by Jeff Shelby
“So he just refused the offer? Is that even legal?” Capital Cases did next to nothing with real estate issues so this was one particular area I had no knowledge of.
Davis shrugged. “No idea. But once Dad makes up his mind, it’s a done deal. You’re better off trying to get a pig out of mud than getting him to change his mind.”
It was a phrase I’d never heard before so I just nodded and took another bite of my burger.
“Anyway,” he said, his fingers finally stilling, “Dad ended up ripping up the check right there. Well, he spit on it first and then ripped it up. And Gunnar, he wasn’t too happy. Told him he was gonna get that farm, no matter what. Some way, some how.”
The piece of meat I was swallowing lodged itself in my throat and I grabbed my soda, swallowing a mouthful in hopes of clearing my trachea.
Davis glanced at his watch and grimaced. “Looks like I need to get going. Got an appointment over in Winslow, and I should probably run Dad home before I go.” He stood. “You okay?”
I forced a nod. “Yes,” I said, my voice over bright, even to my own ears. “Thank you for sitting with me. Thank you for not hating me after I attacked your dad. I really am sorry.”
He smiled. “I could never hate you, Rainy. You’re innocent in all of this, and I’m sorry your introduction to Latney has been so rough.” He fished his keys out of his pocket. “But I’ll make it up to you. I’ll figure out a way. Take you out to dinner, if that sounds like something you might like to do.”
The son of the man I’d accused of arson and murder was basically asking me out on a date. And I had no idea how to respond.
“Uh…that would be…nice.”
“Good,” he said. He twirled his keys before regripping them in his hand. “I’ll be in touch.”
“But you don’t have my number.”
His grin deepened. “But I know where you live, don’t I?”
Before I could respond, Davis Konrath winked one last time and then sauntered out of the restaurant.
And I was more confused than ever.
THIRTY TWO
I couldn’t stop thinking about men.
Grizzly Len Konrath, who I’d verbally assaulted. Sheriff Lewis, who had ignited every angry fiber in my being. Poor, dead Uncle Willie, who apparently really had died during sex. Davis Konrath, an unexpected source of comfort, despite the fact that I’d maligned his father and interrupted their lunch on more than one occasion. And Gunnar Forsythe, my neighbor, who I was regarding with more suspicion than ever.
Declan Murphy crossed my mind, too, as did Mack Mercy and Walter Rey and Dawn’s husband, Martin. But they were bit players, at least in the scenarios flitting through my mind.
I was back at home, measuring the windows in my bedroom for curtains, but my mind was on men. All kinds of men.
My phone dinged and I squinted across the room, trying to read the display. It was displaying a name rather than a number, which meant it was someone I knew, but that was about all the information my middle-aged eyes were going to give me. I sighed and pushed the button to recall the tape measure. It slid back in place with a satisfying swoosh. I stepped off the stepstool and crossed the room, sighing again when I could finally make out the name.
Laura.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said, forcing a sunny disposition and hoping she’d buy it.
“I ran into Mack.”
“What? How?” I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand to check the time.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because you don’t just run into Mack. Not ever.”
“Well, I did,” she said stubbornly. “I was grabbing donuts at Mitchell’s and he was there, chatting up some officer.”
Now that was a story I did believe, which meant she was telling the truth. I tried to redirect her. “It’s the middle of the day. Why aren’t you at school?”
“I am,” she said.
“Where are the kids?”
“They’re at a program in the library,” she said. I could hear the frown in her voice. “And I’m not calling to talk about me, I’m calling to talk about you.”
“What about me?”
But I knew. If she’d run into Mack, then she’d be up to date on the latest happenings in Latney. Because as good of an investigator as Mack was, he had a hard time keeping his mouth shut when it came to non-confidential things. It was probably his way of coping with the secrets he was forced to live with: keep those sealed tight but then blab every other tidbit of information he heard.
“Why didn’t you tell me something else happened?”
I grabbed the pad of paper and pencil I’d set on the bed and recorded the number I’d measured out, hoping I was remembering correctly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The fire, Mother,” she said sternly.
“Oh, that,” I said. “Well, it’s being investigated right now so I don’t really have any news to share.”
“Really?” She let out a huffy breath. “Well, how about the simple fact that there was actually a fire on your property? Don’t you think that’s something you might want to tell your daughter?”
“It’s not like there was a fire in the main house,” I pointed out. “It was an abandoned building.”
“Yeah, the same one that had the dead body.”
I made a mental note to look into voodoo dolls. Because Mack Mercy had it coming.
“Look, honey, I didn’t want to worry you, especially when I don’t know if there’s anything to be worried about.”
She snorted. “Nice try. I know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Do you?” This was news to me, because I wasn’t even sure what I was doing.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “You are trying to keep up with the illusion that everything is going just fine with the move and the house. You don’t want me to know how bad things are, but you also don’t want to admit to yourself that you made a huge mistake in moving there.”
I sank down on the bed. I wanted to refute everything she’d just said, but it was sort of hard to do when there was a part of me that knew she was absolutely right.
“It’s not like that,” I said, but even I knew my protests were weak.
“Tell me everything. I have ten minutes before the kids are due back.”
I didn’t want to tell her everything. For one, I didn’t want to worry her, but I also didn’t want to admit that she was closer to the truth than she realized.
I dropped the pencil and picked up the tape measure.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I told her. “There was a fire. The sheriff is investigating. The body found was just a pile of bones. There is absolutely nothing wrong.”
“You are lying. I can hear it in your voice.”
“And you, my dear daughter, are paranoid.” I chuckled and hoped it sounded light-hearted and sincere. “I love you, but you have always been a worrier. And I know you’re used to being nearby. You’ve always been able to check in on me and see with your own eyes that everything is fine. Well, now you’re just going to have to trust me.”
There was silence on her end of the phone and for a brief moment I wondered if she’d hung up. “Laura? You there?”
“I’m here.” She paused. “Alright, I believe you. Everything is fine. Latney is fine and the house is fine and the fire and the dead body are fine. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes. That is the truth.” I cleared my throat. “I am fine.”
She muttered something under her breath, words I couldn’t quite catch. “What was that?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she said, sighing. “Just that Mr. Mack Mercy is gonna have some questions he’ll need to answer.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Because he led me to believe that life in Latney was anything but fine,” she said.
“Mack’s job is to look for mysteries to solve,” I reminded her. “So of course he’d blow things out of proportion.”
“And y
ou always downplay things,” she countered. She sighed and I could see her in my mind, twirling a piece of hair, chewing her bottom lip, her eyebrows knit into a frown.
“Please don’t worry,” I said. “I’m fine. I promise.”
She let out a breath. “Fine. But you’ll tell me if that changes? The minute it does?”
“If it does,” I corrected.
“Fine, if it does.” Another pause. “You promise, right? You’ll let me know first thing.”
I hated lying. I didn’t like how it made me feel and I wasn’t particularly good at it.
But sometimes, it was necessary.
Especially with my worrywart of a daughter.
“Yes, sweetie. I promise.”
THIRTY THREE
There was a good possibility I was going to hell after explicitly lying to my daughter and accusing an old man of murder and arson, so I did the one thing that I thought might shift the tide in my favor.
I went to church.
Okay, so the real reason I was going was because I’d promised Declan Murphy that I’d come by for the Sunday service, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. He’d been a good friend during the times he visited. But as I was brushing through my hair on Sunday morning and fighting with the contents of my closet looking for something suitable to wear, I reasoned that there might be some good side effects from my obligatory visit.
Like avoiding a fiery afterlife.
I finally settled on a pair of navy slacks and a white sweater. I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter and downed a quick cup of coffee before heading out the door and into the Sunday morning sunshine.
It was already warm, a slight breeze scenting the air with the tangy smell of hay and manure. I wrinkled my nose a little and wondered if I’d ever get used to it. Bees buzzed the dandelions that bloomed in the front lawn, threatening to choke out the grass, and birds chirped loudly from the trees, a chorus of different calls.
It was a peaceful, pastoral scene lain out in front of me, and I should have been filled with solitude and calm at such a soothing welcome to my day.
I was anything but.
I worried all the way to church. I wondered who would be there and how the service would be. I wondered if Declan would be happy to see me there or if word of my confrontation with Len Konrath would have reached him. Would he be disappointed in me? And if so, would I care?
And then I wondered about the other townspeople. Sophia and Walter Rey. What would they think of the new woman in town, verbally assaulting an old man who’d lived there his whole life? Would Sheriff Lewis be there, ready to arrest me for slander? Was that even an arrestable offense?
But the one person who occupied most of my thoughts was Gunnar Forsythe. I kept replaying Davis Konrath’s words about what he said had transpired between my neighbor and Len. The fight, the harsh words. He hadn’t given specifics, but I hadn’t asked for them. I thought about my conversation with Gunnar on my front porch, when he’d apologized to me and told me he’d been wrong about not telling me about the offer. He’d sounded sincere, and I’d believed him.
More importantly, I hadn’t pressed. I hadn’t asked questions about how the discussion had gone down. He didn’t have any reason to tell me that his conversation with Len had been contentious. He’d admitted it had been him who had made the offer, and he admitted it had been a mistake not to come clean with that. And I’d forgiven him.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about all the dots that were popping. I’d connected them so many different ways in the last few days, I’d made a mess of them. But I kept coming back to the one that made the most sense, especially considering the information Davis Konrath had shared with me.
That Gunnar Forsythe might be responsible for the bones showing up and the fire that had destroyed the bungalow.
He was a common denominator. He’d been there for both incidents. Granted, he’d shown up after I found the bones, but he hadn’t been far behind me. And, I had to admit, he’d been the one to call me about the fire, had actually partially suited up and tried to save the engulfed building. None of those pointed to him as a suspect when looked at individually.
But when I added in the fact that he wanted the farm, and the news that he’d had a contentious argument with Len Konrath when the old man had refused his offer? The path of those dots got a little clearer.
I started the car and tried to think of something else. I was having a hard time buying that Gunnar would do those things. What would he gain? Would it just be a way to vent his frustration over losing a property he’d desperately wanted? Most importantly, how in the world would he have gotten ahold of a Konrath corpse to plant on the scene?
My phone buzzed from inside my purse and I reached for it, grateful for the diversion. I broke into a smile when I saw the name on the screen.
“Luke.”
“Hiya, Mom.”
“Well, this is a surprise.” My eyes narrowed behind my sunglasses. “You’re not in trouble, are you? Do you need money?”
He laughed. “Nooo. Why would you think that?”
“Well, you usually call when you need something, or on my birthday or Christmas. Since it’s only April and I just celebrated my birthday a couple of months ago, that sort of leaves one thing.”
He laughed again. “Naw, everything’s cool. I just wanted to say hi and see how the new digs are.”
My eyes were now slits. “Laura told you, didn’t she?”
“Told me what?” he asked innocently.
It was my turn to laugh. “Please. I know your sister.”
“Oh, alright. Yeah, she asked me to give you a call and see how things are going.”
“Things are fine,” I said as I made the turn into town. “Absolutely fine.”
“Any more fires or bones?”
“None,” I told him. “How is San Francisco?”
“Berkeley, Mom,” he said. “Worlds apart, man.”
“You’re doing well? How is the band?”
“Same old, same old,” he said, yawning. “Got a couple of gigs next week that we’re stoked about. Should be cool.”
I glanced at the dash. It was 9:45, which meant it was barely dawn where he was. “Why are you awake so early?”
He yawned again. “Awake so early? I’m just getting to bed.”
I smiled, nodding. This was the kid I knew, the kid I remembered. Completely absorbed in his hobbies—in this case, music—and always marching to the beat of his own drum. I envied him that, even though it had always managed to exasperate me when he was a kid.
“Maybe you should get to bed?”
“I will,” he said. “Just needed to check on my favorite mom.”
“I’m your only mom.”
It was our routine, the same way we always ended his brief, infrequent calls.
“Well, even if you weren’t my mom, I’d still choose you.”
“Right back at you,” I said, reciting my lines.
“Love you, Mama.”
He clicked off before I could respond. Just like always.
By the time I pulled into the church parking lot, I had five minutes to spare before the 10 am service started. The lot was almost full, an odd assortment of weathered pickup trucks and older model sedans filling the spaces. There was a sleek silver Mercedes, which I immediately pegged as belonging to the Reys, and a couple of minivans that hinted at a younger generation who might be attending that morning.
Declan was standing in the church foyer, dressed in his black shirt and collar, his reddish hair carefully combed down. He wore a friendly smile as he greeted his parishioners, shaking hands and making small talk. His eyes lit up when he saw me and I breathed a quick sigh of relief. Either news of my run-in with Len hadn’t gotten to him or he hadn’t cared. I was good with either.
“Rainy,” he said, pumping my hand up and down. His palm was warm, slightly sweaty, but I didn’t pull away. “Glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I told
him, returning the smile.
His grin widened. “It’s always nice to see a friendly face.”
I glanced around. The foyer was emptying as people entered the sanctuary to take their seats.
Organ music filtered toward us, rising in crescendo, so I had to raise my voice a little to be heard. “Ditto,” I said. I glanced around the foyer. “Is it normal to greet people before the service? I thought that happened afterward.”
Declan nodded. “I like to do both. Provide that personal connection.” He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Especially with being new and all. People are still getting used to me.”
He smelled like aftershave or cologne, and I breathed in his manly scent, surprised that he would take the time to slather some on. And then I felt like an idiot, because why wouldn’t he? He was a pastor, not a monk…something he had made perfectly clear during his clumsy, not-so-subtle flirtations.
He reached behind him, grabbing a book from a small stack piled on an old oak side table. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A Bible.” He smiled. “Compliments of St. Simon’s.”
“Oh, I don’t need—”
He held it out until I had no choice but to take it. “I insist,” he said. “It’s a gift from me, and a gift from the Lord.”
I felt my cheeks flush. Who was I to decline an otherworldly gift? “Okay, well, thank you.”
He checked his watch. “I should probably head in.” He motioned toward the sanctuary. “After you.”
I put the Bible in my purse, readjusted it on my shoulder because of the extra weight, and took a deep breath before heading into the sanctuary. It was a simple, pleasant space, with whitewashed floors and white pews. Stained glass windows lined the sides of the tiny church, and a rustic wooden cross was mounted directly in front of the white pulpit. A wood organ was positioned off to the side, where a plump, silver-haired woman pounded the keys. To the left, another woman, equally ancient with tight white curls and sporting thick glasses, was peering at a book perched on a music stand. She began to sing, her voice clear and sweet, and I was taken aback at the strength of it.