Annalise pressed her eye against the peephole in the door, then squeezed it shut. Groaning deep in her throat, she flipped the lock and yanked open the door. “Yes?”
Garrett didn’t even have the heart to try to appear sheepish. He lounged against the doorjamb as if he’d wait all day for her to open and let him in. Infinite patience. Well, she knew better. Garrett Greenwood had never been patient. He’d been reckless, bold, and—
“I ran out of coffee.”
—and stupid.
“Well then.” Annalise crossed her arms over her chest. “There’s a super nice coffee shop downtown that makes a killer latte. Or a Target about three miles from here. They sell Folgers.”
“Folgers? I’d rather drink mud.”
“Oh, you have that too, in your backyard. I think you’re well supplied.” Annalise moved to close the door, but Garrett’s strong grip shot out and grabbed hold of it. His brow furrowed in that half begging, half patronizing way he had that always melted her.
“C’mon, Q, don’t be mean. I can smell it. You have Guatemalan brewed, don’t you?”
“You can tell the flavor?” Annalise tried not to be impressed.
Garrett shrugged. “It’s not hard. You always liked Guatemalan, and you never change habits.”
Annalise bit her tongue, then stepped to the right so he could enter. She noted the way he glanced around as he made his way through the Victorian home’s foyer and into the kitchen where her laptop was still open on the table. Annalise edged past him and shut the lid.
“I had no idea you were still living here.” For once there was a note of apology in his voice, as if Garrett wanted her to believe he really hadn’t meant to infringe on her privacy when he returned and bought the significantly less impressive house beside hers.
Annalise reached into the cupboard and pulled out a red mug. “Mom and Dad moved to Arizona. I offered to buy them out.”
“They made you buy your own house?” Garrett asked.
Annalise ignored the flip in her stomach. The one that always made it ache when she considered it too long. Not even a discount or a We’re sorry we can’t afford to just give it to you. No. It had all been a business deal. As if they weren’t her parents and she their only child. It’d been that way ever since. . . .
Garrett’s question went unanswered. Annalise poured him a cup of coffee and handed him the mug. Garrett took it, and his fingers grazed hers. They both stilled. Annalise met his eyes, brown and unguarded. He searched hers as if looking for answers to long-buried questions.
She snatched her hand back. “You can take the mug with you. Just leave it on the porch and I’ll get it later.”
“Just like that?” Garrett’s eyes shuttered.
Annalise swallowed and pressed her palm on the table next to her to steady herself. “Yes. Just like that.”
His eyes never left her face as he tipped the mug to his mouth. Bringing it down, he nodded. “So much for neighborly.”
Neighborly.
They’d crossed that boundary line years ago.
“I asked you to leave me alone.” Annalise sank into the chair and pulled her laptop toward her, lifting the lid. “I have work I need to do.” Her words didn’t come out as firm as she’d hoped. In fact, she heard the wobble in her own voice.
Garrett, in typical Greenwood fashion, must have determined to do his own thing regardless. He pulled out a chair and swung it around next to her, plopping onto it and staring at her screen before she had the sense to slam it shut again.
“Researching my great-great-grandfather?”
Annalise’s gaze shot to his. “I like to study history.”
“Greenwood history.” It was more of a statement with doubtful undertones than an actual question. A strand of deep brown hair the color of coffee fell across Garrett’s forehead, mimicking the way his muscular body straddled the chair. Relaxed, confident, and haphazard.
“Are you trying to dig up dirt to use against us?”
“What would that accomplish?” Annalise sighed and flipped open her computer. Anything to avoid looking at him. “I’m not sure anyone in Gossamer Grove gives two hoots about anyone from 1907, even if they were a Greenwood.”
“It’s no secret you’re up against Doug Larson for your shelter, and Nicole is the one who’ll tip the balance in the decision-making process. Tyler’s newspaper article about that old guy’s trailer and your pictures make it sound like you just might be profiting off the food pantry more than looking out for those in need.”
Of all the nerve! Annalise reared back and leveled her most incredulous look on Garrett. “If you knew me at all, you’d never suggest that!”
Garrett slurped his coffee, completely unaffected as he stared at the laptop. “I never suggested it. My mom mentioned it.”
His mom? Oh. Right. Annalise relaxed only slightly. She’d run into Mrs. Greenwood yesterday after her chaotic dash back from Eugene Hayes’s creepy old trailer. The woman had been standing in line behind Annalise at the library and heard her inquiring about genealogy archives. Annalise tried to block the black-dagger glare from her memory.
“Well, your mom has always loved me.” The irony in her voice wasn’t missed by Garrett. He shifted in his chair. The first sign of discomfort.
“There are a lot of people in Gossamer Grove who agree with you—that a homeless shelter should be built instead of Larson’s wilderness center.”
Annalise didn’t respond, but began to scroll down the web page featuring an article from some archive about Harrison Greenwood and the start of his flour mill in 1890.
“You’re not trying to do any damage to Nic, are you?”
Annalise’s head flew up. “Me? Digging up stuff from 1907 to smear Nicole’s name, and what? Get her impeached for not giving land to the homeless shelter?”
“Can you impeach a mayor?”
“Seriously, Garrett. I’m not giving up hope your sister hasn’t already signed on the line for Larson to take that property. But I wouldn’t stoop so low as to dig up dirty secrets on your family.”
Not to mention, she wouldn’t have to dig very far.
“Then why’re you researching my ancestor?”
“You must have read the paper.” Annalise danced around his question. “My pictures were all over the trailer. Your ancestor’s obituary was there, along with other historical documents.” She alt-tabbed the browser and stared at the Greenwood family tree she’d begun to create on the popular website. A leaf dotted the top right corner of Harrison Greenwood’s name. All those historic documents she had already perused and yet none of them seemed to help her draw any conclusions as to why his death would somehow be linked to her in the mind of Eugene Hayes.
“Eugene Hayes was an old man, Q. He probably just had random stuff littered all over.”
“And seven hundred pictures of me,” she mumbled. Annalise clicked on one of the graphics stating Obituary by Harrison Greenwood’s name. She ignored Garrett, and they sat in companionable silence. Her eyes skimmed the words, though something pricked in the back of her mind. Annalise zoomed in on the obit.
“Weird,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Harrison’s obituary. I swear the one online in the public records system is different from the one Brent showed me in the picture from Eugene Hayes’s home.”
Garrett peered over her shoulder. Well, if that wasn’t disconcerting. Annalise edged away.
“Looks like a regular obit to me.”
She nodded. “It does. Straight. Factual. To the point.”
“‘Deacon Harrison Greenwood, owner of Greenwood Mill, and active member of the First Baptist Church, died yesterday at his home. The respected church elder and local business owner will be remembered with fondness for the solidarity he shared with Gossamer Grove citizens.’” Garrett finished reading and gave her a quizzical look. “I don’t see a problem.”
Annalise slipped from her chair under pretense of getting herself more coffee. “T
he problem is . . .” she said, watching the liquid brew slosh into her pottery mug, its hues of teal and emerald green swirled in the dark gray hardened clay. “The one Brent showed me was more prolific. Full of prose. Like a creepy early Victorian obituary.”
“What’d it say?” Garrett leaned casually back in his chair.
Annalise took a drink of her coffee and toyed with a dish towel. Maybe sharing this with Garrett was a bad idea, but then, if he could fill in some of the holes, maybe she could put this whole mystery to rest sooner rather than later. And dispel the imagery in her mind of the trailer, a dead man, and shadows in the bushes.
“I don’t remember what it said exactly. But they weren’t the same. I know it.” That discrepancy, along with her pictures, and the yet barely researched revival meeting had Annalise’s brain spinning in a thousand different directions with zero chance of arriving at any solution that would make her feel better.
“So, don’t take this wrong,” Garrett said and set his empty mug on the table, “but I don’t think you should waste your time researching it. Historical records are known for being inconsistent. Who cares if your picture was alongside my great-great-grandfather’s? I mean, Eugene was probably just trying to cause more trouble between our families. If he was following you and your mission for the pantry and the shelter, maybe he was the one trying to dig up dirt to undermine my sister. You are kind of going up against Nicole. Brilliant move.”
The sarcasm in his last comment made Annalise’s guard rise to full height. She flipped the dish towel away from her and stalked over to where Garrett had set his mug on the table. Snatching it, she marched back to the sink and plunked it down. “Brilliant move because all your sister cares about is the Gossamer Grove economy and tourism and how we can make money.”
“That’s bad?”
“It is when people like Eugene Hayes, people with pasts and things that have held them back in life, are overlooked!”
“Like you?” Garrett’s words speared her, and Annalise bit down on her bottom lip. Hard. But emotion made her chin quiver, and she shook her head.
“One of the pictures of me in Eugene’s trailer?” Annalise paused to make sure she had Garrett’s attention. “It was the night of your campfire. Remember that night?”
Color leached from Garrett’s face. He shifted his feet.
Annalise shook her head and pursed her lips against any feeling other than sheer defense. “It all means something. Harrison Greenwood, that revival meeting in 1907, and me. Eugene Hayes was watching me. Watching us.”
Garrett’s silence communicated more than if he’d whispered a word. Annalise discarded her coffee mug in the sink next to his and stared at the two cups. Together, but starkly different. One pottery and one plain red. Yet their contents had been the same. Shared. Like her and Garrett’s memories.
Chapter 12
Mathematics made sense to Annalise. She appreciated that two plus two always equaled four. There were no variables, no curve balls, no being blindsided by a random number winging its way into the equation. People often said she should have been an accountant, but if she hadn’t gone into business for herself, she would have chosen to be a librarian. Not for the books either. It was the Dewey Decimal System that inspired her. It was orderly.
Too bad life didn’t take a lesson from it.
“I don’t understand.” Annalise ran her fingers through her wavy hair, sending red flyaway strands tickling her eyes. She smoothed them back and shot Brent and Christen a glance. Christen probably reflected what Annalise herself looked like. Pale, stunned, and more than a little confused.
The lawyer exchanged looks with Brent but addressed Annalise. “Eugene Hayes has no family listed in his will. His full estate has been left to you.”
Annalise shook her head. “I heard you the first time. I just—I just don’t understand why a stranger would plaster the walls of his trailer with my photographs and then leave me his belongings.”
Brent frowned. “How did you know about the photographs on the walls?”
Annalise stilled. Oh boy. She’d blown her trespassing. “Umm . . .”
“Never mind.” Christen waved off her husband, ever the cop. “I’m with Annalise. This is verging on ludicrous. Was the old man a stalker?” She twisted in her wooden chair in the police station conference room and faced her husband. “Was Annalise in danger from him? Is she still in danger?”
“Whoa, whoa.” The lawyer held up his hands. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Annalise leaned against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. This after-work meeting with the lawyer was not at all what she’d expected. It was blindsiding.
“I agree.” She needed to reel in the conversation, capture the facts, and somehow process it all through a logical lens. Not this emotionally enhanced fear of a dead man and his obsessive legacy. Annalise pushed off the wall.
“Why me?” she asked.
The lawyer shook his head and rearranged the papers in front of him on the table. “Mr. Hayes didn’t specify. Only that his entire estate—which isn’t much, I might add—is to be left to Annalise Quintessa Forsythe.”
“When was the will composed?” Brent interjected. Annalise was thankful he was here, that Christen was here, that she wasn’t alone.
“A few months ago.”
“And his previous will?” Brent pressed.
The lawyer shrugged. “It doesn’t appear he had one. No living relatives. No next of kin. Nothing. He created the will through an online agency.”
“But should she be afraid?” Christen speared her husband with a look that stated she’d commit crimes on Annalise’s behalf if necessary.
Brent shook his head. “Chris, you’re not helping.”
“Eugene Hayes is dead, and Annalise says his trailer is a veritable shrine to her. You don’t find that the least bit weird? For crying out loud, you’re a cop.” Christen slugged Brent’s arm, but there was also a hint of a tender, teasing smile that touched her lips.
Annalise let Christen fight her battle. Her brain was spinning in circles with no clear beginning or end.
“Listen.” Brent shifted in his chair. He was about ready to go on duty, his police uniform evidence of the fact. “It was determined Mr. Hayes’s COD was natural causes. His heart.”
“But everything about him is suspicious, honey,” Christen said. “His trailer was wallpapered with Annalise’s face.”
“Which you’ve stated at least two times already, and which the info about the pictures on the wall was never released to the public.” Brent gave Annalise a look that told her she should be brought up on trespassing charges—if she didn’t own the property. “Don’t be a conspiracy theorist. He might have been an old man with a weird obsession with Annalise because of the food pantry.”
But the squint of Brent’s eyes told Annalise his words were merely glossing over his own doubts and suspicions. Their eyes met. Annalise held her old friend’s gaze until he dropped his.
Annalise directed her attention to the lawyer. “So, the trailer is mine now?”
The lawyer nodded. “Yes, ma’am. And the half acre it sits on.”
“That was all Eugene Hayes owned?”
The lawyer folded his hands and met Annalise’s eyes. “I’m sorry, but he didn’t have anything of real monetary value outside of the tiny piece of land. Even that isn’t worth much.”
“No, of course not.” Annalise noted the key that the lawyer extended to her. It lay in the palm of his hand, and she reached out to take it. “I can go back, then—I mean, I can go to the trailer?” She directed her attention back to Brent.
His brow furrowed. He studied her face for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “You can. But I’d advise caution.”
“Why?” she asked. If he knew something—anything—that he wasn’t telling her about the man’s death, he needed to bring her in on it. Now.
“It’s never smart to go to secluded places on your own.”
“
Case closed?” she challenged.
Brent stretched his neck from side to side, and she heard it crack. He gave her an imploring look. “The case is closed on Eugene’s death. Yes.” His words were laden with meaning.
“Thank you.” Annalise stuffed the key in her pocket. She slung her purse over her shoulder and offered the room’s occupants a hesitant smile. “I’ll see you later.”
“Annalise, wait!”
Christen’s cry and the clap-clap of her tennis shoes against the linoleum floor followed Annalise. Outside the conference room, Annalise hooked her thumb around her purse’s shoulder strap and waited.
Christen hurried up to her, her glasses askew on her face. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go home, get some sleep tonight, and then go to Eugene’s trailer in the morning. I’m going to find out what he knew about me, who he was to me, if anything, and what it all has to do with Harrison Greenwood and 1907.” Annalise heard the decisiveness in her voice. She sounded way more confident than she felt.
“What if you can’t find anything?” Christen’s voice dropped, resonating the nervous energy Annalise was trying to suppress.
“I’ll find something.” Annalise’s mind raced to the picture of the campfire at Garrett’s house. “I’ll dig until I do.”
“What about your job? The food pantry? Your proposal for the shelter?” Christen argued.
Annalise adjusted her purse and leveled a determined gaze on her friend. “None of it will mean anything once this hits the Daily Democrat. The destitute old man not only collected photographs of me but left me his home? That’s irony in and of itself. Tyler will twist that into a desperate last effort by a dying man to give the pilfering benefactress one last stab. Not only did I do nothing for him, but he died of neglect and abandonment right under my nose. I can bid farewell to any supporters who may still back the food pantry and my proposal. I can’t let Tyler or anyone else twist anything more than they already have.”
The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond Page 7