by Meg Muldoon
I shrugged.
“It seems entirely possible to me,” I said. “You’ve got the look of a young Anthony Bourdain about you.”
That made his face break into a full-on smile. An accomplishment that I was internally patting myself on the back for.
“You’re crazy, Mrs. Brightman,” he said, shaking his head and blowing out a puff of smoke.
“You have to be a little crazy sometimes to get what you want in life,” I said.
“Yeah, but me?A world-famous chef? Preposterous.”
He took a spot next to me at the railing and looked down at the river.
“Besides, Anthony Bourdain is more of a world-famous traveler than a world-famous chef. I’d rather be someone like Ferran Adria or Marcus Samuelsson, myself. People who cook more than travel.”
I chuckled.
The kid obviously had done some thinking on the matter.
“I like this spot quite a lot,” he said. “I think quiet places like this are important.”
“I’ve always thought so, too,” I said. “This is a good fishing spot, if you’re ever interested. I mean, there’s only small trout that run in this river, but when I was a kid, Warren would sometimes take me here and…”
I trailed off.
For a split second, I’d forgotten about Rip Lawrence’s dead body and Warren’s hands covered in blood.
I let out a sigh.
“I bet you wish you’d stayed in Scotland this summer.”
He didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the river below.
He finished his cigarette, stubbing it out on the railing. He held onto the remains, taking care not to litter.
“You love your grandfather a lot, don’t you?” he said.
I nodded.
“He practically raised me,” I said. “After my mother died, if I didn’t have Warren there, I don’t know what I would have done. He’s always been there for me.”
I rubbed my face.
I felt so helpless.
I looked over at Ian. He had a glum expression, as if he could sense what I was thinking.
There was no use in talking about it anymore. There was nothing to do at this point but worry.
So I changed the subject abruptly.
“Have you met any cute girls here?” I said.
His face turned a shade of firecracker cherry.
It wasn’t lost on me that when Ian was out in public, he attracted a lot of attention. Some folks peered at him because of his edgy look. But there also seemed to be a rather large contingent of teenage girls who stole dreamy glances at the tall youth. Because beneath his severe haircut and tattoos, Ian was rather handsome. And his Scottish accent probably didn’t hurt, either, when it came to girls.
He shifted his weight awkwardly, and cleared his throat even more awkwardly.
It tickled me slightly that my question had made him so uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to pry—”
“No, no,” he said. “It’s just… well, I’m sure they’re as pretty around here as anywhere. I just haven’t been looking. You see, there’s a girl back in Glasgow I haven’t quite…”
He leaned forward, putting more of his weight on the railing.
I waited for him to say something more, but he trailed off and didn’t pick back up again.
Maybe I was overstepping. It wasn’t any of my business, anyway.
“Of course, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want—”
“Do you think if a person’s sincerely sorry, Mrs. Brightman, I mean, truly, honestly sorry, that they should be forgiven?” he said, meeting my eyes with a sudden intensity that put me on my back heels.
I furrowed my brow, trying to understand what he was asking the question in relation to. But silence and a serious stare were all that I got.
It must have had something to do with the girl back in Scotland, I reasoned.
I wondered what he’d done.
“Most religions would tell you that if a person really is sorry, then they should be forgiven,” I said.
“But do you think they deserve forgiveness?” he said. “I mean, even if they did something really wrong?”
I rested my foot on the lower railing of the bridge and paused for a moment, thinking about the question.
I wanted to say yes.
But in my own life, as I suspected in other peoples,’ that particular philosophy had been easier said than done.
Part of me felt that there were things that a person couldn’t come back from. No matter how much they wanted to be absolved.
My ex-husband came to mind.
“I don’t know, Ian,” I said. “Maybe it’s just me, but forgiveness hasn’t always come easy in my life. There have been times when I just couldn’t find it in me. I know that doesn’t sound very Christian, but it’s the truth.”
I sighed.
“But I do think people should be given credit for asking. I know it’s not an easy thing to ask for.”
He nodded silently.
He still didn’t elaborate on what he was asking in relation to. Though from the silence, I began to wonder if he wasn’t talking about more than relationship troubles.
I remembered what he said about the bakery he had worked at in Scotland.
How he’d beat up the owner.
Was he talking about that?
I wanted to ask him more about it, but my gut told me to not press the issue.
A stiff breeze blew off the river suddenly, and I shivered.
I glanced down at my phone.
Daniel would be on a break soon, and I really needed to see him.
Ian seemed to pick up on the fact that I had business to get to. He grabbed the cooled cigarette stub.
“I better go,” he said, digging his hands awkwardly into his pockets.
I nodded, smiling at him.
“Thanks again for all of your help, Ian,” I said. “I appreciate it, and I know your grandmother has appreciated all your work at the brewery, too.”
There was a flash of something in his eyes when I said that.
Something that even though he tried to, he couldn’t hide.
“Thanks, Mrs. Brightman,” he said after a long pause.
He turned his back and walked away quickly toward downtown Christmas River.
I stood there for a few moments, trying to understand.
Wondering why it had pained him when I mentioned how much Aileen appreciated his help.
Chapter 31
“Lou’s a dummy, but he ain’t a fool,” Daniel said, taking his hat off and running a hand through his hair. “And it doesn’t take a genius to see that Warren’s the last person to murder somebody, let alone because of a business rivalry. Anyone with half a brain could figure that out”
“You sure about that?”
Lou Ulrich seemed like a pretty big fool to me.
Daniel leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over the top of his head while letting out a sigh.
He looked ragged and stretched thinner than a cobweb. His skin was pale and his eyes had a distant look to them that he often got after particularly long days at the office.
I knew that Daniel wouldn’t quit, though. Technically, he couldn’t be part of the Rip Lawrence murder investigation. But I also knew that Daniel, knowing just how much this meant to me, wasn’t going to spend his time on the sidelines doing nothing.
It concerned me some. If anybody else found out that he was looking farther into the case, I knew he could get into serious trouble.
“Have you found anything out about the murder?” I said.
He got up and walked over to the window, a gesture that didn’t exactly inspire hope.
I guess it had been childish, but I had half-hoped that when I walked in here, Daniel would have told me that Rip Lawrence’s murderer had been apprehended and arrested, and that Warren was in the clear.
“Nothing concrete, Cin,” he said. “I’ve been looking into Rip
’s background. No wife, no kids, hardly any relations save for a step-brother out in Salt Lake City. The step-brother said he hadn’t seen Rip in years. The two had a big falling out over money.”
I raised my eyebrows. Daniel noticed, but just shook his head.
“He’s got an airtight alibi, Cin. He was at a business conference in Provo at the time.”
I nodded glumly. Daniel continued.
“Rip was arrested once for driving while under the influence and once for a drunk and disorderly. He co-owned Back Alley with a guy named Mitch Wheaton.”
Though I couldn’t quite put a face to the name, the Wheaton name itself was familiar enough. Several Wheaton men had worked with Warren in his mill days. I’d wager that Mitch and Rip had grown up together.
“Where was Mitch last night?” I said.
“I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”
“What about that angle?” I said, sitting up straighter on the desk. “It seems possible, doesn’t it? That there might have been bad blood, or maybe finances weren’t so good, or maybe…”
I trailed off, letting out a sigh.
My eagerness to pin the murder on anybody but my grandfather startled even me.
“Or what about the drug money?” I said.
Daniel glanced back at me.
“What drug money?”
I shrugged.
“Kara had heard rumors. About Rip using the brewery as a front for trafficking drugs into Central Oregon. Maybe it caught up with him. Maybe he crossed somebody, and they shot him at Geronimo last night for it.”
“I don’t know, Cin,” he said. “Those are just rumors. I’ve heard them too. But the Sheriff’s Office has a pulse on those things in Pohly County. Rip Lawrence’s name hasn’t come up once in any drug bust we’ve done.”
“Doesn’t mean he couldn’t be involved.”
“No, but it could just as easily be the old Christmas River rumor mill at work again,” he said. “A guy like Rip Lawrence is the type born to inspire such rumors. Especially in a town this small. People always want to believe drug dealers look like him. Not like the nice, well-mannered neighbor who keeps to himself, which most times, is who the real drug dealer turns out to be.”
I rubbed my face.
I appreciated Daniel’s logic. I appreciated that he had a healthy dose of skepticism. But in this instance, I just wanted him to agree that one of my theories could be possible.
“What about the notes?” I said. “The ones that kept showing up at Geronimo? Rip wrote those, didn’t he?”
Daniel exhaled, and I knew, once again, that the answer wasn’t going to be the one I wanted to hear.
“Owen’s not a handwriting analysis expert, but he’s taken a few classes,” he said. “He took a look at one of the notes Warren provided us with and matched it against Rip’s credit card signature at the pub last night.”
He paused.
“And?”
“Rip was right-handed,” Daniel said. “The notes were written by a southpaw.”
I let out a long sigh.
“Damn,” I said.
If Rip hadn’t written the notes, then who had? And why would they care whether or not an old man opened up a brewery in Christmas River?
Instead of things being clearer, they had only gotten murkier and more confusing.
“Cin, do you have any idea what Rip wanted to talk to you about?”
Daniel had already asked me the question half a dozen times. As if he thought if he kept asking, I would suddenly know the subject of Rip’s visit the day he died.
“No – I still don’t,” I said. “All I know was that I went back into the pie kitchen around noon, and he was there, saying he needed to talk to me about a mutual friend.”
“But you don’t know for sure who he meant by that?”
I shrugged.
“I assumed Warren. Or Kara. She used to be crazy about Rip back in high school.”
“Hmm.”
Daniel stared out the window, stroking the stubble on his chin, not saying anything for a long moment.
“It doesn’t sound like you’ve found out much at all,” I finally said.
The words sounded harsher than they had in my head, and I wished that had been where they’d stayed. Daniel didn’t look at me. I leaned forward, resting my forehead on the palms of my hand.
“I’m sorry, babe,” I said. “I’m just…”
“You’re just exhausted,” he said, coming away from the window and sitting on the desk next to me. “You haven’t gotten any sleep and you’re worried about your grandfather.”
I nodded.
Soon enough, Daniel’s arms were around me and my head was resting against his neck. He stroked my hair.
“I know you’re scared, Cin,” he said. “But don’t be. I won’t let anything happen to Warren. And not just because he’s your grandfather, either.”
I heard him swallow hard.
“Warren’s been…” he trailed off. “Warren’s been there for me, too. He’s my grandpa as much as yours now. And I’m not gonna let a thing happen to the old chatter box, all right?”
I nodded. The words were stuck in my throat.
“Now these things just take a little bit of time, that’s all,” he said. “But we’re going to find out who really murdered Rip Lawrence, and Geronimo Brewing Company will be up and running in no time, okay?”
“But what if—”
“No what ifs,” he said, pulling away and looking down at me. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this. And besides, Lou’s a jackass, but he hasn’t gotten to be captain of the CRPD by twiddling his thumbs. He wants this murder solved as much as we do. He’s a decent investigator.”
“Well, he didn’t seem all that decent to me earlier,” I said.
“What do you mean, earlier?”
Daniel looked at me with a sudden sharp expression
“I mean Lou came to the pie shop,” I said. “He came to talk to me.”
Daniel’s face turned red.
“And you’re only telling me this now?”
I had expected as much from him. I knew Daniel wasn’t going to be happy about me talking to Lou without some sort of representation. But the way I saw it, calling for a lawyer when Lou had just a few questions to ask – questions that I could easily handle – seemed like it would only cause more problems for Warren.
“It was an informal conversation,” I said. “He didn’t even record anything.”
Daniel shot up from the desk, a furious look in his eyes.
“That bastard.”
He went over to the window again, looking through the blinds. The atmosphere of the room darkened.
“I didn’t say anything,” I said.
He turned back to look at me.
“Cin, you don’t understand how someone like him operates,” he said. “You should have called me the moment he walked in the door.”
Daniel shook his head angrily and turned to look back out the window, mumbling to himself.
“SOB questions my wife without having a lawyer present…” he muttered.
“You just said he was a decent investigator.”
“Yeah, but that don’t mean he’s above dirty tricks if he thinks the case fits,” he said. “I mean, jeez, Cin. Haven’t I always told you that if you find yourself in a situation like that, make sure you ask for a lawyer?”
“I know, but he said—”
“It doesn’t matter what he said. You ask for a lawyer. Every time. No matter what. ”
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, you’re right.”
I bit my lip.
“But how come you didn’t tell me?” I said.
He furrowed his brow.
“Tell you what?”
“You know what, Daniel.”
I stared at him hard, watching as the angry expression on his face faded away.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re under investigation?”
Chapter 32
�
�That no good, low down dirty—”
He mumbled obscenities that were a departure from his usual vocabulary.
“Is it true, Daniel?”
“Lou shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “It wasn’t his to tel—”
He caught the look in my eyes and stopped mid-sentence.
“I tried to tell you last night,” he said. “Before Warren discovered Rip’s body. I was trying to tell you.”
“Tell me now.”
I felt my hands perspire and a sick feeling settle in at the base of my stomach.
When Lou had told me about it earlier at the tail-end of his questioning, I’d hoped that he was lying. A weak attempt at getting me to say something or do something rash.
But now it was clear that the police captain had been telling the truth.
“George Drutman is a piece of dirt,” Daniel started. “He posted bail yesterday afternoon and hired himself the best defense attorney in the state. He’s filed a complaint and is claiming that I manhandled him after he hit my truck with his RV. He’s saying Billy and I conspired and falsified the breathalyzer test. He’s got this scumbag friend of his from the business campout saying he saw the whole thing, and that George was the victim.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“But you didn’t do anything,” I said.
“I know,” Daniel said. “But George being George, he’s refusing to take responsibility for his actions. He’d rather point the finger at somebody else. Which in this case, is Billy and me.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “How could anybody take George Drutman’s word over yours?”
“I know it sounds bad, Cin. But it’s really not a big deal,” he said in a calmer tone. “These things come up every once in a while in my line of work. Internal investigations are completely normal in a case like this. They always blow over. And besides, George doesn’t have a leg to stand on. He’s just doing all of this out of spite and because he has the money to.”
That pit in my stomach was now expanding to the size of Alaska.
“Lou Ulrich didn’t seem to think it wasn’t a big deal. He said—”
“He was just trying to get you to talk,” Daniel said. “He’s been a cop a long time. He knows what buttons to push.”
He let his head drop.
“It’s fine, Cin. I’m just tired, right now,” he said. “I’m going on 24 hours with only a couple hours of sleep. And I—”