“N…nothing.” He tried without success to squirm out of Robbi’s grip. “L...l…let me go!”
Joanne held up the papers. They were all recipes, written in Laura’s careful cursive. Robbi recognized one from their childhood: Chef Boyardee Chicken and Dumpling Pizza Muffins. Why in Heaven’s name would Miller take that one? She and Laura had loved it, but it was a silly kids’ dish, assembled from odds and ends in Aunt Esther’s cabinet.
At the thought of Miller rummaging through Laura’s things, Robbi spun the little man around and shook him. “Is this what you killed her for? A bunch of recipes?”
“No, no! I didn’t!” Miller’s face flooded with red. “I never k…killed her. I just wanted what w…was mine!”
“Her bread-and-butter-pudding recipe?” Joanne fanned the papers in front of him. “It isn’t even here.”
“I couldn’t f…find it. When I heard your car, I just g…grabbed some instead. I didn’t even look at the t…titles.” Tears wobbled on his lashes.
Robbi couldn’t even bring herself to feel sorry for him. “I don’t believe you. Did you take her journal after you killed her?”
“J…journal?” His eyes cut from Robbi to Joanne but Robbi knew he found no sympathy in either. Even Trouble’s green-gold eyes looked accusing. “I don’t know what you’re t…talking about.”
Joanne stuffed the papers into her waistband and shoved her face closer to his. “Her journal, you little pervert. Just admit it! You couldn’t stand to be rejected, so you killed her, and then you took her journal as some sick souvenir.”
Robbi hadn’t thought it was possible for Miller to turn any redder, but somehow he did. “I n…never liked Laura that way,” he said, with surprising fervor. “I never did! Anyway, h…how do we know it wasn’t you? Everybody knows you w…w…wanted Mal.”
The pain in Joanne’s face said he was right. Then she let out a bellow like a wounded bull and threw a punch that knocked the little baker sideways, out of Robbi’s grasp. He lay on his back in the grass, blinking up at the sky, his arms splayed out like a crucifix.
For the second time that day, Robbi threw her arms around Joanne, this time to keep her from pummeling the incapacitated man. It was like trying to hold back a falling wall, but somehow she did it. Maybe Joanne was letting her.
“Laura was my friend!” Joanne sobbed into Miller’s stricken face. “And why would I wait until they’d broken up if I was going to kill her? And why would I hurt Elinore?”
Slowly, the glaze faded from Miller’s eyes. He pushed himself up with his elbows and scooted away on his bottom, muttering under his breath, “Hell h…hath no fury like a w…w…woman scorned.”
Robbi felt Joanne’s muscles bunch. “Joanne, don’t. You’ll kill him.”
“I don’t care.”
Miller scooted a little farther. Trouble gave a little mrrryeaow as if to warn him against any more funny business.
Robbi said, “We don’t even know he killed her. All we know is that he stole some recipes.” She looked over at Miller. “The day Laura died. Were you in her cottage?”
“I d…didn’t d…damage anything. That was the sh…sheriff’s men." He lowered his head. "And you and M…Mal came back before I could f…f…find the p…pudding recipe.”
He lapsed into silence. Time ticked on.
Then Joanne heaved a heavy sigh. “Okay. Okay. What are we going to do with him?”
“We can’t call Hammond,” Robbi said. “We don’t have proof of anything except stealing a couple of recipes. And after today, the sheriff’s as likely to arrest us as Miller.”
“And I suppose we really can’t kill him.”
“Certainly not.”
Another sigh. “And if we lock him up somewhere, that’s kidnapping. We’re just going to let him go?”
“I think we have to.” Robbi looked down at Miller, trying to sort out her feelings. When she’d seen him fleeing Laura’s cottage, she was certain he was the killer. Now she wasn’t sure. She wagged a finger at him. “Everyone is going to know you broke into Laura’s house. We’re all going to be watching you.”
“You’re all already w…watching me,” he said bitterly. “What’s so d…different about that?”
By the time she’d pulled him to his feet and sent him trudging through the woods back toward the mill, Joanne had composed herself. “Sorry,” she said. Then, “Look, what he said about Mal—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Robbi interrupted. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“No, he does. I told myself I’d done a good job of hiding it, but…” Joanne’s broad shoulders hunched. “What I’m trying to say is, I know he doesn’t like me that way. I’m okay that you like him.”
“I don’t like Mal,” Robbi said. “Not even a little.”
Not anymore. Although he had been nice today. Almost sweet, like before the competition.
Of course, that was before she was arrested for stabbing his sister.
But if he believed she’d done it surely he wouldn’t have paid half her bail.
Joanne waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever you say. I know you don’t need my permission, but I’m giving it to you anyway. You know, so if you change your mind, you don’t feel bad about it.” With a strained smile, she turned and strode away barefoot, looking almost as dejected as Miller had.
Robbi watched her go, then slowly headed back inside. She’d feed Falcor and then pour a glass of wine. Maybe read a little before she climbed into the workroom cot and tried to get some sleep. She wished Laura had been there for the tournament. She would have laughed at Guy’s dramatic defeat and consoled Robbi after her loss to Mal. Robbi could almost hear her friend’s cheers for her first ever Robin Hood.
Then, with a little stab of sorrow, she realized that, except for Miller’s brief interrogation, this was the first time she’d thought of Laura since the tournament began.
Chapter Fourteen
Poor Robbi seems positively knackered. She says she’s too tired to be hungry, but as a reward for my heroic actions in capturing and detaining Miller, she sautés several butterfly shrimp in butter for my supper. After I’ve eaten, I sit in front of the door and meow until she lets me out. I can tell she doesn’t like the idea, but by now she seems to know that I’m both trustworthy and exceptionally capable. More important, she must know that, as the Star Trek aficionados say, “Resistance is futile.” Trouble, the famous black cat detective, always finds a way.
I stop at the McClaren cottage to pick up Tuck. He seems both surprised and pleased to be included, but reluctant to leave Elinore, a sentiment with which I sympathize. Eventually, though, my exemplary powers of persuasion win him over.
I’m not certain I’ll need him, but I’m not sure I won’t. As some sage once said, better to have and not need than need and not have. Perhaps it was Yoda.
He trots along beside me, his cheery demeanor only slightly dampened by the events of the day. It’s a long walk into town, though, and by the time we reach a little grocery store a few miles down the road, he’s beginning to grumble. Worse, he’s slowing me down. I’m beginning to remember why I don’t believe in sidekicks.
If only I were taller and had opposable thumbs, I would be able to drive. Since I can’t, I scout the parking lot until I recognize a truck I’ve seen in town. I can easily hop into the bed, but Tuck, with his short legs, is unable to duplicate my maneuver. I glance around. We need to act quickly, before someone comes out and spots us. There is a piece of plywood in the bed, but it’s too heavy for a svelte feline like myself. There’s nothing of use in the toolbox. The big blue tarp will offer us a hiding place, but even if I could push it over the edge, even the nimblest of pigs is not built for climbing.
Then, a few spaces away, I see the answer. An abandoned cart. Under my expert supervision, Tuck noses it to the rear of the truck and turns it on its side. I barely manage to turn the latch, and the tailgate falls open with a bang. Tuck clambers up the cart and into the tr
uck bed, and we dive under the tarp just in time.
We lie there, still as catnip mice, while the owner of the truck rails against vandals and pranksters. I hear him rummaging through the tool chest and fear he’ll fling back the tarp next, but he mumbles that nothing seems to be missing and slams the tailgate shut. The cart rattles away. Then the engine starts, and the truck rumbles onto the road.
When it stops and I’m satisfied the owner has gone inside, we creep out from beneath the tarp. This time, Tuck helps with the latch. The tailgate falls, and he tumbles out with a little squeal. I drop onto the driveway beside him and glance around to get my bearings. Then the porch light clicks on, and as we scurry away, I hear the owner cursing his defective tailgate.
Tuck is limping from his tumble from the truck, but he only complains a little. Fortunately, Sherwood is a small town, and we quickly find what I’m looking for: the sheriff’s office with its attached jail cells.
I’m not sure yet what I’m looking for. I doubt the sheriff keeps anything incriminating in his office, but one never knows. Even Moriarty made the occasional mistake, and Hammond is no Moriarty.
Besides, I want to get a look at that arrow.
Mal stood on Robbi’s stoop, a picnic basket in one hand, a bottle of merlot in the other. It should be easy enough to tap on the door, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It wasn’t the apology that worried him; he’d been an ass and she deserved to know he knew it. It was what might come after the apology. She might toss him out on his ear. Or she might invite him in.
Both were equally terrifying.
As a vet, before his disastrous marriage, he’d spent two years treating bears and big cats for a conservation center. It was the most exciting work of his life, but even though his patients could have killed or crippled him, he hadn’t been afraid. Animals were honest, if you knew how to listen, and if you listened, there was nothing to be afraid of.
Unlike with people.
He drew in a long breath, then tucked the wine under one arm and knocked. He half-hoped she wouldn’t answer, and at first, he thought he was going to get his wish. Then the door swung open, and she was looking up at him with a question in her eyes. Those incredible eyes. He held up the wine bottle. “I thought you might, uh…”
He stopped, lowered his hand. Starting with his peace offering felt wrong. “I came by to say I was a jerk to you about the competition. I’m sorry. It wasn’t about you.”
“It felt like it was.”
“It wasn’t. It was…” He trailed off, not sure how to explain it.
“Baggage?”
“Exactly,” he said, relieved that she understood. “Baggage.”
She crossed her arms, and the look on her face said maybe he’d been too quick to assume he was forgiven. “I have baggage too. I didn’t treat you like a criminal.”
“A criminal?”
“Not exactly a criminal. But a bad person.”
“I don’t think you’re a bad person. I just, well, I just...wasn’t sure at the time. I didn’t know you very well.”
“And now?”
“I still don’t know you very well.” He offered a hopeful smile. “But I’d like to.”
He had a cute smile. And it meant something, that he’d made a special trip just to apologize. Yeah, he had been kind of a jerk, but then he’d just found out he was about to lose his home, and when he’d come up with a solution, she’d thrown a kink into his plans. It wasn’t okay, but it was sort of understandable.
She looked down at the basket. “What’s in there?”
“Spaghetti with meatballs. Garlic bread. Butter, fresh, hand-churned.”
“Not very medieval.”
“It’s what I make best. I could take it back and make you a shepherd’s pie instead.”
She laughed. “You want me to trade your best spaghetti for inferior shepherd’s pie?”
He smiled down at her. Lord, that smile. “I didn’t say it was inferior. Just slightly not best.”
“No dessert?” she teased.
“Chocolate cake and bread pudding. I wasn’t sure which you’d like.” He held up the bottle. “And I brought wine.”
“Wine and chocolate. Well, that’s a good start.” She stepped aside so he could pass.
I explain my plan to Tuck. Then he ambles around to the front door, and I slip into the building through an air conditioning vent. A few moments later, I hear a loud squeal and the crash of a rubbish bin. While the deputy in charge deals with the distraction Tuck has provided, I emerge into the lobby and creep into the hallway to look for the evidence room.
There doesn’t seem to be one. Perhaps the arrow is in Hammond’s office.
It’s easy enough to find. His name is on a brass plaque on the door. It’s locked, so I nudge open the door to the gentlemen’s room and, thanks to my superhuman balance and athleticism, I manage to access the crawlspace by way of the acoustic ceiling tiles. From there, it’s only a few yards to Hammond’s office. Before I leap down, I make sure there’s a path back—chair to desk to filing cabinet to ceiling tiles. Then I drop onto the cabinet and begin my search.
If Hammond’s office is any example, the life of a small-town sheriff is deadly dull. Case reports in desert-dry language, requisitions for cleaning supplies and toilet paper, budget spreadsheets, and more, and more. The man is a stickler for paperwork. In a desk drawer, I find a document confirming the transfer of five of Guy’s shares, along with the terms of the contract. If Guy dies, Hammond gets half his shares, which will give him the same number as Robbi. But if Robbi dies without a will, her shares revert to Guy, and if he should die as well, Hammond will have more than enough shares to ram the sale of the faire through.
That sounds like motive to me.
Outside, I hear Tuck starting up again. Three times, that was the plan. I must hurry. I find the arrow in a cardboard evidence box beside Sheriff Hammond’s desk. I lack the resources to test for fingerprints, but I do notice that the nock of the arrow, the end with the fletching, has been damaged. The wood on two sides is chipped and scratched, the feathers rumpled. Whoever stole Robbi’s arrow would have been in a hurry. Perhaps they shoved it fletching-first into a bag or satchel.
The noise outside has died down, and now I hear Tuck’s third distraction. The deputy sounds angrier, Tuck more frightened. Quickly I nudge the top of the evidence box back into place and make my escape. Then I hurry to the front of the building.
The deputy, armed with a catch stick and a taser, has Tuck backed into the corner where the main building meets the jail wing. Tuck shrinks back, his small eyes widening in fear.
My hackles rise.
Trouble the Vanquisher to the rescue.
Lord, the carbs. But shepherd’s pie was carby too, and the spaghetti was delicious. A sliver of cake and a dollop of bread pudding topped off the meal. A very small dollop. She swallowed the last bite of her cake and took a taste of the pudding. Divine.
She lowered her spoon as a thought occurred to her. “How is Elinore? Are you sure you should have left her?”
“She’s sleeping. Joanne is with her.”
“This was Joanne’s idea?” Robbi nodded toward the pasta, trying to suppress her disappointment. She’d been impressed by his gesture, but if someone else had put him up to it, it wasn’t quite as moving.
“No, I told her I’d been planning to, but I didn’t want to leave Elinore alone. Joanne said she’d stay over in case El woke up and needed anything. But she probably won’t. The meds pretty much knocked her out.”
“Mal, you know…” She stopped. Joanne’s crush was her own secret to tell—or not tell, as the case may be. Though it didn’t seem like much of a secret, since even Miller knew. Still, she switched tacks. Better to err on the side of safety. “That first day I came here, I thought Joanne might have been the killer. I mean, she did go after Tuck with an axe.”
“She’s all bluster and no bite. You don’t still think she could have killed Laura?�
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“No. Not anymore.” She topped off both their glasses, then took a final bite of the bread pudding. “Shall we go finish our wine in the living room? If I stay here, that pudding is going to keep calling me.”
Smooth, Robbi, smooth.
He sat on the couch, not at the end, not in the center. More like the center of the end. She wavered. Should she sit beside him? Or across from him in the recliner? And if she did sit on the couch, how close was too close? How far was too far? She wanted a friendly distance, but not too forward. She wasn’t sure yet if she was interested, or if he was. But he’d brought her dinner and wine—and two desserts. That certainly seemed like interest to her.
Taking her cue from him, she took the other side of the couch, a little closer to the center than the end. She took a sip of the merlot. Fruity, easy on the tongue, with a long finish. Just how she liked it.
“So,” he said. “About that baggage.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Mine. I don’t know yours.” He smiled again, flashing the dimple in his cheek. “Plus, it’s part of the apology.”
“You’re talking about your ex, right?” At the question on his face, she added, “Elinore told me a little bit about her.”
“Was that before or after she told you not to break my heart?”
“She didn’t get that far, but it was right after she told me she was a little protective of you. It was strongly implied.”
“Big sisters,” he said. “What can you do?”
“She said your ex was a piece of work.”
He gave a bitter little bark of laughter. “Yeah, you might say that.”
Listening to his story, she could tell he was trying for a just-the-facts delivery, but a jumble of emotions played across his face—a quagmire of confusion, pain, and bitterness Robbi knew all too well. As he talked, she felt it all with him. The initial jolt of attraction, followed by a whirlwind romance and a marriage that was crumbling well before it began. He just hadn’t seen it. Except for the marriage part, it reminded her of her relationship with Jax. All the red flags had been there, but, like Mal, she’d chosen not to notice them.
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