One Bad Egg (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 5)

by Jeff Shelby

  “No,” Dawn said curtly. “The terrible news is that the sheriff came by to tell me not because he thought I should know as his next of kin.”

  “He didn’t?”

  She snorted. “Nope.”

  I felt a little gnawing in the pit of my stomach. “Why did he stop by then?”

  “Because he thinks I did it.”

  “Did what?” I asked.

  “The sheriff came by because he thinks I killed my brother.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” Dawn said. “The sheriff thinks I killed him.”

  “Oh my goodness.” It was a horribly inadequate thing to say, but I was speechless. Dawn was as prickly and as surly as people came, but I didn’t think she had it in her to actually kill someone…even though she did almost run me over once when she thought I was secretly in love with her husband.

  Gunnar was still staring at me intently, all thoughts about Thanksgiving and who I was spending it with apparently put on hold.

  “Why would the sheriff think you were responsible?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to explain over the phone,” Dawn said. “Can you…do you think you could come to the restaurant?”

  “Right now?”

  “No, next week,” she snapped. She waited a beat. “Of course I mean right now. I have a sheriff who thinks I killed my brother. Do you think that’s something I should wait on? Maybe ask him to come back and investigate after the holidays?” The sarcasm in her voice was thick.

  “I have a house full of guests,” I began, and then stopped.

  I had Laura and Connor. That didn’t constitute a houseful. I could make time to swing by the Wicked Wich and see what it was that she knew and if the sheriff actually had any evidence that might be incriminating. I didn’t want to entertain the idea that signs might point to her actually having committed the crime…I’d look at that later.

  But I also knew that if I didn’t go and address the situation now, it would just fester and grow. People in Latney didn’t seem to know how to take no for an answer, and I knew what would happen if I tried putting Dawn off.

  She wouldn’t stand for it. She’d call and come by and demand that I listen to what she had to say. And Laura would hear every word.

  Better to just deal with it now, I decided. Get it out of the way so Dawn could vent to me and I could offer her assurances that the sheriff was an incompetent fool and she had nothing to worry about.

  “Fine,” I said, glancing at the chicken clock mounted on the wall. “Give me ten minutes.”

  I hung up and Gunnar was still staring at me, his eyes rounded. “Her brother’s dead?”

  I nodded. “I guess his friend found him in the motel room last night.”

  Gunnar frowned. “What motel? There isn’t one here in town.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he was staying in Winslow,” Gunnar said. “The little motel past the sheriff’s office. The Night Owl.”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. I didn’t spend much time in Winslow; in fact, I’d been there once to visit the sheriff’s office, once to drop off donations at the thrift store there, and a couple of other times when I needed various things that I couldn’t find in Latney.

  I started hunting for my keys.

  “So you’re going,” Gunnar said.

  “Of course I’m going. She asked for help.”

  He gave me a little smile. “Is there anyone you ever say no to?”

  I spotted the key ring poking out just under my purse. I grabbed the keys and hefted my purse on to my shoulder. “Why would I say no?”

  “Because you don’t like getting involved in this kind of stuff,” he said. “Because it always turns into something complicated. Because you hate that people only call you when they need help. Because you aren’t a private investigator but people in this town continue to treat you like one.”

  Nothing he said was untrue. I just didn’t have a rebuttal for any of it.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I said instead.

  He cocked his head. “What?”

  “Don't say anything to anyone about this right now,” I said. “It's not my place to be telling people about it.”

  “Well, technically you didn’t tell me,” Gunnar said, the little half-smile still on his face. “I overheard what you said.”

  I waved my hand. “Right, right. I’m just saying, though…can you keep the news quiet?”

  “Of course,” he said immediately.

  “Thanks.” I glanced toward the hallway, to where Jill was probably still standing in the living room, scrolling through her phone and wondering when her dad was going to come back out so they could go home, and to where my daughter and her boyfriend were probably still upstairs, peeling off wet clothes and getting changed into drier ones.

  “You want me to tell Laura where you’re going?” he asked, as if he could somehow read my thoughts.

  I shook my head. “No, that’s okay. I…I’ll just leave her a note or something.” It was a cowardly thing to do, but I didn’t want to run the risk of her seeing my face when I tried to make up an excuse for going into town. She was positively hawk-like when it came to being able to read my moods and intentions.

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. “Yeah” I thought back to Jill and Owen’s interaction at the restaurant and wondered how she would take the news when she learned of his death. “Just remember to not mention it to anyone, okay?”

  Gunnar smiled again, and this time it almost seemed a little sad. “Anything for you, Rainy. Anything.”

  EIGHT

  I felt like I was walking back in time the minute I stepped into the Wicked Wich.

  Eric was siting on the same barstool as the day before, a half-full beer in front of him. Mikey was manning the grill, a baseball cap covering his buzzed hair. A couple of customers occupied some of the booths, and the smell of burgers permeated the air. The only thing missing was the blond man standing behind the counter. Dawn was there instead, bent over the bar, rubbing the surface with one of her rags.

  She looked up as soon as I walked in. There was no smile, no wave to serve as a sort of greeting, just a flicker of recognition in her eyes as I made my way toward the bar.

  Eric didn’t even look up as I approached. He stared morosely at his beer, his pointer finger circling the rim in an endless repeat.

  “Let’s go in the back, “Dawn said.

  No thank you, no hello. It was what I should have expected from Dawn but it still somehow managed to take me by surprise.

  There was an entrance to the back room from behind the bar but we didn’t go that way. Instead, she wiped her hands on the half-apron tied around her waist and then slipped out from behind the counter, looking back at me as she wound her way past a few empty tables and into the hallway that led to what I presumed was a storage closet. Directly across from it was another door to the back room. She pushed it open and I followed.

  The room was sparsely decorated: a couple of square tables that looked like they had once been used in the dining area of the restaurant, along with black metal chairs that sported cracked vinyl seats. There was a small side table tucked against a wall, and the surface was littered with a few magazines that, judging by their covers, appeared to be at least ten years old. A couple of motivational posters hung askew on the walls and I almost pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t in fact dreaming those into existence. Motivational phrases and Dawn were sort of like oil and water.

  Dawn sank into one of the chairs and motioned toward the empty one across from her. I took a seat.

  “So the sheriff basically accused me of killing Owen.”

  No thank you for coming, no apologies for pulling me away from home with a holiday on the horizon.

  All par for the course.

  “Can you start from the beginning?” I asked.

  She arched an eyebrow. Her eyeliner was thick, and judging by appearances, completely unsmudged. I took that
as a sign that she hadn’t shed a single tear when the sheriff had told her the news about her brother’s untimely death.

  “There’s not much to tell,” she said. “According to Sheriff Lewis, he got a phone call this morning. From Eric. I guess he and Owen were supposed to meet in the lobby of the motel for breakfast. Owen didn’t show so Eric texted him. When he didn’t answer, he went to go check on him. Found him in bed.”

  “Dead?”

  Dawn nodded.

  “And…” I hesitated, not really sure how to ask the question I had. “Did it…look like a crime scene?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know because I wasn’t there. But if you’re asking if there was blood or any signs of an attack or whatever, I don’t think so. Although the sheriff did mention that he thought he had the murder weapon.”

  I straightened. “Oh?”

  She nodded again. “A pillow.”

  I almost choked on my own saliva. “A…pillow?”

  “He was found with the pillow over his face.”

  If the situation hadn’t been so horrible, I might have laughed out loud. As it was, I was having a hard time keeping a straight face. How on earth had the sheriff decided that something commonly found in a bed—and something that people often put over their heads of their own accord—should be considered the murder weapon?

  “And he has some sort of proof or something that the pillow was used in Owen’s death?”

  “I have no idea,” Dawn said. She blew her bangs off her forehead. For once they weren’t clipped back and the way they framed her face softened her look a little.

  I splayed my hands out on the table, drumming my fingers for a few beats before finally managing to still them. “And did Sheriff Lewis indicate why he considers you a suspect?”

  “Because I was there,” she said flatly.

  I blinked. “You were there? When Eric found him?” I had visions of her in the motel room, sitting in an upholstered chair, her legs crossed, her foot tapping the floor as she waited impatiently for the sheriff to arrive and observe her handiwork.

  “No, of course not,” she snapped. “I was there last night.”

  Heat rose to my cheeks as I reined in my imagination. “Oh.” I darted a glance in Dawn’s direction. She was staring at me, her arms folded tightly against her chest. “Do you want to tell me about it? Your visit to the motel last night?”

  “There’s nothing really to tell,” she said. “I went over there and told him to stay away from the restaurant. He insulted three of my best customers.”

  I wondered if that number included me but wisely decided not to ask.

  “He broke a couple of glasses—and didn’t clean them up—and he and Eric ran up a hundred dollar bar tab that they didn’t settle.”

  I could see why she would be angry at her brother, and why a trip to the motel to give him a piece of her mind would be high on her agenda. And, a tiny part of me conceded, I could also see how those things might make Dawn mad enough to go off the deep end.

  “How did it go?”

  She glared at me. “How do you think it went?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. I don’t know what your relationship is like with your brother.”

  “I got mad and I yelled. He yelled back. I yelled some more. He yelled some more. I threw my keys at him. He kicked his shoe off and it hit me in the knee.” She rubbed her kneecap. “It was steel-toed. Left a bruise.”

  “And after the yelling? You just left?”

  “What else was I going to do?” Dawn asked. She rolled her eyes. “Kill him? Of course I left!”

  I thought over her version of events. If anyone related to me had done those things in my place of business, I would have lost it on them, too.

  “Can I ask you something else?” I asked.

  She didn’t respond, just stared rather sullenly at me, so I took that as a yes.

  “Why did you call me?”

  Her gaze didn’t waver. “It was Martin’s idea.”

  Martin. Her husband. I should have known Dawn would never willingly call me.

  “And why did he think you should call me? Why not a friend or a lawyer or someone who is licensed to help with this kind of thing?”

  “I don’t have friends,” she replied.

  I didn’t try to correct her or insist that she must be wrong. It was probably the truth.

  “And I can’t afford a lawyer.” She took a deep breath, then expelled it. “You’re my only option, Rainy.”

  The door was ajar and it swung wide open. The sound of boots clomping into the room almost drowned out the voice that said, “Your only option for what, Dawn? Getting away with murder?”

  We both turned and saw Sheriff Lewis standing in the doorway.

  NINE

  “What is she doing here?” Sheriff Lewis grumbled as he shuffled into the room.

  It had been a while since I’d had any significant interactions with the sheriff. I counted this as a good thing. If I had an arch nemesis in this town, Sheriff Lewis fit the bill. We’d gotten off on the wrong foot from the moment I’d moved to Latney when he’d come out to investigate the arson on my property. Our relationship had steadily deteriorated from there.

  “She,” I said pointedly, referring to myself in the third person, “is here to support a friend.” I gave myself a few gold points for not tripping over saying that last word.

  The sheriff harrumphed. “Friend? So you’re planning to help her get away with murder, are you?”

  I bristled at his words. Technically, I hadn’t helped anyone get away with murder; in fact, I’d managed to solve every single major crime in the city of Latney over the last six months. I knew this wasn’t due to some special investigative skills I possessed. Rather, it was because of the sheer incompetence of the man standing in front of me, the only person in town who seemed to get involved when crimes were committed.

  “I’m here as a friend,” I repeated.

  The sheriff made a face. It had been at least a month since I’d last seen him, but he still looked exactly the same. His button-down shirt was starched stiff, his ample stomach straining against the buttons. His police-issued hat sat slightly crooked on his head, hiding the thick shock of white hair underneath it, hair that mirrored the color of his thick moustache.

  “Shoulda known you’d be involved with something like this,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear.

  I wasn’t sure Dawn picked up on his words, but I did, and I forced a smile. “Is there something in particular you need, Sheriff?”

  He motioned toward Dawn. “Need to get a statement from her. Ask her some questions.”

  “A statement?”

  The sheriff nodded. “About what happened last night. Where she was.”

  “Is she being charged?” I asked.

  The sheriff’s expression clouded. “Well, no. Not yet, anyway.”

  Dawn stiffened.

  “She’s not answering questions,” I said calmly. “Especially without a lawyer present.”

  “Now look,” Sheriff Lewis said, settling his hands on his hips and looking at Dawn. “I don’t know what in tarnation she’s told you, but you do not need a lawyer to give me a statement.”

  “Do not listen to him,” I warned.

  “I just want an idea of where you were last night, what might have happened at that there motel. That’s all. Just a friendly chat.”

  Dawn frowned. “I don’t have anything to hide,” she said to me. “Why don’t I just give him a statement?”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s not how this works. Trust me.”

  The sheriff glared at me. I was pretty sure that if he could bring me up on charges and haul me off to the jail cell in his office in Winslow, he’d do so in a heartbeat.

  His moustache rose above his curled lip. “You really gonna trust the word of some would-be private investigator?” The way he said those last two words left little doubt as to how he felt about me.

  “Anything you say c
ould be used against you,” I told her.

  “I haven’t read her any Miranda rights!” the sheriff roared.

  “I know,” I said. “And that’s the problem. Anything she tells you right now can be admitted as evidence, and you haven’t even told her that. You are fishing around for information, and you’re doing it in a sneaky way.”

  “Because someone snuck over to a motel in my county and murdered someone last night!” His eyes bulged. “Of course I’m fishing for information!”

  I turned my attention back to Dawn, who had been watching as we argued back and forth. “Don’t do it,” I said. “It doesn't matter whether you did it or not or whether you think you have nothing to hide. That isn't the point. Get a lawyer first.”

  The sheriff reached for the pipe in his pocket and jammed it into his mouth. “You’re gonna need a lawyer,” he said to Dawn. He had somehow managed to perfect talking around the pipe stuck between his lips. “Especially by the time I’m through with investigating.”

  It was hard not to smirk at his statement. The sheriff wouldn’t know how to investigate a crime if it came up and bit him on the toe.

  “See, he's already telling you he thinks you're a suspect,” I said to Dawn.

  “Now, wait a second!” he cried.

  “He's telling you this,” I said, ignoring him. “Which is a really boneheaded thing to do, but he is. So anything you tell him? He's going to try and make it fit the crime.”

  Dawn chewed on her bottom lip.

  “And he's already screwing the whole thing up,” I continued. “I mean, he already told you about what he believes to be the murder weapon.”

  The sheriff thought for a moment, then crimson flourished in his cheeks.

  “Which any investigator worth their salt will tell you is a huge mistake. You don't tell people what you know and you sure as heck don't divulge details of a crime to your suspect.”

  Dawn didn't say anything, but she glanced at him.

  I knew she was listening to me.

  “Was there anything else you needed, Sheriff?” I asked, smiling. “Because if not, I think we're done here.”

  If his eyes had been lasers, they would have sliced me in two. He stared at me for a long moment, shifting the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. Then, he spun on his heel and headed for the door, slamming it shut for good measure.