But that wouldn’t make any sense. Rita Redoux couldn’t say the things Rita Clarke could say. So instead, I settled for something more benign.
“Can I bring you over a banana cream pie sometime to say thank you?”
He turned and smiled at me. “That’d be just fine. How’d you know that was my favorite?”
“Just a guess,” I answered.
Just at that moment, Mayor McConnell sprang into action, jumping up at Dad’s and pawing his knees.
“Nice dog,” Dad said, petting his head.
And he was right, because I knew what mayor McConnell was doing. He was giving me just another moment with my father, just another few seconds in my old world before I’d have to withdraw back into my brand new one. Maybe that dog wasn’t all bad after all.
“That’ enough Mayor McConnell,” I said, making my peace with things.
The dog heeded my wishes, returning to his spot on the floor and his sweet potatoes.
“That’s an interesting name for a dog,” Dad said.
“I’m beginning to realize he’s an interesting dog,” I answered.
Dad opened the door and turned back to me. Narrowing his eyes, he said. “You know, I can’t really explain it, but there’s something really familiar about you. It’s almost like we’ve met before.”
“In another life maybe,” I answered, blinking hard.
“Maybe,” he answered. “Goodbye, Rita,” he said and closed the door.
When I was sure he was gone, I answered. “Goodbye Dad.”
Chapter 12
“You seem distant. Is everything okay?” Peggy asked me the next morning, her hands knuckle deep in flour and egg.
We had always gotten up early, that was the way of a bakery. But it seemed that, since my unplanned exit two years ago, Peggy had taken ‘early’ to a whole new level.
No sooner had I lay my spinning head against the pillow last night that Peggy came knocking on the door, much chirpier than anyone had a right to be at four thirty in the morning.
It was a quarter of six now and, for the life of me, I still hadn’t been able to get my bearings. I was tired. There was that. But I couldn’t necessarily tell her what had been keeping me up.
My dad came by the see me last night, called me by somebody else’s name and begged me not to investigate my own murder.
See. It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.
“I’m fine,” I answered, and put a little more effort into my kneading as to make it look less like a lie. “I just have a couple of things on my mind. I can’t believe we’re doing all this for one day,” I said, looking at the near mountain of fresh ingredients that sat on the counter before us.
Usually we made one of each pie to start with. That way, once we saw a particular flavor was getting low, we’d prepare another and stick it in the oven. The crowds were always manageable enough to make this reasonable. Besides, the method preserved freshness, taste, and our sanity.
But, in addition to Peggy’s exuberant new schedule, the last two years saw the implementation of something called the Peach Festival.
Local growers from the farming communities around Second Springs would bring their prized peaches and show them off for a chance to win the top award. This year, it was a five - hundred - dollar gift certificate to Betty’s Bargain Beauty Barn.
My suggestion of changing it to a gift certificate for ‘not being murdered’ was met with more laughter from Peggy than she’d ever admit.
Though it was new, Peggy told me the fest i val was a big deal.
“Balloons get strung up everywhere,” she said. “There’s a clown for the kids and everyone wears peach. You know, the color, not the fruit.”
“I don’t know if I have anything peach,” I answered, looking down at yet another in what seemed to be a never ending supply of floral print dresses.
“It’s okay,” she answered. “I’ll find you something. What we really need to worry about are these pies.”
The pageant needed catering which, among other things, meant we needed to get 50 peach pies out by noon Friday; three days from now.
“I can’t believe they didn’t give you more notice than this,” I answered, shaking my head.
“It’s not their fault,” she said, slicing one of the bazillion peaches on the table into chunks. “It was supposed to be two weeks from now but, given everything that’s been going on, it was decided that the pageant should be moved up to help with town spirit and all.”
“It would take Second Springs to treat the problem of a murderer by feeding it,” I grinned.
“There’s something to be said for giving the people here something to think about that isn’t so depressing, especially the kids,” Peggy said. “I know that, if Aiden and I had kids, I’d definitely want to keep them away from all this craziness.”
There was a light in her eyes that almost did me in.
Kids? I had just gotten my head wrapped around the fact that Aiden and Peggy were together, much less engaged. And now she was talking about them having kids.
“I’m sure,” I answered, pounding a little bit too hard at the dough. “I never thought Aiden was the type of person who wanted kids.”
“What do you mean?” She turned to me, her chopping immediately ceasing. “Did he say something to you?”
I winced, quirking my mouth to the side. How could I be stupid enough to say something like that? Of course he had said something to me. He said it when we were seventeen. He said it after we got engaged. He wanted to focus on his career, and the rest could fall where it may.
But I couldn’t tell Peggy that, because he hadn’t said it to this ‘me. Because the ‘me’ he told didn’t exist anymore. Because, whether I liked it or not, that might not even be true anymore.
What if he did want kids? What if the truth was that he just didn’t want kids with me?
“No,” I shook my head, eyes pinned to the counter. “Of course not. It’s just, you know those doctor types. I just assumed he was the sort to be too concerned about his work to think that far ahead.” I cleared my throat. “Listen, I was wondering if it would be okay if I took a long lunch this afternoon. I’m having some problems with my transmission and I wanted to take my truck in to get looked at.”
“You don’t need to take a long lunch for that,” she answered, going back to cutting. “The garage is like a quarter of a mile away. You can drop it off. I can even pick you up if you don’t feel like walking back.
“Right,” I answered. All of that would have been fine if my transmission would have really been the reason for my visit. In truth though, I needed to follow the lead I found in Patrick’s secret phone last night. He had been calling an auto shop in Mt. Gregor and, though my father wouldn’t like the idea, that’s where I needed to go.
“You see, the thing about that is, I kind of have my own mechanic. I’ve used him for years. His name is Jason. He’s from Mt. Gregor Auto.”
“Mt Gregor Auto sounds like it might be in Mt. Gregor,” Peggy said without looking up.
“That’s perceptive of you,” I answered.
“Mt. Gregor is forty miles away,” she said.
“Thirty - seven, but I promise I won’t be gone over a couple of hours.”
Peggy looked up from a mountain of yet to be sliced peaches. “Today?” She looked around. “You want to get your transmission looked at all the way in Mt. Gregor today?”
“Ideally,” I quirked my mouth to the side.
“Rita, these pies have to be finished this afternoon. If they’re not done by 4-”
“They will be done. I promise,” I assured her. “I’ll be back by two, plenty of time to finish up.”
“Fine,” she shook her head. “So long as you promise to be back by two.”
“Thanks,” I answered as my hands went back to kneading and my head went back to spinning.
^
The ride to Mt. Gregor was an uneventful half hour. Mayor McConnell still refused to grace me with
his presence. So, instead of having a front seat companion, I had sing along with the radio all by myself while the dog wagged around in the back.
Not that I did much of a job with it. It turned out I didn’t know any of the songs that now populated the airwaves. So I turned it to an oldies station and jammed out to Motown, the way Dad used to do when we went on road trips.
As Mt. Gregor Auto came into view, I took one last look at Patrick’s phone. This was the only number on it, the only clue I had to what was going on in the days before his murder. If I was going to get to the bottom of this, if I was ever going to figure out what the connection was between these crimes and my own murder, it was going to have to come from here.
I slid into a parking slot and hopped out. Mayor McConnell jumped out from the back and followed me, though he seemed less than thrilled to do it.
“It’ll only be a couple of minutes,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I just want to take a look around.”
We reached a ‘no pets allowed’ sign on the door and I winced at Mayor McConnell. “You’d better stay out here.”
He turned his snout up and trotted back toward the truck.
Bet he never had to deal with that kind of stuff when he was in office.
I pushed through the door to find a small sitting area and a dusty front desk. A man sat facing the TV. He was wearing a baseball cap and jeans. Though, judging by the way he didn’t bother turning to me, I figured he was just a customer.
I tapped the bell on the desk and waited for someone to help me.
An older man, bald and pudgy, came out. His face was covered in brake dust and motor oil stained his shirt.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,” he said, spitting a hunk of chewing tobacco into a white paper cup and wiping his mouth.
“I’m not from here,” I answered, throwing my keys up on the desk.
“Well isn’t that something,” he answered. “Two tourists in one day.” He motioned to the man in the sitting area, who was still only a baseball cap and a sliver of neck to me. “What can I do for you?”
“The trucks acting funny,” I answered.
“Funny how?” The man asked.
“I don’t know, it’s skipping,” I responded.
“You sound like you’re guessing,” the man said, slowly settling into a chair.
“Maybe I am,” I said. “Whatever’s wrong with it needs to be fixed though.”
“Well, one of my employees up and left a couple of weeks ago, so we’re behind. It might be a couple of hours before my guy can get around to it.”
I looked around. “Doesn’t look too busy,” I answered.
The old man looked around too, as if he was taking in the room for the first time. “I guess you’re right. I’ll pull it on around.”
I nodded. “Oh, can I watch you?” I asked. “I’ve always been a big fan of figuring out how things work.”
“It’s your dime, Sweetcheeks.” He answered, and slowly moved toward the door.
I slid past the desk, glancing over it for possible clues.
The stupid thing looked like it hadn’t been touched in months. I gave the cap and neck sliver one more glance, but he seemed engrossed in whatever baseball game was on TV. So I moved into the garage.
It had two lanes, one of which housed a white can with the hood up, and one of which was empty.
A man in filthy clothes stood hunched over, his face dug into the white car’s engine.
I dug Patrick’s phone out of my pocket. The old man hadn’t come around with my truck yet. But that hardly mattered. He moved so slowly that there was no way he could have been the person running away from Patrick’s body that night back at the pie shop.
If there was a connection to what happened and this place, it obviously had to do with the guy working on the white car.
I hit redial and, a few seconds later, a phone on the wall started ringing.
The man working on the white car darted up. He turned, facing the phone with a look on his face that told me this particular line didn’t ring often and, the fact that it now was, meant something very significant.
This was the guy who was connected to what was going on. Of course, it turned out I didn’t need to ring the phone to figure that out.
As he moved toward the phone, I caught sight of his face.
He was big. He was burly. He was the man I saw arguing with Peggy the day of Patrick’s funeral, the guy screaming at her minutes before she was attacked in her garage.
He turned toward me, catching sight of the phone in my hand. His eyes narrowed as he recognized it.
He slammed the hood of the car down and hopped in, turning on the ignition.
He was going to run.
“Wait!” I yelled, throwing my hands out in front of me.
The car roared to life and it lunged forward. But as he took a hard right, I realized he wasn’t heading toward the garage door. He revved up as fast as he could go.
And he was aimed right at me.
Chapter 13
I froze as it neared me. The long white car bore down on me, engine revving and wheels spinning as it bridged the gap between and the man who met Angela during the wake.
My mind spun with a thousand different questions and a million different possibilities. Who was this man? Why had Patrick called him so many times during the days leading up to his death? What was he doing fighting with Angela yesterday? And why would someone who so blatantly and obviously worked as an auto mechanic leave wrenches at the sights of his murders?
I was missing something. There was a thread that tied all this together and made it make sense. Why wasn’t I seeing it?
Of course, none of those questions would ever matter or get answered if I ended up like a bug splattered against this guy’s windshield.
Still, I couldn’t force myself to move. Like a deer staring down headlights that would soon turn it into roadkill, I was so mesmerized by the sheer speed and craziness of what was happening that I couldn’t make my legs work.
The car was nearly on top of me now. I managed to shut my eyes, the first reaction I could squeeze out of my body and prepare for the worst.
But a force hit me from the side, knocking me out of the way and throwing me flat on my back.
The wind got knocked out of me. I opened my eyes as I heard the car speed by me, driving over where I stood just a second ago, and found Sheriff Dash over top of me. It was him that had pushed me out of the path of that car, him that had saved my life.
I was never going to hear the end of this.
“Are you alright?” He asked breathlessly, his arms wrapped around my back. His eyes were very close to mine. I felt his breath against my cheek as he spoke.
“I…I think so,” I answered.
Sheriff Dash remained unmoving for a second, laying over me and trying to gather himself. Blinking hard, he seemed to realize our current positions and hopped back up.
“Good,” he answered, clearing his throat and forcing his voice to take on an ‘official business’ lilt. “That could have turned out very poorly.”
I sat up, breathless myself, and turned my head. The white car sped off in the distance, taking the mystery man and the only real lead I’ve had since starting this whole thing with it.
Sighing, I answered, “I think it still might.”
^
Sheriff Dash paced around me, staring at me with a clenched jaw and enough rage in his eyes to lead me to believe he was seriously second guessing his decision to save my life.
We sat in the waiting area of Mt. Gregor Auto. In the hour and a half since I was almost r u a n down, the game had given way to an infomercial about a knife that was sharp enough to cut through pennies.
Good thing the sheriff didn’t have that on him right now.
He called in an ABP on the car our mystery man drove off in and was preparing to question the owner of the auto shop. So all that was left to do, it seemed, was chew me out.
“I don’t know
how much plainer I can be,” he said, looking straight ahead and shaking his head. “It’s like you want me to throw you in jail. Is that what you want, Rita?”
“What happened to ‘Ms. Redoux?” I asked, slumping in my chair.
Astonishingly enough, his eyes got even harder. “I’m starting to think that you have a personal vendetta against me,” he said. “That’s the only way I can explain your unwavering refusal to let me do my job.”
“Sheriff Dash, it’s not-”
“Stop!” He said, his lips pursed, his finger popping up into the air to silence me. “In the time that you have been here, you’ve been present at a murder, an attack, and now at the scene of the first lead I’ve gotten since all of this happened. You’ve also perpetrated in an obvious lie involving my former deputy, and you seem to know things about this town and the people in it that no newcomer should.” He shook his head. “And it’s only been four days. So you’ll forgive me if I’m lax with the formalities, but I’m busy trying to figure out just what is going on here.”
“See, that’s all I want too!” I said, standing.
“Why!” he asked. “What business do you have here? How did you convince my former deputy to cover for you?”
“That’s the second time you’ve called Dwight your ‘former deputy’,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Well, when someone is fired, that’s the proper title for them.”
“You fired Dwight!” I yelled, moving toward him.
“Yes,” he answered. “I fired the person you met two days ago; a person you have absolutely no reason to feel so tied to.”
He got me there.
“I…I don’t want the kid to lose his job because of me,” I answered, which was the truth…if not all of it.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it wasn’t only because of you. Dwight’s been less than effective at his position for quite some time now. His eagerness to hide the truth from me was just the last straw.”
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