by Jeff Shelby
At least Laura didn’t faint.
She gasped after Martin’s proclamation, and leaned against the doorframe, but she managed to stay standing.
“Who is Owen?” she asked, looking from me to Martin. “What happened?”
“Who are you?” Martin asked.
I scrubbed my hands down my face. This was not how I’d anticipated my morning going.
“Martin, this is my daughter, Laura. Laura, this is Martin. His wife runs the Wicked Wich, the restaurant I’m always telling you about.”
“And Owen?” Laura asked. Her eyes were wide, and it looked as though most of the color had drained from her face.
“He is Martin’s brother-in-law,” I explained.
Martin’s expression darkened. “That man was no brother of mine.”
Connor appeared, a spoon in one hand, the other cupped underneath to catch any spills. “Did you want to sample the soup?” he asked me, holding out the spoon.
“Uh, not right now,” I said. To Martin, I said, “I’m sorry about Owen.”
“Well, I’m not,” he announced. “Punk has had that coming for years, if you ask me.”
Laura gasped again.
“Any word on oak trees?” Connor asked.
I bit back a sigh and looked at Martin. “Why don’t I come outside and we can chat?”
The last thing I wanted to do was stand on the front porch in the cold but it was a calculated move. Laura was clean after her shower and I was counting on her not wanting to revisit the muddy environment she’d had to navigate just an hour or so earlier. If I brought him in the house, she would hover and ask questions and gasp several times and I just wasn’t in the mood. Besides, I wasn’t keeping anything from her by doing it this way. I was just putting off the inevitable questions and comments and gasps of shock. I knew those would come the minute I got back into the house. And Connor…well, he could go hunt for oak trees himself if he wanted acorns so badly.
I was still wearing my jacket from my trip out to the restaurant and Toby’s so all I had to do was slip back into my shoes. I shoved my feet in the rain boots sitting by the door and joined him outside.
Martin began to speak before I even closed the door. “The sheriff thinks Dawn killed her own brother.”
“I know.”
“He came by the restaurant this morning and told her about Owen and said some things about her maybe being the one who did it.”
“I know.”
But Martin wasn’t listening to me. Or if he was, I couldn’t tell, because he just kept talking.
“I told her to call you.”
“I know.”
“That maybe you could help. That you’re probably the only one who can help.”
I sighed. “I know.”
He looked at me. “What?”
“I know,” I said again, pronouncing each word as clearly as I could. “Dawn already called me. I already went by the restaurant. The sheriff stopped by, too.”
“Again?” He frowned. “After his visit earlier this morning?”
I nodded.
“What did he say?”
“He wanted to take a statement from Dawn, ask her some questions.”
Martin shifted uneasily. “What did she do?”
I raised my eyebrows. “You haven’t talked to her?”
“I’ve been at home,” he said. “Cleaning the house. For Thanksgiving.”
I appreciated the fact that he willingly did domestic chores at home, but I still wasn’t sure how he and Dawn hadn’t communicated about either my visit or the sheriff’s less than an hour earlier.
“So what did she do?” he asked again. “You were there, right? You told her what to do?”
I almost laughed. From my experience with Dawn, no one told her what to do. Ever.
“I advised against making any kind of statement or answering questions without a lawyer present.”
Martin paled. “A lawyer? Why does she need a lawyer? Is she gonna be charged with murder?”
“I have no idea,” I told him. The rain had stopped for good but the wind was blowing and I shoved my hands in my pockets, trying to pull my jacket tighter to my body. “But everything I know says you don’t freely give information in cases like these, especially when you are a suspect.”
He groaned. “She’s a suspect?”
I took a deep breath. “Martin, I have no idea,” I said, trying to stay calm. “But from what she shared with me and what you’re telling me and what I witnessed from the sheriff himself, I would say that is a pretty good guess.”
He dropped his head and groaned again.
“But just because the sheriff suspects her doesn’t mean a thing,” I reminded him. “Heck, knowing Sheriff Lewis, he probably thinks I’m a suspect.”
Martin glanced at me. “What did you have against Owen?”
It was my turn to groan. “I didn’t.” That wasn’t entirely true, especially after our interaction at the restaurant. “My point is, the sheriff isn’t exactly great at his job. So even though he might ‘suspect’ Dawn, it doesn’t mean anything if there is no evidence connecting her to the crime.”
Martin digested this for a moment. “So you think she’s okay?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
It was the truth. I really didn't know. I didn't think Dawn had anything to do with her brother's death, but I also knew Sheriff Lewis was incompetent enough to arrest her for all the wrong reasons.
He swallowed a couple of times, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Will you…will you help her?”
I liked Martin. He had been one of the first friendly people I’d met in Latney. There had been no hidden agenda, no nosy questions. He’d just said hello and sat down next to me at the Wicked Wich and pretty much welcomed me to town. In actuality, the only reason I would help Dawn was because of him and because he was asking me to.
But I also knew that my help had limits. If she really had been at the scene of the crime the night before—and fought with her brother—it provided circumstantial evidence and motive. And I wasn’t sure how much I could do to disprove the sheriff’s theory that she was involved.
Especially with my daughter and her boyfriend at my house for a family holiday. A family holiday I had invited them to.
“I’ll do what I can,” I finally said. It sounded like a cop out, even to me, but it was all I could offer.
He nodded, then froze and turned his head so he was facing the driveway. Something had caught his eye. Or rather, someone.
A woman bundled up in a jacket sloshed through the puddles at the end of my driveway. She was carrying something with both hands, a dish of some sort.
As she got closer, I could make out who it was.
Jill.
“Hi,” she said, looking at me and then Martin. They exchanged polite smiles and nods. “I, uh, was hoping I could ask for a favor.”
I pasted on a smile of my own and hoped she wasn’t going to ask for anything related to my non-existent investigative skills. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
She held out the dish she was holding. “I have this pie.”
I glanced down at it. It was definitely a pie.
“My dad loves apple pie so I thought I’d surprise him with one for Thanksgiving.”
I knew all about Gunnar’s love of apple pie. “Well, that is sweet of you,” I said.
She nodded. “Yeah, I know. So I was hoping I could bake it in your oven so he wouldn’t know. I can’t exactly Lysol the house to get rid of the smell of an apple pie.”
“Well, sure,” I said. “Did you want to bake it now?”
She held it up. “I have it right here.”
I felt my cheeks redden. Of course she wanted to bake it now; that was why she was standing on my front porch, and why she’d trudged over in the aftermath of a monumental rainstorm.
“You make that yourself?” Martin asked, peering at the pie.
I was wondering the same thing, because she would have
had to be pretty stealthy to whip that up in Gunnar’s kitchen without him knowing. But maybe he’d hung out in my driveway for a while before I’d come back home, and maybe he hadn’t returned home after leaving here. If she’d known he was going to be gone, she would have had time to throw it together.
“No,” Jill said, answering the question. “I bought it at a bakery, one of those places where you take and bake yourself. I put it in one of his pie pans, though.”
I cringed. Was she purposely trying to deceive her dad into thinking she’d made the pie for him or was it simply that she wanted to serve it in her dad’s nice pie pan?
“I should get going, then,” Martin said. “Let you get her inside so she can throw that thing in the oven.”
“Alright, well keep me posted if anything new comes up,” I said. I had chosen my words carefully, not giving any details away in regards to what he and I had been talking about.
But Martin wasn’t so careful. “I’m sure something new will come up. Owen’s dead and Dawn is a suspect, and—”
Whatever else he said was drowned out by two sounds: Jill’s cry and the pie plate smashing to the floor.
THIRTEEN
“Owen is dead?”
Jill was a blubbering mess.
I’d guided her into the house, sidestepping the oozing apples mixed in with shards of white ceramic pie plate, and sat her on the couch.
I didn’t know what to say. I’d never had to be the bearer of that kind of bad news. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I’d shared with Luke and Laura when distant family members had died, but it wasn’t the same. Those were people they hadn’t really known, or people who had simply been memories to them, folks they’d seen at the odd wedding or graduation. This was different. At least I thought it was.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Jill sniffled. “What happened? When did it happen?”
“I don’t really know many details,” I told her. “My understanding is that it is still under investigation. I think…I think it happened sometime last night or early this morning.”
She looked at me through tear-filled eyes. “You said something about Dawn being a suspect? Does that mean someone killed him? On purpose?”
I hadn’t said anything; Martin had. “Like I said, I think they’re still trying to piece together what happened.”
She cradled her head in her hands. “I can’t believe it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. I reached out a hand and patted her arm a little awkwardly. I’d only just met her and wasn’t quite sure of the best way to comfort her. “I know you saw him yesterday.”
She stilled.
I thought back to what I’d witnessed between them: her obvious delight at seeing him, their flirtatious back and forth, his cool interest in her. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say they’d had some kind of relationship at some point.
“Were you close?” I asked. “You and Owen?”
She didn’t respond right away, and I didn’t know if it was because she was too upset to speak or because she simply didn’t want to share.
“We were friends,” Jill said, the last word ending on a little hiccup.
“And you’ve known him for a while?”
She nodded.
I was getting answers but they weren’t the answers I needed.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
She sniffed again. “You mean before yesterday?”
It was my turn to nod.
“I don’t know,” she said. “A year ago, maybe?”
“So this time last year? Thanksgiving?”
“I think so,” she said. “I don’t really remember.”
If her memory was this bad at her young age, I shuddered to think what it might be like when she hit her mid-forties.
“Can I have a word?”
I whirled around.
Laura was standing by the fireplace, halfway between the kitchen and the stairs. Judging by the look on her face, she’d overheard my entire conversation with Jill.
“Will you excuse me for just a second?” I asked Jill.
She gave me a brief nod and went back to looking down at her hands.
I hurried toward my daughter and tugged her into the hallway that led to the kitchen.
“Do you want to tell me what in the world is going on?” Laura whispered.
No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to tell her a thing because I knew she would freak out more than she already was.
But that answer wasn’t going to fly with Laura. Even I wasn’t naïve enough to think it would.
“Of course,” I said. I frowned, hoping I was giving her my best worried look. “But I’m hoping you can do me a quick favor.”
Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Jill was a little upset by the news.”
“That someone was murdered here in town?” Laura snapped. “Yeah, I’d sort of be worried about that too. I actually am worried.”
I ignored her comment. “She dropped a pie plate on the front porch.”
Laura stared at me.
“And, well, there is a mess of apples and broken glass all over the porch.” It wasn’t glass, but I didn’t want to focus on the minutiae.
“That’s not good,” Laura said.
“I know.” I nodded vehemently. “And, well, I don’t want to leave Jill by herself to go clean it up, but I also don’t think it’s smart to leave it out there.”
“That food will attract mice and ants and all kinds of creatures.” Laura’s brow furrowed. “And the glass…if that gets tracked into the house, someone could really get hurt.”
“Would you mind…do you think you could clean it up? Either that or sit with Jill while I do it? You wouldn’t have to do much with her. She’ll probably just sit there and cry.”
Laura shook her head. “No, no, I’ll clean it up.”
I bit back a smile. “That would be wonderful.” I continued into the kitchen, ignoring Connor as he hovered over the soup still simmering on the stove, and handed Laura the broom and dustpan, along with a roll of paper towels and an empty plastic grocery bag.
She took them from me and walked back toward the living room with renewed purpose.
I rejoined Jill on the couch. She was still sitting there, still staring at her hands, but she’d stopped sniffling.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked. “A glass of water or something else to drink?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” I felt badly about how she learned the news. “Do you want me to call your dad, have him come over?”
“No,” she said quickly. Her eyes shot to mine. “No,” she repeated.
It was a forceful reply, and I cocked my head, not sure what to make of it.
She stood up, straightening her jacket and smoothing her hands down her thighs. “I should really get going.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “And I’m sorry about the pie, too.”
Jill gave me a blank stare. Then her expression cleared. “Oh, crap. That’s right.”
“I have some desserts,” I told her, remembering the bag of goodies Declan had brought over. “I’m happy to share.”
“It’s alright,” she said dejectedly.
“Are you sure? We have plenty.” Declan’s treats had been an unexpected surprise and coupled with the pumpkin and apple pies sitting in my refrigerator, we probably had a week’s worth of dessert in the house.
She shook her head. Her eyes were dry now, but still a little red-rimmed from crying. “I’ll just go buy one in town. It’s fine.”
I wondered what she might be able to find in the bakery section at Toby’s on the day before Thanksgiving but I didn’t want to say this. I felt like I’d already delivered enough bad news to last a lifetime; the prospect of no apple pie felt like the cherry on top of a terrible dessert.
By now, she was standing by the door. I could see Laura through the window, the broom moving rhythmica
lly across the wood planks of the porch.
“And you’re okay?” I said. “There’s nothing I can do?”
She looked at me with her father’s eyes, a melancholy expression on her face, and my heart seized. Her resemblance to Gunnar in that moment was astonishing.
Jill’s lip trembled and she pressed them together. She breathed in deeply through her nose and I waited for her to say something.
Finally, she spoke. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”
FOURTEEN
Laura was on me the minute Jill disappeared down the driveway, sloshing her way through the standing puddles.
She whipped back around, the broom still in her hand. The way she was holding it made it look suspiciously like a weapon, as though she intended to beat information out of me if I wasn’t as forthcoming as she wanted me to be.
“The dead person was murdered?” Her eyes were like saucers and the tone of her voice expressed an equal balance of outrage, fear and dismay.
“We don’t know,” I said.
A pile of wadded up paper towels sat next to the dustpan and I crouched down to stuff them into the already full plastic grocery bag.
“Be careful,” Laura warned. “You don’t want to cut yourself.”
“I’ll be fine.” I actually wasn’t adverse to the idea. A small cut—with ample blood—might divert Laura’s attention from the conversation she was trying to have and I was doing my best to avoid.
She held the broom in front of her and planted it firmly on the floor, almost leaning against it as she studied me. “And what do you mean you don’t know? I heard you talking to that woman. Jill. You said he was murdered, and someone you know is the suspect!”
“I never mentioned the word murder,” I pointed out. “You did.”
I stuffed the last paper towel into the bag and tried not to feel too disappointed about having avoided a cut. I tied the ends and stood up.
“You said this Owen guy is dead and that some woman named Dawn is a suspect.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head as I headed back into the house, Laura on my heels. “Jill said that. Not me.”
Laura leaned the broom against the wall and kicked off her shoes. But not before inspecting the soles to make sure there were no bits of broken pie plate stuck between the treads.