'm not sure that it...matters?” Declan offered. “At least in terms of helping you get the insurance money.”
I waved a hand at him. “I'm off that now. I'm trying to connect the dots.”
“Connect the dots?”
“It's a phrase my old boss used to use,” I explained. “When he had a bunch of pieces that he was sure were related, he'd tried to draw lines connecting them. Connect the dots.”
“And you think there are dots to connect?”
“I'm not sure,” I told him truthfully. “But it's starting to feel that way.”
I could see on his face that he either didn't believe me or he was confused. At that moment, though, I didn't need him to understand. It was my concern. And I had to wonder if Len Konrath had dumped the farm in a hurry for a reason other than money.
Was he trying to hide something? And if he'd wanted to hide something and it had been discovered, was he capable of doing something else to cover that up? Like set the bungalow on fire?
I didn't want to jump to any unreasonable conclusions, but it sure seemed as if some of the dots had the potential to line up. What better way to hide evidence of a crime than to burn it? I didn't know much about fire, but I assumed that it was hard to piece together much forensic evidence out of a pile of ash. Especially considering who was involved in the so-called investigation.
“Do you know anything about his uncle?” I asked, looking at Declan.
He shook his head. “Not a thing. I know his son, and I know he has two daughters, but I haven't met them yet. That's all I know.”
“I met his son,” I said. “At the tavern. But I never heard anything about the uncle.”
“I thought the bones were old?”
I shrugged. “Who knows? They looked old to me, but how am I supposed to know? And if the sheriff is helping him cover it up, then maybe nothing I've been told is true.”
He started to say something, then stopped, moving his gaze downward.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing. It's not my business.”
“Say it,” I said. “I won't be offended. I promise.”
He kept his eyes on the floor, then looked up after a moment. “I...I don't want to suggest that you're wrong. But I also think it's important to be...reasonable.”
“Declan, if we're going to be friends, you're going to need to be more direct with me,” I told him. “Just say what you want to say.”
“You just told me to not tell you what to do,” he reminded me.
I waved a hand in the air. “Look, I’m not exactly rational. Not now, not ever. Just tell me what you want to tell me. I’ll listen.”
He chuckled. “Okay. If you say so. I'm not saying it's not possible that what you're suggesting happened, but I'm not sure it's plausible.”
“So you think I'm jumping to conclusions?”
“I think you've got a lot going on, you want answers, and this is the first one you've been able to put together,” he said, keeping his tone gentle. “But that doesn't mean it's the right answer.”
I leaned my head back against the couch. He wasn't wrong, of course. I was getting ahead of myself. But I was confused and frustrated and mad and tired.
“Alright,” I finally said. “You're right.”
“I don't want to say you're wrong,” he said. “I just think you...need to take some more time before you s
tart pointing fingers.”
“That sounds like a very pastoral thing to say.”
“Pastoral? I think that means related to the countryside.”
I sighed. “Fine. Pastorly. Is that a word?
“I am a pastor.” He held his hands up. “Guilty as charged.”
I smiled despite my frustration. “Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. “For being rational.”
“Any time,” he said. His own smile widened and he looked as earnest as a schoolboy looking to impress his teacher. “I can be rational any time, any place. For you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing.
“So whenever you need me,” he continued, “I can be rational. Or if we are out somewhere, I can be rational then, too. Anywhere.”
The weird vibe was back and confident, calm Declan had suddenly been replaced by a guy who seemed anything but.
I didn't say anything, because I couldn’t. What was I supposed to say? Thanks for offering to be rational in public with me?
His cheeks burned red and he stood up. “I should go.”
Despite the awkwardness of his declarations, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to go. He was company. He was a friend. And he clearly cared about me.
I stood, reluctantly. “Okay. Thanks for coming by.”
“Of course. Anytime. I mean, not anytime. I don't want you thinking I'm going to be coming by all the time,” he said quickly. “I just mean...”
“I got it,” I said gently, trying to put him at ease. He was clearly flustered, and clearly cognizant of how much he was rambling.
He hustled himself to the door, waved a quick goodbye, and nearly jogged to his car.
I watched him back down the drive, a goofy smile on my face.
Because I was absolutely sure now that Declan Murphy, the sweet pastor who baked me cookies and checked in as often as he could, had a crush.
On me.
TWENTY SEVEN
I needed to clear my head after Declan left. The events of the day had muddled all of my thoughts, and I hoped that maybe some fresh air and some sunlight might help get things in order. I changed into some yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a zippered jacket, and headed outside.