by Jeff Shelby
“Sure.” I glanced down the street at my parked car. A delivery truck was idling just behind it and a man was unloading a dolly stacked with boxes, presumably to deliver to the hardware store I was parked in front of. “Listen, I have some other errands to run…”
He held up a wrinkled, age-spotted hand. “Just need a minute of your time.”
I was tempted to hit the stopwatch feature on my phone to time him but I plastered a patient smile on my face and waited.
“The other day, we were chatting about the…uh…incidents that have taken place on your property.” He pulled his pipe back out and passed it from one hand to the other. “And we talked a little about your previous life in…where did you say you came from?”
“Arlington,” I said, my eyes narrowing. “And we did not discuss my previous life. You accused me of bringing a body with me and burning down a building to cover up a crime.”
He at least had the decency to blush a tiny bit. “Now, I did not—”
I cut him off. “Yes, Sheriff Lewis, you did. Maybe not in so many words, but the implication was there.” I took a step closer to him. “Well, instead of you asking me about my past, maybe I should be asking you about yours.”
His bushy white eyebrows pulled together. “What’s that?”
“You heard me. I know whose bones were found on my property.” I waited a beat, watching as his eyebrows drew into a deep V. “Willie Konrath. You know, your best friend’s uncle.”
The splotchy color on his cheeks deepened. “Well, now—”
“I think it’s time for you to tell me what you know.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Because the way things look to me, you and your buddy Len have a lot more explaining to do than I do.”
He shoved his pipe back into his pocket and straightened. His lips were pressed together so tight, they looked like a single line drawn on his face. “Listen here, Missy,” he began, his voice cracking, his eyes hard. I almost expected steam to come out of his ears. “Len is as good as they come. He has nothing to do with what’s been going on out there on the farm.”
“Easy for you to say,” I said. “And easy for you to figure out that the best way to help your good friend is to pin these ‘incidents’ on the newcomer to town.”
“Why….why…” he sputtered, and this time I expected him to erupt like a geyser. “I am the sheriff in these parts. You…you can’t just go around accusing people of stuff like this.”
I smiled. “Hmm. I can’t, but you can?”
He opened his mouth to say something, but a young woman with a toddler in tow walked past, nodding and smiling at the sheriff. She gave me a curious look and I knew her next stop in town would be to ask who the woman was talking to Sheriff Lewis. And then I wondered what the rumor mill in Latney would spit out this time around. I wouldn't have been surprised to hear that I was now supposedly offering sexual favors to the sheriff in order to avoid all the trouble I'd supposedly caused.
They moved past and I fixed my gaze on him again. “So now that we know the remains found on my property belonged to a Konrath, that pretty much rules out my involvement in anything. But you know what it doesn’t do?”
The hand that reached for his pipe shook ever so slightly. It was subtle but it was there, and I noticed.
“It doesn’t get you or your friend off the hook.” I hitched my purse up on my shoulder and fixed him with the brightest smile I could muster.
“There is no hook. You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Well, you sure tried to hang me on one, didn’t you? I think you better start looking for answers somewhere else, Sheriff. Because if you don’t, I will.”
“Are you threatening me?” he growled.
“Nope,” I said. “Just stating facts.”
“These aren’t facts!” he announced, so loudly that the woman who just walked by turned to look back in our direction.
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
If eyes could shoot daggers, I’d be impaled on the bank wall.
I offered one last smile. “Have a good rest of your day, Sheriff. And do let me know what you find out about poor Willie Konrath and whomever is responsible for burning down my bungalow.”
THIRTY
I needed a beer when I stepped into the Wicked Wich.
My confrontation with Sheriff Lewis had taken more out of me than I’d thought. Either that or I was simply hungry. But I felt light-headed, my pulse was racing, and my throat was as dry as a desert in summer.
I hadn’t meant to be so hostile. And, normally, I wasn’t a confrontational person. But all of my buttons had been pushed in recent days and seeing him had been the switch that had launched the attack.
Part of me felt bad. I didn’t like rocking the boat, especially in a new town where I wasn’t sure anyone would actually come to my rescue if I capsized. But I also didn’t like accusations being flung my way; unsubstantiated, wild ones that had the tendency to make my blood boil.
Dawn was behind the bar, stuffing napkins into a silver dispenser. Her short hair was pinned back with a slew of bobby pins and she wore another bar t-shirt, this one gray instead of black. She raised her eyebrows when I walked in, but said nothing.
“You serve beer this time of day?” I asked, sliding on to a stool.
“We’re open, aren’t we?”
I was about to order one, then changed my mind. With as little as I’d eaten over the last few days, the alcohol would go straight to my head. And then who knew what might come out of my mouth?
“I’ll just have a soda.”
“A diet whatever?”
I almost smiled. “Yeah, that.”
She scooped ice and filled the glass with soda, then slid it across the bar. “You eating, too?”
The yogurt I’d had for breakfast hadn’t exactly filled me up and my mouth watered at the idea of a thick, juicy burger. By the looks of things, Mikey, the wonderkid chef, was already on the grill, flipping a couple of burgers for customers who’d come in for an early lunch.
“Sure. A burger whatever.”
Dawn nodded and left me alone and I sipped my drink and tried to focus on one of the flat-screen TVs. It was tuned to a 24-hour news station and someone was being interviewed but the volume was muted so I had no idea what was being said. It didn’t matter, though, because what I could hear—voices in the restaurant—made me swivel around on my stool.
Two men were tucked in one of the booths, half-eaten plates of food in front of them. Two men who had been there during my last visit to the Wicked Wich.
Davis and Len Konrath.
I shouldn’t have gotten up. I should have stayed put and tried to read the lips of the people on the television while I waited for my burger.
But I rarely did what I was supposed to do.
I grabbed my soda, swallowed a mouthful, then set it back on the counter with a loud clank. Dawn was nowhere to be found but Mikey must have heard because he looked my direction, a quizzical look on his face.
I took a deep breath and ignored my racing pulse as I headed toward their table.
Len and his son were deep in conversation—something about grills—when I cleared my throat.
Both heads turned in my direction. Len grunted. Davis smiled.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Rainy Day,” Davis said, his gray eyes warm, his mouth curving into an even wider grin. “How are you?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, especially when he was still smiling at me, his expression open and friendly.
“I…I’m fine,” I stammered.
“Then what are you doing over here?” Len growled. “Can’t you see we’re having a conversation?”
“Dad,” Davis chided, frowning at the elderly man sitting across from him. “Be nice.” His eyes met mine again. “We were having a rather heated conversation about grills. He’s a charcoal man, and I’m trying to convince him gas is the way to go.” He paused. “What kind of grill do you have?”
“Uh�
��a George Foreman?” I said. And then, when his brown furrowed, I added, “You know, one of those electric ones? I guess it’s not really a grill…”
He nodded and picked up what remained of his burger. “Ah, I know the ones. Well, yeah, that really can’t be considered a grill, now can it? More of a griddle, like the one Mikey uses here.”
“Right,” I said, just because I didn’t give a hoot about grills or griddles. I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried to act casual, even though my heart was beating like a jackhammer. “So, did you hear the news from the medical examiner?”
Davis exchanged a quick look with Len. “No?” he said, sounding a little bewildered.
“The bones on my property were identified.”
“Oh?” Davis said. His burger was arrested halfway between his plate and his mouth, as if he were waiting for me to elaborate before taking a bite.
“You didn’t know?” I found this hard to believe, considering how tight Len was with Sheriff Lewis.
Davis shook his head, still looking puzzled.
“Willie.” When his expression remained blank, I added, “Uncle Willie. Willie Konrath.”
Davis’ eyebrows lifted in surprise but he didn’t respond because Len let out something that sounded halfway between a sigh and a growl.
“Here you go with those darn accusations again.” Len’s face was screwed up in irritation, his gray eyes like steel. “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Missy. Or who you’re messing with.”
I stood my ground, despite the fact that the old man looked like he wanted to stab me with the steak knife he was using to cut his burger.
“I think I know exactly who I’m messing with,” I said, hoping my voice sounded level and even. “A man who might have killed his own uncle, planted the body on my property, and then burned a building to the ground to hide the evidence.”
“Why, I oughta—”
“Must be nice that you’re so friendly with the sheriff,” I continued. I wondered if Len actually did attack me if Dawn would be nice enough to call for help. But then I remembered who would probably respond—Sheriff Lewis—and hoped instead that she or Mikey or one of the other patrons eating lunch might be trained in emergency trauma services.
Len leaped to his feet, shaking a bony fist at me. “You are crazy, you know that? One sandwich short of a picnic, you are.”
“I’m crazy?” I’d been called lots of things in my life, but crazy wasn’t one of them. “What other explanation is there?”
Len stared at me, a scowl on his face, his eyes trained on me as though he really was looking for a loose screw somewhere.
“My uncle has been dead for years,” he snapped. “Years!”
“Well, clearly,” I said. “It was a pile of old bones in the bungalow, not a dead body.”
He jabbed a finger in my direction. “You ever think about how he got himself dead?”
Got himself dead? Now there was a combination of words I’d never heard strung together before.
“Well, I’ll tell ya,” Konrath fumed. His cheeks were red, his eyes like liquid silver. “He went and gave himself a heart attack having sex. That’s how he done killed himself.”
My mouth dropped open.
“And everyone in these parts knows it,” he said. There was a tremor in his voice as well as his hands. “So don’t go accusing people of things you know nothin’ about. You hear me?”
He brushed past me, his steps a little unsteady. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop interrupting our lunches.”
THIRTY ONE
I was an idiot.
For multiple reasons, but the one I was fixated on after Len Konrath stormed out of the Wicked Wich and I’d returned to the bar like a puppy that had just been scolded, was simple: I’d jumped the gun.
Not once had I given any thought to how Willie Konrath might have died. Not once had I thought about the fact that I had discovered bones and not a body. I’d heard the name, made the connection and instantly pounced.
And had been dead wrong.
I stared at the burger sitting in front of me. By the looks of it, it was slathered in barbecue sauce. Thick slices of bacon peeked out from underneath the bun, as did a thin layer of deep fried onion rings. My mouth should have been watering. Instead, I felt slightly sick to my stomach.
How had I managed to work in a private investigator’s firm for 20 years and still made such a rookie mistake? Granted, I’d just been the office manager, but I’d seen enough cases come through those doors to know that what I’d just done was inexcusable. Mack Mercy would have never jumped to conclusions—well, at least not publicly. Pacing the office or shuffling papers around his desk, muttering under his breath or out loud to me…sure. But to a client or a potential suspect? Not ever.
I sighed and picked up my drink. The ice cubes had already melted, which meant watered down soda. I took a sip, anyway.
“Sorry about my dad.”
I looked up and into Davis Konrath’s gray eyes. His smile from earlier was gone, replaced with an expression that looked suspiciously remorseful.
“Sorry about your dad?” I set the glass back down, trying to place it directly back onto the ring of water it had left on the bar. “He wasn’t the one spouting off accusations.”
A small smile tugged at Davis’s lips. “Well, maybe not that time,” he admitted. “But he’s been known to do that before. As evidenced by the first time you met him.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry. I had no right to accuse your dad of anything. I don’t know what came over me.”
He sat down on the empty stool next to me. Dawn reappeared from the back, holding a rack filled with clean glasses. After a cursory glance in our direction, she set the rack down and started restocking the shelves, the glass clinking as she moved them to the shelves.
“Well, you’ve had a lot going on,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Not enough to go around accusing people of murder. And arson.”
He chuckled. “That’s debatable. You’ve moved to a new house. A new town. You’ve found a dead body on your property. And then a building of yours went up in flames. It would be enough to set anyone on edge.”
His voice was calm, reassuring, and I took comfort in it. As much as I firmly believed that I’d acted like a hysterical person, it was nice to hear someone taking my side. Not validating my actions, per se, but at least lending credence to my feelings and behavior.
Because he was right. It had been hard, all of it. The move, acclimating to the new town and the people who lived there, and then the unexplained incidents at the house.
“So I think you get a pass on that,” Davis said, bringing my focus back to him. “This time, anyway.” He grinned.
I picked up a French fry and studied it. It was still crisp but now only lukewarm and I wondered how it would taste. “Regardless if I get a pass, I still feel bad.”
“Don’t.” It was one word, firmly spoken.
I bit into the fry. It was cold, just like I thought it would be, but the salt tasted good and I popped the rest of it in my mouth. “And I’m…I’m sorry about your uncle.”
He waved a hand in the air. “I never met him. Happened way before I was around.”
“And did he…” I felt the heat rise in my cheeks as I played Len’s words back in my mind, the way he said old Uncle Willie had met his demise.
Davis chuckled again, louder this time, and I felt my cheeks heat even more. “Afraid so. Although,” he said, giving me a quick wink, “I’d figure there are worse ways to go.”
I was afraid I was going to spontaneously combust from embarrassment. This was not a conversation I wanted to be having. “Right, well, I hope you’ll let him know that I’m sorry. I’d…I’d tell him myself, but he’s not here and—”
“I’ll tell him,” Davis said. He rested his elbow on the bar and leaned back a little on the stool. “And, just so you know, he’s pretty well-versed in heated conversations and accusation
s. What you just did there? Believe me, he’s seen far worse.”
“I find that hard to believe.” He might be a crotchety old man, but I didn’t think anyone else had accused him of felony crimes.
Davis drummed his fingers on the bar. His nails were neatly trimmed, and this surprised me for some reason. I’d expected hands like Gunnar’s, tanned and calloused, with dirt embedded under the nails. Farm hands. Working hands.
“You didn’t witness the confrontation with Gunnar Forsythe,” Davis said.
My eyebrows shot up. Weird that I’d been thinking about my neighbor only seconds before Davis mentioned him. “Oh?”
Davis nodded. “Now that wasn’t a pleasant exchange.”
I reached for my burger, mostly so that I could pretend to be occupied so it wouldn’t look like I was hanging on his every word. I took a tiny bite of the lukewarm burger. The barbecue sauce was tangy and sweet, the bacon hickory smoked, the burger itself seasoned perfectly, and I instantly regretted not having bitten into it sooner.
“How so?” I asked once I’d washed down the bite with a sip of soda.
“Oh, there were some heated words back and forth. From both of them,” he added. “As you’ve probably noticed, my dad isn’t exactly one to mince words.”
I smiled at that.
“But Gunnar wasn’t happy that the property he so desperately wanted wasn’t coming to him.” He made a face. “I don’t know if you’ve learned this about your neighbor, but he’s sort of used to getting what he wants. In all areas of his life.” His eyes lingered on me and I felt my pulse quicken at the innuendo. “So when Dad flat-out denied his offer for the farm, Gunnar was pis—not happy,” he said, correcting himself.
I should have told him that I’d heard far, far worse out of Mack Mercy’s mouth.
“They shouted at each other for a good fifteen minutes. Maybe longer. Got so bad we were about ready to call the sheriff in. Especially when he started tossing out threats.”
I licked a dot of barbecue sauce off my finger. “Threats?” I repeated.
Davis’s fingers drummed a little harder on the counter and his knee bounced up and down. “Yep. Like I said, Gunnar wasn’t too pleased about losing out on the farm. Was convinced it would be a done deal, especially with the amount of money he was offering. But Dad wasn’t having it. Not over his dead body.”