One Bad Egg (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 5)

by Jeff Shelby

  “Did someone die?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Is there a suspect?”

  “Now, wait—”

  “Just answer the question.”

  She followed me into the kitchen, where I deposited the bag of pie remains into the trash. Connor was standing by the sink, rinsing off bowls and utensils and loading the dishwasher.

  “Yes, there is a suspect,” I finally said. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”

  Laura threw up her hands. “It means everything!”

  Connor turned around with a confused expression. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Someone was killed here in town,” Laura announced.

  Connor’s eyebrows disappeared from view, hidden by his hair. “Excuse me?”

  “Someone was found dead,” I said calmly. I grabbed an extra washcloth and ran it under the water so I could tackle the spills on the counter. “There’s a big difference.”

  “You don’t have a suspect when someone is just ‘found dead.’”

  “With Sheriff Lewis investigating? You sure do.”

  I’d shared a few stories about our local law enforcement with Laura, but she didn’t know the full extent of his incompetence. If I told her all of that, I’d have to disclose everything I’d been involved in over the last several months, and that was something I wasn’t willing to do. Not now, and probably not ever.

  “Sheriff Lewis is indeed investigating,” a voice drawled from the hallway.

  I froze in mid-wipe.

  The sheriff stepped into the kitchen and eyed the three of us standing there.

  “And he has some questions for you, Rainy Day.”

  FIFTEEN

  “Sheriff Lewis.”

  He grunted a reply.

  I laid the washcloth on the counter. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “Front door was wide open,” he said, jerking his thumb in the general direction of the living room. “Figured I should make sure everyone in here is okay. Especially with a murderer running around town.”

  I bit my lip so I wouldn’t respond in a way I might regret. Laura’s eyes widened and Connor was looking at the sheriff as though he was trying to figure out if the guy was for real.

  “I didn’t invite you in,” I said, as calmly as I could manage.

  “Well, like I said, the door was wide open.” The sheriff smiled, and his moustache turned up at the ends. “That’s about as obvious of an invitation as one can get ‘round here.”

  “An obvious invitation is someone inviting you in.”

  He shrugged. “Same difference.”

  I dried my hands on the kitchen towel hanging from the stove and forced a smile. “Why don’t we step into the living room?” I said. The sooner I could get Laura away from the sheriff, the better. She didn’t need to hear anything else that might send her further into a tailspin.

  Sheriff Lewis nodded. “Works just fine for me. I have some questions about the suspects.”

  “Suspects?” Laura asked. “As in, multiple?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The sheriff looked her over. “And who might you be?”

  “Sheriff Lewis, this is my daughter, Laura,” I said. “And her boyfriend, Connor. They just arrived this morning.”

  “Early this morning?” the sheriff asked suspiciously.

  “Around nine,” I told him. “From Arlington.”

  I wanted to add that they did not know Owen and were not suspects he could add to his list, but I knew it would fall on deaf ears. I could see it now, the way he was mentally cataloging the information, figuring out a potential connection to the crime—that hadn’t yet been classified a crime—in ways that only his addled brain could do.

  I pointed toward the door. “Living room?”

  He tipped his hat to Laura and Connor and headed back into the living room. Laura took a step forward, looking as though she had every intention of following him.

  I shot Connor a look and shook my head no. He looked a little like a deer caught in the headlights. I mouthed the word “please” and widened my eyes, hoping my attempts at communicating just how big of a disaster it would be if Laura were to sit in on my time with the sheriff would be.

  Connor cleared his throat. “Hey, Laura, we should probably get started on the bread. If we can’t find acorns, we need to find another recipe to try.”

  I didn’t even flinch. I didn’t care if they were boiling live octopi in the kitchen, as long as it kept Laura away from the sheriff.

  Her expression clouded. “It can wait.”

  He glanced at me and then at the chicken clock on the wall. It was closing in on noon, but it already felt like they’d been there for days. “Well, what about the soup? We still have to make the cracklings.” He paused. “I suppose I could do it myself…”

  That was the only motivation she needed. “No, no, I’ll help,” she said. “Frying those up is a two-person job. Besides, we need to figure out what we’re doing with the rest of the duck.”

  I gave Connor a grateful smile. He was the yin to Laura’s yang; this much was certain.

  I slipped out of the kitchen and hurried down the hallway. Knowing the sheriff, he was probably rummaging through my drawers, looking for clues.

  I wasn’t too far off. He was parked in front of the fireplace, examining the photos lining the mantle. They were all candid family shots, pictures of Luke and Laura when they were younger and then other photos of the three of us in more recent years, shots I’d had someone snap to document the three of us together.

  “Care to tell me why you’re here?” I asked.

  The sheriff slowly spun around. He wobbled a little as he did so, making the move look a lot less smooth than I’m sure he intended for it to be.

  “Well, like I said in the kitchen, I need to talk to you about the suspects,” he said.

  “Suspects. Plural.” I sat down on the edge of the couch and hoped he would sit, too. “I was only aware of one. And even that one is pretty weak,” I added.

  He frowned. “You are not doing the investigating here. I am. And I’m telling you there are multiple suspects.”

  “But if I'm not doing any investigating, why are you even telling me this?”

  “Stop twisting my words!”

  I took a deep breath, trying to control my irritation. Maybe it was a good thing he had another suspect. It would take his focus off of Dawn. “Okay. Who else?”

  A normal law enforcement official wouldn’t divulge names simply because someone asked. They would keep that information under wraps and focus instead on asking questions that might confirm their suspicions. You didn't give out information in an investigation. You tried to collect it.

  But Sheriff Lewis was not normal law enforcement.

  “Don’t play coy with me,” he said. His frown deepened. “You know who I’m talking about.”

  I didn’t have to feign confusion. “I do?”

  He folded his arms across his chest, resting his elbows on his belly. “Martin Putnam.”

  My confusion was even more genuine. “Martin?” Maybe he was more addled than I thought. Was he now confusing which Putnam he considered a suspect?

  “You heard me.” He reached for his trusty pipe.

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  He jammed the pipe between his lips. “You know as well as I do that Martin was at the motel last night, too.”

  This was news to me. “With Dawn?”

  “Not with her,” he snapped. “He went later. Got into a fistfight with Owen.”

  “I had no idea,” I murmured.

  The sheriff’s expression darkened. “No idea?” he asked. “Even though Martin was just here? You’re telling me he came all this way and didn’t mention a single word about the fight he had with his brother-in-law? The brother-in-law who is now dead?”

  At least I didn’t have to lie to Sheriff Lewis. Because this was the first I’d heard of any fight.

 
“I’m telling you the truth,” I said. “The only reason he came over was to tell me that Owen had died and that you were trying to ask Dawn questions.”

  The pipe slid to the right side of his mouth and he chewed on it as he studied me. “I don’t believe you,” he finally announced. “Why are you protecting him?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not protecting anyone.”

  He yanked the pipe from his mouth and pointed it at me. “Do you want to spend Thanksgiving in jail?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” he practically yelled. “I can bring you in for…for obstruction of justice. Interfering with a police investigation.”

  My heart was pounding and my temper had flared but I tried to stay calm. “I can’t interfere with an investigation that I know nothing about. And I'm answering your questions!”

  His face turned red. “You are interfering! Just like you always do!”

  Connor poked his head into the living room. “Is everything alright?” he asked, darting a nervous glance in my direction.

  “Everything is fine,” I said. I stood up. “The sheriff was just leaving, weren’t you?”

  He practically growled at me. “I’m not done with you.”

  But I’d had enough.

  “Well, I have company to attend to and you are in my house uninvited. I am asking you to leave.” I paused, waiting for him to move away from where he’d parked in front of the fireplace.

  He stood there, his pipe still in his hand, a vein pulsing in his temple.

  “If you don’t leave, the only person here who will be committing a crime is you,” I said calmly. “And that would be trespassing.”

  He did growl this time. “I’ll be back,” he warned as he stomped toward the door. “Soon.”

  That was fine with me.

  Because I wasn’t going to be there.

  SIXTEEN

  I didn’t even tell Laura or Connor that I was leaving.

  I just hopped in my car and headed over to the Wicked Wich.

  What Sheriff Lewis told me had confused me, but it irritated me, too. Martin had been at my house less than an hour earlier. He’d begged me to help Dawn, and had talked a little bit about what he knew regarding the circumstances surrounding Owen’s death. Not once had he mentioned the fact that he himself had gone to the motel room the previous night. Not once did he mention that he’d gotten into a physical altercation with his brother-in-law.

  That left two possibilities. One was that the sheriff was fabricating stories to suit his own agenda. And the other was that he’d told me the truth and Martin had been the one to withhold information from me.

  I didn’t know if I’d find Martin at the restaurant, but it felt like as good of a place as any to start. It made sense: I knew Dawn was working and I knew Martin was worried about her. He’d spent the morning cleaning and getting ready for Thanksgiving, and he’d come to see me, so wouldn’t his next stop be to check in with his wife? The last thing I’d expect him to do would be to leave her alone when so much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Dawn wasn’t the type of woman to need her hand held, but Martin was definitely the kind of guy who would offer it up.

  My instincts proved right. Martin was standing outside the restaurant, holding a cigarette.

  This stopped me in my tracks. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “I don’t.” Martin glanced at the cigarette between his fingers.

  “Then what’s that?” I asked, gesturing to the thing he was holding.

  “A cigarette.” He sighed. “I used to smoke. Quit ten years ago.”

  “So you’re taking it back up again?”

  He held the cigarette out in front of him to study it. “Thinking about it.”

  I hitched my purse over my shoulder and folded my arms. “Why didn’t you tell me about your fight with Owen?”

  Martin shrugged. “It didn’t seem important.”

  “It didn’t seem important?” I asked incredulously. “Martin, the sheriff thinks your wife might have killed her own brother. And now he’s coming around to my house, telling me you were there, too, and that you apparently got in a fistfight with him before he died. Don’t you think that might make you a suspect, too?”

  Martin brought the cigarette to his lips, then lowered it. “I didn’t kill him,” he mumbled. “I might have wanted to, but I didn’t do it.”

  I folded my arms across my midsection, as much to keep warm as to illustrate my determination. “I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Every single detail. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “There’s nothing really to tell,” Martin said.

  “Nothing to tell? You go over to your brother-in-law’s motel room, get in a fistfight with him, and he’s dead the next morning. Dead under mysterious circumstances, according to the sheriff. And there’s nothing really to tell?”

  He stared at the pavement. “Well, when you put it that way…”

  I tried to gentle my tone, tried to put myself in his shoes. He had an obvious dislike for his brother-in-law; he’d told me as much when he came over earlier. And he was aware of the argument Dawn had gotten in with Owen. It made perfect sense that he’d want to go over and confront Owen over what had happened.

  If he’d gone over after.

  I realized I didn’t know.

  “Did you go to the motel before or after Dawn saw Owen?”

  He rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “After.”

  I nodded, mostly to myself. That was the answer I’d expected, the answer that made the most sense. “So you went over for Dawn,” I said. “I can see how you would want to do that, to stand up for her, but you have to know that it looks a little suspicious, evidence-wise.”

  He looked up, puzzled. “Why would I do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Stand up for Dawn.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  He waved the cigarette at me. “You said I went to see Owen to stand up for Dawn.”

  “You didn’t?”

  He shook his head. “Dawn can take care of herself. She doesn’t need me to babysit her or fight her battles.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  I scratched my head. “Okay,” I said slowly, trying to put the pieces together, “so if you didn’t go over on Dawn’s behalf, why were you there?”

  His expression darkened. “I had my reasons.”

  “Which were?” I prompted.

  He didn’t respond.

  I bit back a sigh. I was getting frustrated.

  “Fine,” I said, adjusting my purse. My fingers were cold, and I wished I’d thought to wear gloves. “You can talk to someone else about it.”

  He glanced at me and then just as quickly looked away.

  “Because if you won’t talk to me, I know exactly who you will be talking to eventually,” I told him. “The sheriff.”

  He stayed silent.

  “From jail.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “Wait.”

  I had my keys in my hand.

  Slowly, I turned.

  Martin was leaning against the outside wall of the restaurant, the cigarette now within inches of his lips.

  “What?” My tone was clipped and I almost felt bad about it. But there was a bigger part of me that was irritated and frustrated and exasperated enough to edge out the guilt.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said.

  I waited, my keys still clenched in my hand.

  He glanced at the door of the restaurant and then back at his truck. “Not here,” he decided.

  “Look, I don’t have much time.” I thought about how I’d run out of the house without telling Laura and Connor. They’d been in Latney for half a day already and I’d spent a total of maybe twenty minutes with them. This, coupled with the circumstances of Owen’s death and my entanglement with it, were going to make the next 24 hours near impossible to survive with my daughter.

  “I can’t go anywhere,” I said, shaking my he
ad. “Tell me now or forget it.”

  “I didn’t mean we had to leave,” Martin said quickly. “I just meant not out here on the sidewalk.” He pointed to his truck. “We can talk in there.”

  I cast a dubious look at him. “And what might Dawn do if she finds me sitting in your truck? With you. Alone.”

  He thought for a minute. “She’ll probably freak out.”

  It wasn’t a probability; it was a certainty.

  “She’s the only one waiting tables today, though,” he said. “And the restaurant is closing early but not until five. We have plenty of time.”

  I hesitated. I absolutely wanted to know what Martin was willing to share, but I also wanted to live to celebrate Thanksgiving with my daughter.

  “Please, Rainy.” His eyes pleaded with me. “I…I need to come clean to someone.”

  My heart dropped into my stomach. He needed to come clean? Did that mean he was the one responsible for Owen’s death?

  And how had I become the person everyone in Latney confessed to?

  He shoved the cigarette into his pocket, producing a set of keys in its place, as if he’d just performed some type of magic trick. When he walked over to his truck, I debated not following him.

  For about a half a second.

  He unlocked the doors and I climbed into the passenger seat. The cab smelled like coffee and French fries, and there was a gas station soda cup in one of the cup holders. He had a stack of CDs in the console between the two front seats, mostly country artists whose names I recognized but whose music would elude me if it played on the radio.

  “What’s going on, Martin?” I asked as soon as I closed the door.

  “I owe Owen money,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve owed him money for years,” he continued. “'Owin’ Owen' is what he always said.” He scowled. “Like it was some big joke.”

  “What did you owe him money for?”

  He hesitated. “My truck.”

  I looked at the seat I was sitting in. “This truck?”

  Martin shook his head. “No, my truck truck.”